Sin With Me

by JA Huss

  I’m at a red light just minding my business when I get a message that the class has to be postponed. He got strep throat or something.

  So I go buy shoes instead. Nice, high, break-your-ankle stripper shoes that set me back all of last weekend’s stripper pay.

  Wednesday I pull myself together, manage to stay away from both the mall and the Coronas, and make one more potential business contact. Which should make twelve, but three people have already left messages and canceled our appointments for a complimentary five-minute video, so now I’m down to nine.

  One step forward, two steps back.

  I start doing research for other business opportunities… just in case. I like a good back-up plan.

  Thursday I hang out with the girls at the pool again, only this time I don’t get drunk and ignore them. Annie is cool, but Diane and Caroline don’t seem to like me. So I’m calling this Make-An-Effort Day.

  I think I need friends. I don’t have many friends. Not the real kind. Not the childhood kind. Which is weird, now that I think about it. Because I was born and raised in Vegas. Have never lived anywhere else, in fact. I—admittedly—drove most of them off after the… the tragedy that requires my mother to send me thinking-of-you cards every year.

  “Who’s making dinner?” Diane asks. She’s got a buzz on, I can tell. Her face gets flushed all red when she’s buzzing. “I’m starving.”

  “I am,” I say, impulsively. “Burgers OK? I’ll grill tonight.”

  I get a round of “hell yeahs” from the three of them, and then I excuse myself and go back inside, relieved to have a few moments to drop the fake smile I’ve plastered on my face all week.

  But cooking is something I can do, so prep work is a mindless task that gives me time to think about things.

  I don’t have my rent money.

  That’s the first thing I think about. I fucking spent it on those hooker shoes. And I can’t even take them back, because last night Caroline borrowed them without asking and they have scuff marks on the soles.

  I have a twelve-thousand-dollar drone that I don’t really know how to fly. I have gotten a few videos out of it, but it was dicey. And I’m afraid I’ll crash the fucker and all that money will crash with it.

  I’m also aware that these were all choices I made and that not having rent is my fault. But these aren’t frivolous expenses. These are investments. Or so I tell myself.

  I got a weird text this morning. I didn’t recognize the number. I think it may be from Carlos. Or maybe that guy, Logan. His… henchman. It was a picture of a clown. That’s it. Just a picture of a clown. Which is creepy, right? It is almost Halloween and it’s kind of a running thing. Clowns jumping out at you. Scaring people, chasing them and shit. But clowns are still just objectively creepy. I’ll know I’ve really hit rock bottom if I have to perform as a clown for like, kids’ birthdays and shit. Creepy fucking clowns… But anyway, if I didn’t have this Carlos thing hanging over my head, I probably wouldn’t even think twice about it. But I do. So there it is.

  Creepy clown text was definitely a threat.

  “Hey,” Annie says, coming inside through the slider. “Everything OK with you?”

  “Me?” I laugh. “Fine. Why?”

  “You’ve been kinda quiet all week. Just wanna make sure you’re cool.”

  “I’m cool,” I say, making the burger patties. “So fucking good right now. I got another contact today.”

  “That’s great.” Annie beams. “You’re really gonna hit it out of the park with this business. You can probably even do videos for tourists and shit, right? Chronicle their time in Vegas. Follow them down the Strip, maybe?”

  “Nah,” I say. “The Vegas drone laws are pretty strict. Can’t fly within five miles of the airport.”

  “Oh, that sucks,” Annie says.

  Yeah. It does. Wish I had looked up that little factoid before I spent twelve thousand dollars on a damn drone. Because real estate wasn’t really my first choice. It’s just the only one I have at the moment.

  “So how’s work?” she asks, making small talk.

  I hate small talk. It’s so fucking… forced, ya know? But this is Make-An-Effort Thursday. So I smile as I place all the patties on a platter. “Great!” I say. And that’s not even a lie. In fact, the money from work is the one positive thing I’m holding on to right now.

  I will make back that twelve grand. I will.

  I must.

