Worth Saving

by W. S. Greer

  Worth Saving

  Copyright © October 2015 by WS Greer

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First edition published by Book Mode Publishing. 2015

  Cover design by Robin Harper, Wicked by Design

  Interior Design and Formatting by Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Worth Saving

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  More Books by WS Greer

  About the Author

  Defending Her Excerpt

  Layla

  I hear the door slam when he walks in. My heart speeds up a little at first, but it goes into overdrive when I hear him stumble. He kicks a table and loses his balance, letting out a string of profanities at the table for being in his way. I know how the rest of this story can go, so I get up to close my bedroom door. Before I can get it to latch and lock it, he pushes his way in, and I can immediately smell the liquor on his breath. It's like a thick fog that fills the room.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here?” he asks. His face is red, and his eyes are droopy like he's only a few seconds from passing out right here in the doorway.

  “Nothing,” I reply. I know the routine-keep the answers short and sweet.

  “Nothing, huh? Of course not. That's what you always do-nothing. You do absolutely nothing around here, and I'm so goddamn tired of it.”

  “I'm sorry, Dad,” I reply in a soft tone.

  “Don't talk to me like that! Ain't no sorry!” he snaps, spitting on me in the process. “Get your ass in there and clean up that living room. It's a fucking pigsty.”

  I hesitate. I don't want to walk anywhere near him right now, but I know if I don't go in there and do what he says, it'll be worse. I swallow hard and think about how to do this.

  “Did you hear what I said? Get the fuck in there, Layla!”

  I put my head down and try to speed walk, but before I can make it all the way out of the room, he grabs me.

  “What's the matter with you, huh?” he asks, his grip around my arm already tightening. “You don't like being around your own father, do you? You don't like me, huh?”

  “Dad, please.”

  “Please, what? Come over here and give me a hug.”

  I don't want to do it. He's right. I hate him. I can't stand the sight of him, and the last thing I want to do is show him any affection, but I have to hug him. So, I move in close to him and let him put his arms around me, but I don't return the sentiment. I just stand there and feel him rubbing my back with his fingers. After about ten seconds, I hear him sniffing me. He takes a long, drawn out whiff of my hair, and that's when I push away from him. I try to walk away, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and spins me around. Once I'm facing him, he reaches back and slaps me, knocking me to the floor.

  “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he yells. “You don't want to fucking hug me? You trying to leave me like your whore mother? Your fucking junkie mother left me, too. I fucking hate her. I hate you for looking like her, for smelling like her, for thinking like her. Fuck the both of you. Dammit! Stupid fucking bitches have no respect for a man. I provide everything for you, and now you can't even hug me. What are you just lying there for? Get up, dammit!”

  I look up at him and he looks menacing. He's glaring at me, squinting his eyes, waiting for me to move so he can hurt me. That's all he really wants.

  “What's the matter with you? Your legs broken? Or are you just too weak to get up. Fucking coward. You make me sick.”

  He starts to walk away, and the look on his face changes a little. He doesn't look as mad now. He looks satisfied. Like he just wanted to come in and prove his dominance over me. Like doing this to me makes him feel like more of a man. Well, I'm fed up. This time, I decide not to stay down.

  I get up, and the second I'm standing, he turns back around. His face morphs again, but it's not back to anger. He looks confused. His confusion turns into frustration, and his frustration changes to anger. The next thing I know, he grabs my neck and slams me up against the wall.

  “Fuck you!” he screams. “You think you're a woman now? You think you're strong? Think you're a big girl?”

  “Get the fuck off of me!” I yell, as tears start to overtake my eyes.

  “You think you're a big girl, don't you? I'll show you a big girl.”

  I feel his hand sliding down my waist while he holds my throat with the other. Then, he tries to push his hand between my legs. I cinch them together, but he's too strong.

  “No! Fucking stop it!” I scream, but he doesn't listen. He tries to fondle me, and I feel him trying to slide my pants down. That's when I snap.

  I lift my knee as hard as I can, and I hit him right in the balls. I hear him scream as he finally lets go of me, but I don't hesitate for a second. I run into the living room and grab a ceramic lamp off the end table. As I walk back over to him, he's on his knees. He has tears in his eyes, probably from the pain, but those tears make me even madder. How dare he have tears. Who is he to cry now? After all he's done to me. After all the times he's hit me. All the name-calling, all the bruises, all the times he wouldn't let me leave the house. How dare him!

  I feel my rage reach a boiling point as I lift the lamp over my head and bring it down with every muscle in my body. The lamp shatters over his head and he crumbles onto the floor, unconscious.

  I stand there for a second, just looking at him. He's still breathing, which makes me mad. I want to hurt him more. The little amount of blood I see on the top of his head isn't enough to pacify my anger. I want to hurt him more for all the times he hurt me. I want him to bleed for what he just tried to do to me. A part of me wants him dead, and that's why I have to leave.

