Working Girl (2 page)

Opening my drawer I reveal my stash of liquor nips.

“You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“Not girls,” I counter, “ just self-medicating hookers.”

Snatching a bottle of vodka from the collection, she glares at me. “I do not self-medicate. I have fun.”

“Whatever. Pink or purple?” I ask, immediately launching into our infamous time wasting game. As kids, we always had a girl sitting with us while our moms worked, but she was usually too involved with her clean up procedures or re-doing her makeup to give us much attention, so we created something to keep us entertained.

“Purple.”

“Boxers or briefs?”

Chrissy giggles. “Commando.”

“PC or Mac?”

“Who cares.” She twists the top off her bottle and immediately chugs it. “You suck at this.”

“Fine, let me speak the language. Condoms or raw dog?”

“Don’t be a whore.” She jokingly tosses the now empty nip bottle at me.

“Takes one to know one.” Chrissy gives me her warning glare, and I know she’s seconds from ditching my ass. Gotta smarten up. I don’t really feel like being alone tonight. “Okay, fine. Books or movies?”

“Easy, movies.”

Despite disagreeing, I continue. “Love or money.”

“At this point in my life, money.”

Unfortunately for Chrissy, I know it’ll always be money. For some reason she missed out on the love gene. Perhaps it’d been shaken from her after watching her mother get the shit kicked out of her by our boss, Big Earl. But I doubted it was that. We’d both been brought up in the same environment. It was the age-old question. “Nature or nurture?” I ask without really thinking.

“Seriously. How’d you get to be such a dork?”

We keep at it until we run out of nips, and as my shift approaches its final minutes, I start filing my paperwork when I feel Chrissy’s arms snake around my neck. “I love you, Presley.” Her lips press to my forehead and I know she means it. Chrissy and I have been through hell together, and a bond like that never dissipates. No matter her career choice, she will always be my girl.

“You too, Chris. Now help me get the fuck outta here.”

We finish up, locking away all the documented dates from the evening. Big Earl will review them in the morning, making sure that I haven’t fucked up, or allowed any of the girls to skim. He’s always looking for something to hold over my head. Truth is, he didn’t take kindly to the fact that I refused to join the “family business.” He doesn’t understand my aversion to it. Needless to say, him wanting to find fault in my bookkeeping skills only makes me try that much harder.

We make our way through the solemn halls of the brothel. There is no simple way to describe the atmosphere here at two in the morning, but it’s depressing and I’m thankful to have someone walking them with me. You never know the troubles that could be lurking just around the corner.

Once outside, Chrissy lights up another cigarette and we walk the few hundred feet to “Menses Mansion.” Despite it being the only home I’ve ever known, I know it’s shit. I mean, it’s literally called “Menses Mansion.” An old dilapidated apartment building reserved just for families; it’s a shit hole. Well, that, and it is the surrogate period palace for the girls at the brothel. Chrissy, myself, and our moms live here, along with an endless string of different girls, based on their cycles. Once they start to bleed, they get the boot from the main house and have to stay with us.

The minute I open the door, I can smell what kind of night it’s going to be. The mixture of alcohol and vomit is strong enough to burn my nostrils and I share a look with Chrissy, who instantly sobers. “Jesus,” she says, following me down the hallway to our apartment door.

With shaking hands, I reach out and push against the flimsy wood with its peeling paint, revealing a sight I have, unfortunately, grown accustom to. My mother lies on the couch, her belly pressing against the cushions, her head hanging off the side, hovering above a pool of her own bile. Sadness overtakes me and tears prick my eyes.

“S’okay, Presley. I’ll help you get her cleaned up.”

I look over my shoulder at Chrissy, whose forced smile pulls at her lips. It’s times like these that affirm it for me. No one would ever understand me and all I’ve been through quite like she does. I nod before we launch into a routine that we are way too familiar with, but no matter how many times I’m responsible for taking care of my drunk-ass whore of a mother, it never seems to get any easier.

SEVEN A.M. COMES AWFULLY QUICK
when you spend your evenings arranging dates and listening to girls turn tricks. It’s the first day of the beginning of the rest of my life…and I’m running late because, well, it’s not easy to wake up when you’ve only had three hours of sleep. Thank you, Mommy dearest.

I’m cursing my shitty situation as I walk into my first class, thankful as for the coffee in my hand, when the doors crash loudly behind me and the eyes of every seated student in the overcrowded room take me in. Of course the lecture has already started.

Fan-fuckin-tastic.

So I, in all my awkward glory, lift my hand…and wave. Yes, I
wave
. I want to crawl back into the hole I came from and die, but instead I press on. Owning my fuck up, I start searching for a seat, praying that the attention has diverted away from me. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a gap and start to make my way to the only open seat left.

My heart sinks as I hear a pompous voice beckon to me from the front. “How nice of you to join us, Ms…”

I stop in my tracks. If I were a weak person, I’d let this asshole win. I’d walk out of here with my tail between my legs, ready to live a life filled with strange men crawling on top of me. But I’m not. I’m strong. I know what I want. And this . . . this is my ticket out of that god-forsaken brothel. “Adams,” I chirp. “Ms. Adams.”