  “So I found this in the trash the other day and I was meaning to ask you about it,” Annie says, opening up the junk drawer and pulling out… “A card from your parents?” she says, opening to read the message inside.

  Which she has clearly already read and that’s why she tucked it in the drawer.

  This might be an intervention.

  “Yeah,” I say, as casually as I can. “They’re sweet, right? Always thinking of me.”

  But Annie’s not paying attention, she’s holding up the business card that came with it. “And this?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Dunno.” Lies. Lies. Lies.

  Annie sighs and then places the business card down on the black countertop. The card is white, so it sits in stark contrast, practically screaming for attention. “She’s worried about you,” Annie says.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “She sent that card, right?”

  I look at the business card. Try not to think about it.

  “Maybe you should see a therapist?”

  “What?” I say, laughing it off. “This is just how my mother is. She’s one of those crazy therapy people. She thinks talking about your problems helps, but it’s all just bullshit.”

  “Hmm,” is all Annie says.

  “I’m fine,” I say. My voice is slightly too insistent. But fuck it. I walk outside and leave her in the kitchen.

  Make-An-Effort Thursday is over.

  Friday night was a disaster and I can’t help wondering if Annie showered some of her hate fate on me last weekend when she had her mini-breakdown. I don’t believe in fate. Or anything supernatural or ethereal or… well, anything. Except me, of course. Because I’m the only person in charge of my life.

  There’s a nice, solid period at the end of that sentence. Nice and solid.

  I’ve learned a lot over the years and every single lesson has to do with self-determination and self-reliance.

  There is no God, there is no spiritual world, there is no afterlife or grand purpose. There is only life. You get one, and only one—so you better make the most of it.

  That’s what I believe in.

  Me.

  But this job was going good, ya know? And Carlos doesn’t even count. I’m still hanging on to the mindset that he’s just pissed off that his daughter fucked up and he’s taking it out on me. Pretty soon he’s gonna come around, see my side of things, realize he’s being a dick, and drop the whole you-owe-me-money thing.

  Which is why I bought the drone last month instead of paying him. Paying him a shitload of money that I don’t owe him—with no hope of recouping said money when all this is sorted out—is stupid.

  I don’t do stupid.

  But… fuckin’ Annie and her fuckin’ confession that she’s nothing but a whoring slut kinda threw me. I don’t like to hang out with people on their way down, ya know what I mean? I like a winning team. Or, at the very least, a team with potential.

  Run-of-the-mill Vegas prostitutes are practically what this town is made of. High-class call girls, on the other hand… a little more hard to come by. And yeah, I realize that being a Vegas stripper isn’t anything close to winning, but I might’ve hitched my wagon to something that turned out to be bogus.

  I’m annoyed with her.

  And last night’s take sucked. Pretty bad. I came out barely even after paying Raven for my stage time.

  It’s not fate, it’s just bad luck.

  I’ve been telling myself that all evening… but tonight isn’t very busy either, so…

  Tonight will be ama
zing, I chant in my head. This is my night. I can feel it.

  But that card—that reminder from my mother, and her stupid hint that I should talk to someone—it’s put a little cramp in my style.

  Yeah. I might be more than annoyed with Annie by the time this night is over. Because I can trace all my negative feelings this week back to her. Why doesn’t she just go back to Nebraska? Nebraska, right? Iowa? Idaho? Whatever. She should just go be a farmer’s wife if that’s her big missed opportunity.

  “Why are you rolling your eyes?” Raquel asks. She’s sitting next to me, fucking with her eyelashes. She’s perpetually fucking with those damn eyelashes. Why wear them if they require more attention than toddlers?

  “I’m annoyed,” I say. “Last night sucked and tonight isn’t shaping out to be much better. I only made seventy-five bucks on my first act. I can’t even pay Raven with that.”

  And even though I’m talking myself into believing that Carlos isn’t gonna be a problem, I sorta think that visit from his henchman last weekend might prove otherwise.

