Page 9 of Highest Bidder

“We’re like the government. The more you make the more we take.”

“Lucky me.”

“You can start tonight or wait until next weekend. And of course, you can start working the Champagne Room on Monday.”

I wavered just long enough for him to notice.

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now. Take the weekend to think about it. I’ll understand if you change your mind.”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I have much of a choice.”

“I don’t need the details.”

“I wasn’t going to give them to you.”

I turned to go, but his voice followed me.

“Just so you know, you won’t be able to be so damn picky about who you take into the Champagne Room. Fat fucks need to get their rocks off, too. Their money’s just as good as anyone else’s.”

Grrrreat.

I turned around and gave him a sarcastic smile along with a “thumbs up”.

“Can’t wait.”

Chapter Four

Vivian

The October sun was low in the sky and glared off the cracked windshield of my 2003 Chevy Malibu when I climbed back behind the steering wheel. The plastic covering the passenger window fluttered in the wind where the duct tape had lost its grip weeks ago.

I jiggled the key before turning it, and the radio jumped to Spanish talk radio like it always did, no matter how many times I’d tried to reprogram it.

The check engine light glowed bright red on the dash, mocking me as usual, but today it felt more fitting than ever. Like the check engine light on my entire life had just lit up.

I didn’t bother changing the radio station. Just sat there for a second having a pity party for myself. Would my life ever not be a dumpster fire? It felt like every time I got even one step ahead, something always found a way to smack me back to where I belonged.

The air blasting through the vents was cold on my bare arms, but I hardly noticed. My mind was too full of what I’d just agreed to.

Blowjobs. For money.

Six years of dancing, grinding, teasing—but never crossing that line. And now? I was about to crawl right past it on my knees. Because of my father and his debts. Because the bastards he owed didn’t care he was dead, they were still collecting.

My phone buzzed in quick bursts from inside my purse. I opened my screen to find a string of messages from my sister.

Hope: Thanks again for helping us.

Hope: Mom said to tell you thanks, too. She actually teared up.

Hope: I know you didn’t have to do this. We’re both really grateful.

Helping them felt right, buthowI’d agreed to help didn’t. And I already knew whatever I made wasn’t going to be enough.

I stared at my wrist as my hands rested on the steering wheel. I’d gotten the phoenix tattoo to remind myself I was a survivor. It was time to prove it again. I’d find a way, whatever it took. I’d clean up Dad’s shit from the grave.

My phone was still in my hand. Hope’s messages were gone from the screen, but they might as well have been etched into my brain.

Champagne Room money wasn’t going to cut it. Not for long. I needed more than stopgap money if I wanted to keep my family permanently safe. I needed something big. And fast.

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