The professor nods approvingly, gesturing to the open seat I’d been heading for. “Take a seat, Ms. Adams.”

I do as I’m told, and he continues on with his lecture as though my embarrassing moment never happened. The seat squeaks in protest as my ass hits the chair and I’m immediately hit with claustrophobia. The desk is tiny, and I’m not quite sure how I’m ever going to fit my coffee, book, and papers onto it. I’m fumbling with my shit when I decide to set my coffee down, only, I miss the desk and the cup crashes to the ground with a loud
whoosh
. Freezing in place, I’m desperately hoping no one notices the chaos that surrounds me as I bend down to clean up my mess. Hearing the professor continue with his lecture without missing a beat, I curse under my breath.

I’m just thinking I’ve managed to escape the coffee spill unscathed, when the guy next to me bends down and whispers, “Need some help?”

I pause from clean up patrol and turn in his direction. Starting at his shoes, which are leather and look very expensive, my eyes continue up his well dressed body, and my eyes roll before his brown eyes meet mine. He smiles the most adorable smile I’ve ever seen. I didn’t know they made boys like that. Not that I’d grown up around the best examples of men, but even the guys I went to high school with were douchebags. But that was understandable in itself, considering I live in Las Vegas. Sin City doesn’t breed nice guys—I learned that a long time ago. But just looking at this guy I can tell that he’s different. He looks genuine, and sweet.
Oh man, focus, Presley
. I divert my attention back to the mess I’ve made. “I’m all set.”

Stifling a chuckle he sits back up in his seat. “Well, you really know how to make an entrance.”

I grab the now empty cup of coffee and stuff the used napkins into it, shooting a glare in his direction. He’s trying to be cute, but instead he sounds like a jerk. Biting my tongue, I finally manage to sit down and start listening to the lecture that I’ve already managed to miss fifteen minutes of.

Okay, so I don’t really listen, I doodle in my notebook instead. But in all fairness I could teach the damn class. Bookkeeping 101 is the first class I had to take on my course of study, but let’s be honest, I have enough first-hand experience. I should have earned a pass for taking the class solely based on my on-the-job training, that was if I wanted to tell anyone where I received my on the job training. But that wasn’t about to happen. I’ve been keeping books since I was sixteen. It was illegal, but Big Earl didn’t care. He just forged some documents for me, in case anyone ever decided to investigate the brothel.

“That’ll do it for today, class. Come next time with the first five chapters read, and be ready to discuss.”

Everyone except me groans. They obviously don’t share my love of reading. I shrug and place my things back into my bag while thinking about how I’m going to spend my lunch break. There’s a lot of time for me to kill before I have to be to my next class at one p.m. Standing, I yawn and throw my bag over my shoulder, managing to steal a look at Golden Boy. He’s already making his way out of the aisle and is talking to a friend, laughing. For a minute I envy him. Sure as shit he doesn’t have a care in the world. He probably managed to get a good night’s sleep, and I’m certain he didn’t have to take care of his drunk mother. I realize I’m staring just as his dimples carve deep into his cheeks. I decide I should at least say thank you to him. After all, he did offer to help. It wasn’t his fault I am a cold, hard bitch.

I start walking in his direction and he notices, gesturing with his hand for his friend to give him a minute before smiling at me again. Somehow, I manage to keep myself from melting into a puddle at his feet. There’s an air about him. His confidence is palpable and I fight the urge to reach out and touch him; to flirt and put myself out there like I’ve watched the girls on the line do so many times before. But I don’t, because I have no first-hand experience in
that
. I refuse to travel down that road. It’s a slippery slope—one I don’t have time for.

Stopping in front of him, I clear my throat. “Thanks for the offer to help earlier. Sorry I was such a bitch. It’s been a rough morning.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, his shoulders jumping up quickly as he shrugs. “No problem.”

We stand awkwardly for a minute, just looking at each other. I notice how sharply he’s dressed, his crisp jeans flawlessly paired with his dress shirt, and I’m suddenly embarrassed by my wardrobe choice of yoga paints and sweatshirt. Stuffing a lock of hair behind my ear I keep my eyes to the floor as I mutter, “Well, see you around.” I don’t wait for him to respond before taking off in the opposite direction.

Things were complicated enough for me. My life wasn’t all bubblegum and rainbows, and I surely didn’t need some Joe messing things up.

Emerson

Watching her walk away from me, I know that I won’t be able to get her out of my head. There’s a sadness about that girl that makes me want to know her. Something that draws me to her. Perhaps it’s because we share that, or maybe it’s because I think I could possibly be better around her. I’m so tired of this bullshit. Of the day-to-day act that I have to keep putting on so that everyone will stop asking me how I’m doing.

“Earth to Emerson!”

Snapped from my daze, I look up at my friend, Brad. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Are you—”

Adjusting the straps to my bag, I groan. “Don’t ask.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

I start walking out of the aisle that she left me standing in, Brad following closely behind. “So what were you saying?” I ask as we make our way up the steps of the lecture hall.