6

I'm all business, or so I think, as I stand around, ignoring the throbbing ache of my sore feet. Really, it's like being a poster girl or something. As if my stance alone will lure people inside. Ribbons is a massive brick building with tinted black, door-sized windows. It's a warehouse of booze and frivolity and dancing; a mixture between alley and dark class inside, and somehow, it's packed with more people I think exist in my district alone.

It's unnerving.

My hands feel all clammy and fidgety, so unlike me. My job is to stand near the three security guards as they pretend to assess IDs and maintain a somewhat civil conduct of the long line rimmed around the building's exterior. A blackened, thin, and poorly set up tent hovers above us, not nearly protecting us from the light droplets of the rain.

I've been out here for three hours, and my shift requires me to stay four more. It's excruciating and fucking boring. Mainly, I walk the line and glimpse IDs with a tiny blue flashlight, smiling like a complete fool. If they're over twenty-one, I provide their willing left wrists with a bright, canary-colored bracelet. I've strapped them on quite snugly, motivated to prevent underage drinking on my clock.

But since the rain started, Howard, the eldest of the guards, ushered me to the dry area of the tent and asked me, in his commanding yet polite voice, to simply stand around as if I were the club's muse or something.

I never got a chance to explore inside. We arrived right on time and I entered through the back door and went downstairs to report. Then I went out back and was guided to the front with Howard and the rest.

"What's your name, kid?"

I look up and smile. Howard's black leather jacket has collected rain over his shoulders, and his drenched hair cascades over his bright gray eyes. I realize then that none of them have engaged me in conversation, just orders. In fact, I only know his name because I heard the others calling him. Seems he's the one in charge of the security bunch.

"Justice."

The smile he gives me doesn't reach his eyes. "Are you cold?"

I shake my head, aware that my arms are covered with tiny goosebumps and that I've wrapped my arms around myself. This is strange weather for us, where it hardly rains. And I get cold easily. Always have.

"Sure? You can go inside… help your friend. I believe she's filling in for a server today."

I smile big. I would like nothing more than to go home, but meeting Jasmin in the somewhat comfort of the warmth inside is enticing. Better than this, at least. I nod.

"Be careful in there, kid."

I frown but head in, puzzled by his warning. Those thoughts quickly scatter once I'm inside. A kaleidoscope of waving lights assaults me and I immediately look down. Besides the pulsing of the lasers, it's dark, and the loudness of the music vibrates off every surface of the hall. The lights flash in sync with the music, a song I recognize, and it's a relief it isn't some bad techno beat that no one can move to, anyway. Closer by Nine Inch Nails reverberates through the air.

Strange, I thought it would be filled with songs by pop artists. I shrug my music thoughts aside and approach the young and stunningly pretty girl in a booth to my right.

"Do you know where Jasmin is?"

She scrunches her face, managing to look as striking as a model, and pivots her head. She brings her hand to her ear. "What?"

"Jasmin! Where is she?" I shout back.

"Oh! Not sure, but she's in there somewhere."

I nod back, mouthing a simple thanks. Why couldn't I get her job? She gets to sit down!

With as much grace as I can manage in these killer heels, I waltz in and stand near the entrance between the end of the corridor and the beginning of the colossal dance room before me. On each side of me, a porch-like balcony circles around the club's interior. Every fifty feet or so, four steps lead to another balcony and then fifteen steps toward the main floor.

The main floor is alive with bodies moving to the beat of the obscene, non-censored lyrics. On the second level, near each staircase, a pole dancer moves in synchronized, calculated staccatos. I swallow and brace myself. I've stayed away from clubs, too many people. I mentally thank Jasmin for urging me to stay outside.

The dancers are clearly in their element. I watch them, envying their sexy glares and pouting lips. It's as if they were born to dance and entertain. I can't imagine Jasmin taking their place–public nudity isn't really her scene. She"s got a seductively thin body with siren-like looks. I writhe uncomfortably. Would I fit in? No, I'm short, petite, but thick, with a condescending attitude and a face that says I-can-care-less and I'm-too-young. I know this, Jule tells me all the time. My personality is shit and clearly, you need people skills in order to work in a place like this. Which is why I work with metal scrap… it doesn't talk back. I've never been the loquacious type.

"Looking for Jas?"

Startled, I spin to my left, hands coming out as if I'm the new Karate Kid and this is my movie.

"Easy, I took your timecard, remember?"

Giving him what I know is an uneasy smile, I try to relax. My cheeks burn. Thank God it's dark. He smiles back, and I notice a tray in his hands. It has three glasses filled to the brim with a dark brew.

"She's over there. Here, take this to her. She'll teach you what to do."

I swallow hard and take the tray and he leaves almost immediately. I take the steps down to the swarming bodies and edge closer to my best friend, who's leaning near a table with four men our age.

They're all taken by her, grinning like fools and showering her with large, gratifying tips. As I get closer, I realize they're playing a drinking game and she's acting as their referee. I stand nearby, tray in hand, and gawk.

This is not my best friend/sister, Jasmin. This is Aphrodite working a well-stowed magic I've never before, until this day, seen. She giggles, only it doesn't sound like the silly laugh she exhorts at home. Not even the frantic ones when she's being tickled by Jule and me.

It's as if she has an alter ego, a vixen hidden away for work, and suddenly I feel like I'm intruding. Here I thought I'd be able to find comfort in someone who would be equally loathing their time here–she always complains about how much she hates her job.

"Hey, who's your friend?"