  I have Otis on lookout for the guy. He put Drake on the job. Drake is the door bouncer. But I don’t have a lot of confidence in either of them. They’re big, but you know what they say about the big ones, right? I didn’t have a picture of Logan and the security footage barely qualifies as footage, it’s so grainy.

  So yeah. I’m betting Logan shows up one night and neither of them even notices.

  Jasmine comes in from off-stage. She’s taking Cleo’s time, since Cleo disappeared and Raven made good on her promise. So this is her second stage dance of the night and it’s not even nine o’clock yet.

  She’s got so many dollars hanging off her, I start to regret my attitude with Raven last week. I could use more eyeballs on me tonight. For sure.

  “You guys,” Jasmine squeals. “This bunch of drunk guys came in while I was on stage and look!” She starts pulling the bills off her body, trying to count them. “A whole bunch of tens and twenties! I think I made like five hundred bucks off that last dance!”

  Five hundred bucks. Jesus. I hate everyone tonight. Five hundred bucks would pay my rent, make up for last night’s loss, and if I get a chance to work them like Jasmine just did, I might even come out ahead after paying Raven for tonight.

  “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” Jasmine asks me as she flops down into the seat on the other side of Raquel.

  “What?” I ask, looking down at my outfit.

  “I get it, Scarlett. You’re smart,” she says. “Too smart for us, right? You’re a college girl who thinks she has all the answers. But let me give you a little bit of advice, honey. The men who come in here aren’t looking for someone to save them. They’re looking for sin, baby.”

  Raven walks past behind us and I catch her smirk in the mirror. “Don’t miss your fucking cue, Scarlett. You’ve been pissing me off a lot lately. You’re lucky you still have this job. Do you have an idea how many girls come in here every day looking for work?”

  I think about that for a moment.

  Raven doesn’t wait. Apparently it was a rhetorical question. “And I don’t care how much you don’t make tonight. You owe me your stage fee, regardless. Now, go wow them with your wholesomeness and make sure they keep drinking, got it?”

  I turn around to smirk back, but she’s already gone and the only one who sees it is Otis.

  “How many drunk guys?” I ask Jasmine, ignoring Otis’s confused look. Like I said, not too bright.

  “Enough,” she sings.

  “And they’re dropping tens and twenties for stage time?” I ask.

  She shoots me a look. “Well, for me they are, Scarlett. Don’t expect to make what I do wearing that.”

  She tucks her money away, gets up, and walks back out onto the floor.

  I look down at my outfit, internally second-guessing myself. “This outfit is kickass,” I say, sounding a lot more confident than I feel.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Raquel says. “It’s not her slutty stockings that get the money.”

  “No?” I ask, hopeful that I can turn this night around.

  “It’s her smile, Scarlett.”

  I make a face at Raquel. Who is always smiling. Come to think of it, Jasmine is always smiling too.

  “And she’s nice.”

  I make another face. “I’m nice.”

  “No.” Raquel laughs. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. You’re tough, Scarlett. And in the everyday world, people like that. But this isn’t the everyday world you’re working in. This is fantasy, baby. Which means no one likes a smartass and no one likes a girl who thinks she’s too good.” She nods to my outfit. It’s pretty. I love it. “That outfit says ‘I’m better than you. I’m better than this job. I’m above all of this.’ And ain’t no one out there looking for that, sweetie.”

  “You keep saying that the girl-next-door thing is played out, so…” I gesture to what I’m currently wearing. “So this is like a fresh take on that, right?”

  Raquel eyeballs me, skeptically. “We’ll see, I guess,” she says.

  “Look. I get it. I’ve been complacent. But I’m gonna work it hard tonight. Watch me.”

  Raquel just smiles as she bats her newly refreshed eyelashes in the mirror.

  I hear the DJ telling everyone to thank Raven for her performance and realize I’m up next.

  “Scarlett?” Raquel says as I grab the rest of my costume. “Just smile and be nice, OK?” And with that, she shoots me a big grin.

  “Yeah,” I say, pushing back from my dressing table and standing up. “Smile and be nice. I can do that. I’m gonna make a shitload of money tonight.”

