Page 44 of Beautiful Scars

“Yeah right, sweetie. Like you have a choice." She laughs, running her fingers through her hair. "Suit yourself. But if I had your looks, I’d be retired by now.”

“And here I am just focused on trying not to kill myself in these heels,” I reply, blowing her a kiss.

Jade rolls her eyes but grins, as she turns and heads towards her locker.

She starts rambling about a customer from her last table—some high roller who left her a hundred-dollar tip for letting him buy her a shot. I half-listen, nodding and laughing in all the right places, focusing on adjusting the tiny straps of my top.

When she finally heads out, I check myself one last time in the mirror. I wish I could be her sometimes—sweet, charming, fun. Sexy. If only.

I bend to fasten the strap on the six-inch platforms I'm wearing, stand up straight, push my shoulders back, and throw a sultry look at my reflection. “Why hello again Angel," I murmur. "Go get 'em, girl."

The sound of bass throbs from the other side of the wall as I head out into the dim hallway. The familiar mix of stale beer, cheap cologne, and perfume thickens as I make my way over to my tables. It's busier than usual with men already clustered around tables or lining the four stages in the center of the club with drinks in hand. Pretty soon it'll be standing room only. Jade wasn't lying.

Flashing lights hit the four large stages where girls writhe and gyrate in time to the music. That's where the real money is made, but I wasn't lying. I'll do a lot of things to get by, but that's where I draw the line. I'm not my mother.

I catch sight of one of my favorite regulars at the end of the bar and walk over. His eyes stay glued to me the entire time. I give him a playful tap on the arm. “Back again, huh? Thought you’d have had enough of this place by now, Tony.”

He grins, taking a sip of his beer. “Not a chance, sweetheart. Seeing you is the highlight of my week. You know that.” He digs in his wallet and hands me a fifty for a drink he hasn’t even ordered yet.

“Tony, you sure know how to treat a lady,” I say, tucking the bill into the soft velvet bag around my waist with a wink. “Let me get you a drink, on the house this time.”

“Hell,youstart buyingmedrinks Angel baby and you'll never get rid of me,” he jokes.

I laugh and give him a wink before turning around and heading towards the bar. I pause, long enough to blow a quick kiss to a table of guys who get loud when I walk by. I keep the perfectly rehearsed grin plastered on my face—wide enough to be friendly, but not so wide it looks fake. I toss a coy look over my shoulder at them as I step behind the bar and start making a whiskey sour. The guys at the table I passed can’t take their eyes off of me. It’s going to be a good night.

Tony gives me a soft smile when I drop his drink off. "Let me ask you something serious, Angel. You ever think of doing something else? Something better than this?"

His concern hits a little too close to home. For a second, I'm back at that bus station, barely eighteen and terrified, counting wrinkled bills and praying it would be enough to get me somewhere Garrett couldn't find me. Somewhere I could disappear.

I force Angel's smile back onto my face. "Aww, you're too sweet Tony. But better than this? This is as close to heaven as I'm ever going to get, baby."

It's not even a lie. Seven years ago, I was bleeding out on my bedroom floor thinking I was done for. Now I'm alive, independent, and nobody owns me. It might be a long way from heaven, but it's better than being fucking dead.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sunny

Ashrillringingdragsme out of the quicksand of sleep. I jolt awake, gasping, disoriented. For a split second, there is no present, only past. No Angel, only Sunny. I fight my way to the surface against the surge of memories trying to pull me under. The sting of antiseptic, the dull ache of broken bones, the sharp bite of metal in bruised skin. Hands on my throat.

My stomach lurches as my fingers move over my neck, my chest, searching for open wounds. There's nothing there. Only the raised scars under my fingertips.

The ringing doesn’t stop. I blink and shake off the remnants of the nightmare, my pulse hammering in my ears until the room starts to make sense again—gray evening light spilling through the half-closed blinds, the dresser I got at the thrift store down the street, and my phone rattling across the nightstand.

The screen flashes with Benny's name. Great.

I sigh and rake my hand through my hair, trying to compose myself before I answer. I don’t need him to hear how I feel right now—like I'm barely hanging on and exhausted from sleep that isn't really sleep.

I feel like I've gone more than a few rounds in the ring with a prize fighter.

Swiping the screen, I plaster a smile on my face before answering. "Hey, Benny, what's up?" I make my voice light, airy. Angel's voice. The one that says I'm fine, I'm whole, I'm whatever you need me to be.

“Angel, sweetheart, I know it’s your day off,” he begins, his voice already laying it on thick, “but I’m in a bind tonight, and you’re my girl. I got a special request for the VIP room, and I've got no one to bartend back there. The client requested the best of the best and was willing to pay for it. I need you to come in.”

My stomach twists itself into a knot. The VIP room. I hate getting stuck back there, and he knows it. It’s too dark, and a little too private. Not to mention that most men who have enough money to book it for the night are entitled assholes. The kind that are used to getting exactly what they want and never being told no. They assume they're buying a whole lot more than some drinks and private dances.

“Benny, c'mon! It’s my only night off this week. And you know how much I hate it back there.”

“I know, I know, babe. But you’re my best girl. You’re reliable, classy, and I swear to God, the money follows you. I'll pay you double for the night, plus you keep all the tips and…," he pauses, his voice dropping a notch, "how about ten percent of whatever you sell in booze.”

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