  I rush into my room and quickly fill up my old backpack with some clothes and essentials. Then, I go into his room and look in the drawer where he keeps his money, and I take everything in there. It only amounts to two-hundred dollars, but I make sure not to leave him even one cent. I take everything, and then I walk out the front door.

  It's been three days. Three terrible days of trying to find a place to sleep and keep myself from the oncoming cold. Winter's coming and the temperature is dropping more and more every day, so sleeping outside isn't an option.

  My first night out, I hitched a ride to McCarran Airport with a woman who believed she was taking me so I wouldn't miss my flight. When I got there, I found a spot where there were no people, and I slid underneath some seats to sleep. I'm sure some people saw me eventually, but they never disturbed me, and the security guards left me alone, too. But, I knew I couldn't keep that up, so the next night I took a cab to a friend's house and spent the night there. But again, I knew I couldn't stay. So, I had to leave.

  I walked out of my frie
nd's house and had nowhere to go. So, I wandered around, thinking about what my next move was going to be, because I refused to go back to my father. I needed money, and I needed it fast. That's how I ended up here.

  I stand in the parking lot, staring at the sign on top of the inconspicuous building. It says Red Pony. I know it's a strip club, and the last thing I want to do is get naked in front of a man, especially after what just happened to me a few days ago. But, I need money or I'm not going to be able to survive out here much longer. And, everyone knows strippers make fast money. So, I decide to go in.

  Maybe this will be the financial break I need to get on my feet. I can even make it temporary-earn enough money to get my life started, and then quit once I'm good.

  I think of it as a jump start. It's a means to an end. As long as I don't have to go back to my dad, I'll do it. It'll be a few months or so, and then I'm done.

  That's the plan.

  Layla

  Four Years Later

  It’s cold tonight. Really cold. Might even be in the thirties.

  The night sky is really clear, too. Not a cloud in sight. It’s always coldest when there aren’t any clouds in the sky. I’m not sure why that is, but I know it’s true, and that’s exactly how it is tonight. Cloudless. Cold as hell.

  I press the brake pedal so my Nissan Maxima stops at the red light on Carter Street. Only a few blocks away now. My heart picks up speed just a little bit, so I look around the empty street to find something else to focus on. No one is out at this hour, except the tourists who seem to enjoy staying up all night walking The Strip. The people who actually live here in Vegas are in bed. It’s one-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday, but I’m up. I’m out here. This is my life.

  I stare out my passenger window and see a stop sign down the road. I wonder why the hell someone would spray paint a stop sign. They painted over the “S” with red paint, and now the sign just reads “TOP.” Was that hilarious to someone? Did they go home that night and feel accomplished with what they’d done? Did they take pictures of it and post it on Instagram or Facebook? That’s ridiculous. What the hell is the matter with people?

  I see the light change from red to green out of the corner of my eye. Something inside of me may have been hoping it would just get stuck and I’d have to sit here at this intersection forever. I wouldn’t mind. It’d be better than continuing on down the road and actually ending up at my destination. I know I have to go, but I don’t want to. Nonetheless, I step on the gas and let the car slowly push forward. I drive so slowly at first, it wouldn’t surprise me if a snail slithered its way past me. But, eventually I gain speed. I do the speed limit. Exactly the speed limit. Not even one over. I’m not in a rush.

  I’ve lived here all my life. Good old Summerlin, Nevada, twenty minutes away from the Las Vegas Strip. It really is beautiful. Close enough to The Strip to be able to visit when I want—which is never—and far enough away that I can get some distance from it when I feel like I’ve had enough—which is all the time.

  The only problem I have with Summerlin is that it’s always been shitty for me. Right from the jump—the day I was born. My deadbeat mother took me home, and only three years after she pushed me out of her, she decided I wasn’t worth all the trouble after all and took off. I have no idea where to, and I don’t even care to know. All I know is that she left. She made a choice, and now I just say fuck her and move on. Not that she gave me much to move on to, since she left me with the worst possible parent ever. My father.

  But, I’m not focusing on all of that right now. I’m looking at the lines in the road. They’re reflecting the light from my headlights really well as I drive. They look like they were just painted yesterday. Summerlin is like that, though. For some reason, everything looks brand new. I think if I wasn’t so emotionally detached all the time, I’d actually be impressed with how beautiful it always is. Even in February when the temperature drops, it really is beautiful and a lovely place to live—for everyone else. It’s a beauty for the people who have normal lives and normal jobs, and work normal hours with normal coworkers and normal bosses. This could be the best place ever if you’re normal. Unfortunately, I’m not normal, so none of that applies to me.

  I make another right turn, and my destination is just a few hundred feet down the road. I slow down to five miles under the speed limit. Since there’s nobody else on the road right now, I don’t have to worry about someone pulling up behind me and blowing the horn.

  As I pass the clubs on both sides of the street, I try to focus on the few people standing outside instead of where I’m going. A bunch of girls wearing the smallest, tightest clothes they could find in their closets, rubbing up against some of the ugliest men, who obviously have enough money to keep their attention. I look up at the stars in the clear sky and see the twinkle they have to them, almost like the low temperature has formed ice around them all and it reflects the light from my headlights, making them glisten. It’s a beautiful sky, but sometimes beauty just isn’t enough.