  And with that thought, I slip on my angel wings, fit that glittery silver halo over my head, and strut out of that dressing room like a bitch in charge.

  Chapter Five - Tyler

  “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! For your service!”

  At present, my personal space is being invaded aggressively by a drunk, recently-turned-twenty-one-year-old firefighter in a strip club.

  Jeff’s shouting at me over the top of ZZ Top’s “Legs,” which is so hilariously cliché that it’s almost quaint. This Raven chick (I think the DJ said Raven. Coulda been Condor or Hawkwind or something equally stupid) is giving it all she’s got though. Bear and Rod are clearly in love with her. They’ve probably both already dropped half a week’s pay on her and the dancer before her and we’ve been here like ten minutes. Dean’s too cool for that shit, which has made her notice him even more than she naturally would and now she’s got her titties all up in his face, which is causing Bear and Rod to spend even more dough to get her attention back. It’s kind of incredible to watch in a stupid way.

  New guy Brandon is just sitting by himself, off to the side, staring. I’m actually kind of surprised dude showed up. He’s a for-sure-weird fucker, I’ve decided. Which is fine. Who isn’t? But he definitely gives off a chop-’em-up-stick-’em-in-the-freezer vibe. But then again Evan said that at the emergency call they got yesterday, he kicked down the door of a makeshift meth lab that had caught fire, went tearing inside, and came back out carrying two tiny kittens like they were priceless jewels. Then I guess Brandon said he’d take ’em home himself and take care of them. Evan thinks he might have gotten a little choked up over it.

  People, man. People.

  Anyway, Jeff must have been drinking all afternoon before we came here because he is WASTED.

  “YOU’RE the hero, man! You’re the hero!” He’s hugging me now.

  Evan is smirking. He leans in so that I can hear. “He tried for Ranger Training School but washed out. He’s got a soft spot for the military.”

  That’s all well and good, but I hate this shit. I don’t care that he’s drunk. I pull him off me and square him up.

  “Hey! I’m not a hero. And neither is Evan or any of you. You understand? They pay you to do a job and you do it. That’s it. The moment you start believing in that hero bullshit, you w
ill try to live up to it and you will fucking die. You get me?”

  He blinks like he’s trying to figure out what I’m saying and then his expression changes. I know that expression. It’s the one of someone who realizes they’re about to throw up.

  “That way. Go.” I turn him around and point him to the bathroom. He takes off running. Evan eyes me.

  “Give the kid a break, man. It’s his birthday,” he says.

  “Fuck. I know. I just… I can’t stand that crap. From anyone. He’s like your little mentee or whatever? You need to fucking educate him on that shit.”

  Evan steps back and looks at me hard. He’s got dark, almost black, eyes, and sometimes it’s impossible to tell what’s going on behind them. If we’re going with the metaphor that eyes are the windows to the soul, Evan’s have blackout curtains over them. If he doesn’t want you to know what he’s thinking, you will not know. It’s one of his superpowers.

  “What?” I ask, with some annoyance.

  “Is this about something else?

  “Like what?”

  I know exactly like what. We both know like what. It’s why he’s been so all over me this whole last week. It’s the real reason he wanted me to come to the station house yesterday. It’s why he’s keeping tabs on me. It’s why he’s so insistent that I “hang out with the fellas.” And as much as I appreciate the concern, I also resent the shit out of it.

  “He reminds me of him too,” says Evan.

  I don’t need this shit. I really don’t. Not now.

  I’m about to respond when one of the strippers (dancers? Do they call them strippers or dancers? Artisans of Pole Manipulation? I’m gonna call them that. Pole Artisan for short) approaches Evan.

  “Feel like a private dance, sugar?” She’s eye-fucking the shit out of him. Probably not because he looks like the more good-looking version of what would happen if Keanu Reeves and Johnny Depp’s DNA got mixed in a lab and was artificially inseminated into Salma Hayek (although it likely doesn’t hurt either—I’m saying, dude is offensively handsome), but because he looks like he has money.