Page 2 of Dark Wolf Soul
I shake my head.
“Break a leg, kid.” I lightly punch her arm.
“Evan will break all their legs if anyone messes up the masterpiece.”
Evan’s our security guard, and while he’s not a man of many words, he doesn’t hesitate to put his fist through a face if the situation calls for it.
I snort. “I would pay to see that.”
“Right? You want to do drinks after work?” she asks me. “My treat.”
Normally, I’d say yes. Violet is a fun distraction with her sunny outlook and unending support. But I’m way too exhausted after spending the day trying to scrounge up extra cash for rent.
“I’m already yawning,” I say. “Raincheck?”
“You’re not sleeping enough again,” she guesses.
“This time it’s for a good cause,” I assure her.
“That shelter asks too much of you,” she says, which is a lecture I’m used to but also immune from.
“They don’t have enough workers to keep up with the demand,” I tell her. “You know how it is being alone on the street. Those kids deserve support.”
She sighs. “That support can’t always be from you.”
I don’t answer. My mind drifts to my own housing issue looming and how I might very well be living at that shelter by the end of the week.
“Is everything okay?”
I blink and find her frowning as she studies my expression. Apparently, I suck at hiding my stress. It still feels strange to have someone else worry about me. It took me months to even trust that she was being real. Now that I do, I always get a lump in my throat and have to fight the urge to run away from it.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, refusing to put my problems on her. “I just need some extra cash, that’s all.”
The look in her eye says it all. But she won’t say it out loud. She knows better than to suggest that I take the stage. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“You can get me good and drunk tomorrow after work,” I tell her.
“It’s a date. Now, I better run. This glitter isn’t going to spread itself,” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows at me.
“See you later,” I call, chuckling as we go our separate ways.
The front of the club is already packed when I emerge. On stage, a nipple-tasseled Cleopatra grinds against the metal pole, eliciting cheers and an offer for her to be someone’s queen for the night.
In other words, it’s a normal night at Shady Shag’s.
For the next few hours, I do my best to shut out the noise and focus on the work of serving drinks. Evan, the bouncer, watches the main floor like a hawk so anyone trying to get extra-handsy gets immediately tossed on their ass. I pretend it’s out of some kind of concern for me, but the truth is Shady won’t let anyone have a free ride. Now, if they’ve paid to be handsy—that’s a different story.
But that only happens in the VIP room, anyway.
I manage to avoid serving anyone in the VIP area for almost the entire night.
It’s not that I’m against naked lap dances or even consensual happy endings, although I still can’t understand how Shady gets away with something so, well, shady. Either way, it’s just not my jam to be the one giving those things in exchange for rent money, and I don’t want to lose this job because some entitled frat guy got me mixed up with one of the dancers then ended up sucker-punched for his efforts.
I did that once during my first week here, and Shady said, if it ever happened again, I’d be out on my ass instead of the customer being out on his. Apparently, the only one allowed to punch someone is Evan. It’s gender bias, I tell you.
At just after midnight, Reva, the bartender, waves me over. “Hey,” she calls.
“What’s this for?” I ask, nodding at the Old Fashioned she’s shoving toward me.