  There’s only one light outside the building I pull up to, and it’s that way on purpose. They don’t want to bring too much attention to the place because it isn’t a well-known establishment to the tourists, and that’s the way they like it. The light comes from the red sign that’s above the entrance. Big red letters, two words. Red Pony. It’s owned by the Baxter Brothers—David and Damien—and it’s the place that has employed me for the past four years, since I was just seventeen. The things I’ve seen and done since I started working here have changed me, and not in ways I’m the most proud of. I ran away from my father’s house for so many reasons, but when I got out on my own I realized I needed money and a place to stay, of course. I was lost. No parental guidance or idea on how to be a grownup, and an incomplete education. Life was tough, and I needed to find something—anything. I ended up deciding that it’d be easiest to take advantage of the things I was born with and that I had to work the least for, so I took a look in the mirror. At five-foot-six, a hundred forty pounds, I’m what these asshole men would call thick. Thick is what makes girls the big bucks in Vegas, so I went on the hunt for small, quiet strip clubs that were off The Strip and got less attention from the tourists. That’s how I ran into Red Pony Gentlemen’s Club. In the beginning, I thought it was exactly what I wanted—a small club with one light on the outside that nobody really knew about. I thought I’d be good to go here. I was wrong.

  I pull into the fenced in area behind Red Pony where all the employees park. It’s dark out back, and since it’s Tuesday and one-thirty in the morning, there aren’t a lot of girls working tonight so the place looks as empty as it ever gets.

  Once I make my way inside, I think to just go downstairs—just get it over with—but I stop at the bar.

  Red Pony is a little bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside. It’s got a couple of stages in the center, each with their own pole for girls to work up and down. There’s a few booths where the strippers can make a little extra cash giving lap dances and private dances to the guys willing to pay for it.

  Then, there’s downstairs. It looks the same, but it’s different. Downstairs is where the guys with the real money go. Down there, the girls on the poles are “available.” If two guys want the same girl, she goes to the highest bidder, and he basically owns her for the night. That’s the part they failed to mention when I applied here.

  “You look stressed out, honey,” I hear a sweet voice say from behind me.

  I turn around and see the upstairs bartender, Marlene, standing there leaning up against the counter. Both of her arms are covered shoulder to wrist in tattoos, and she has her nose, lip, and cheeks pierced. Even with all those modifications, she’s fucking gorgeous, and her beauty is only made more apparent by the fact that she’s an awesome person.

  “You okay? You’ve got that look again,” she says, giving me a worried smile.

  “I’ll be okay,” I reply. “Can I get a shot of Patron?”

  S
he doesn’t reply verbally. Marlene just nods her head in silent acknowledgement of my plight and grabs a shot glass for me. When she hands me the drink, I don’t hesitate, not even for a millisecond. I grab the glass and toss the harsh liquor to the back of my throat, then I hand the empty glass back to her and turn on my heel. I’ve got to get downstairs so I can get this over with.

  As I make my way through the nearly empty club, I don’t think about who’s downstairs, or what’ll happen when I get down there. Instead, I do what I usually do when things start to become a little too much for me to handle. It’s something I’ve done since I was a little girl, when my father would get drunk and start to take the fact that his job paid him like shit out on my six-year old face. It’s the same thing I do when I’m alone with some asshole who’s just paid Damien top dollar to spend the night with me. I go somewhere else. Not physically, obviously. Mentally, I just check the hell out. I go to my nirvana—a place in my mind where everything is beautiful and I have no worries at all. It’s usually somewhere where there’s a beach, like the Bahamas or Hawaii, and I sit there on my quiet beach with a drink in my hand, listening to nothing but the sound of the ocean waves crashing against each other. I adjust my sunglasses so the sun doesn’t hurt my eyes, I sip my drink, and I relax. All alone, in pure bliss, unable to be harmed by anyone or anything. In that perfect place, I’m perfectly happy.

  “Maybe you should explain to me why the fuck you’re here right now.”

  Damien’s husky voice snaps me out of my quiet nirvana and back into the shitty reality that is the downstairs level of Red Pony. Even though the setup is the same down here, it feels very different from upstairs. The lights are a little dimmer, the music is a little louder, but the most obvious difference is the mood. The vibe down here is somber and filled with something that just makes you feel sad and a little anxious.

  I turn around to find Damien Baxter standing there with his thick arms crossed and his head tilted to the side. His black beard is thick, and his white, bald head reflects the little light that there is in the room. His six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pound frame seems to cast a massive shadow over me and I instantly feel like I’m four feet shorter, standing in front of a man-eating giant who lives at the top of the beanstalk. His size and demeanor are intimidating, but it’s the things I know about him that scare me the most. So, I make sure to clear my throat and sound as un-threatening as possible. It’s what I always do. It’s what we all do.