Jasmin turns and her face drops. Hastily, she grabs her tips and shoves them in the tiny apron hanging on her hip. "Excuse me, boys. Don't go far now!"

Her sexy smile drizzles away once we're out of earshot and she tugs at my arm toward the long bar against the opposite wall. "What are you doing here?"

I shrug. Why am I in trouble? You're the one with the secrets! "Working."

She sighs heavily, then takes the platter from me and places it on the bar. "Melanie, we're taking ten."

Melanie is short and curvy like me, but unlike me, she's in her element. She nods at Jasmin and then snaps her fingers. We don't hear the sound but two girls pop out from the back, both wearing black brassiere tops and boy shorts with long, knee-length, high-heeled boots. Jasmin tugs at my arm and pulls me through the swarming bodies and out to the back alley.

Two security guards nod their greetings and resume their breaks. Four usher boys, one smoking, two drinking out of water bottles, and one leaning on the wall like he's about to crumble from exhaustion, ignore us. Jasmin leads me to the edge where no one can hear us, but they can still see us.

Her eyes are wide with—what? Shame, guilt, fear? I don't know, it's hard to tell, but what is obvious is that my best friend is back, her vixen stowed.

"I can explain."

"No, you don't have to. You're working… I get it."

She sighs and leans against the brick wall, letting the light rain cover her face. I notice just then that she's changed. She's wearing the same red corset, but her pants are gone, replaced by tight, black spandex-like boy shorts and her red pumps. "I hate my job."

"Doesn't seem like it," I retort and regret my words instantly. She's looking at me, her big honey eyes tearful, and that heavy shame-filled expression is back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or anything, but it's the truth. You know I don't do the sympathy thing very well."

"No, you don't. Listen, I hate this shit, don't doubt that. Most of us do."

I grimace and begin to roll my eyes when she snaps her lips.

"Yes, even the dancers. You think this is some childhood dream that has come true for me? Growing up, I wanted to be a fucking nurse, for fuck's sake. A nurse!"

She's angry, an emotion I hardly see evoked from my best friend. It's such a shock that a small, palliative smile pulls at my lips.

"You don't look even a bit threatening, especially in underwear."

She gasps, realizing that she's in her actual uniform in front of me.

"Oh, shit." She takes a deep breath, calming herself, I think. "I knew this was a mistake."

Mistake… bringing me to her job was a mistake? Suddenly, I want to convince her otherwise. "I'm not upset." Am I? Well, yes, I am. But not for the reason she thinks. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She turns and gapes at me. "I don't know. It's not something I'm proud of."

"Well, it isn't like I'm proud of being a garbage picker, Jasmin. Shit, you make way more money than I do. No wonder you bought me that expensive ass camera!"

We laugh suddenly, the atmosphere instantly changing between us. "I guess it's the reason I haven't left. Besides, I'm good at it. I don't know why… I just am."

She looks lost, contemplative, and guilty again. It tugs at a bond sewn by years and years of loving her as if we shared the same womb once, and I pull her into a tight hug. "I'm not ashamed, Jas, just upset you felt you had to lie to me."

She nods and my eyes hold her. "Just because I thought you worked at a regular dance club," meaning no nudity, "doesn't mean shit, Jas. I don't care."

"In that case, maybe next time you should come work at the other club. I'm a supervisor there and the money is—" she sucks in air and smiles wide. "Phenomenal."

"Hey! Lesbian Night is on Wednesdays. Back to work!"

We both turn to face the manager, a tall man in his mid-forties, all business-like and erratic about keeping his employees busy. We giggle to ourselves. "This is my sister, Mr. Carver, not my lesbian partner."

"I don't care about your relationship, Jasmin. Back to work, all of you! Break's over, we have some very important clients inside. I need all hands on deck."

Jasmin and I nod, then make our way in through the kitchen. "Speaking of lesbian partners, does Sara know?"

The look on her face gives me the answer, and my heart sinks. I stop walking and she turns when she realizes I'm no longer at her side.

"Jasmin, no more fucking secrets." My voice is serious and husky.

She nods sheepishly and takes my hand.

The men who were out back taking their break, scuttle through anxiously. One of them gives Jasmin a knowing look. "You won't guess whose car just pulled up."

Jasmin gives him a quizzical nod. "Who?"

"Justice, you cannot be caught with this, or my boss will have us both gagged and thrown in crates until we suffocate on our own fucking bile."

We're behind the bar area and she's holding my camera and has this if-you-get-me-fired-I-will-be-the-one-to-kill-you look. It's very amusing.

"Relax, I do this for a living, remember? Besides, do you think I'm going to pass up sharing this? The mayor is here—Ribbons! He's out there, occupying a private section. He's ordered expensive booze and entertainment. The mayor!"

Jasmin rolls her eyes at me. "I know, I know. Very juicy gossip—"

"I don"t gossip, I'm a journalist. It's very different."

"Well, there's a fine line between those two. Look, Mayor Carlton has paid for our private deck. No one is supposed to know he's here. He's paying for privacy and discretion."

"What he's paying for is young girls, like you and I, to dance around naked at arm's length. He's spending our tax money on booze and girls, and you're worried about the cerro's privacy?"

Jasmin sighs, fully exasperated, and it's quite unsettling. Usually, she's very supportive of me. What's the deal? It's not like I'll get caught. I'm a pro at what I do.

"I can care less about the pig. What I do care for, in very high dosages, are our asses."

"No one here recognizes me. Your boss will never know it was me who filmed him. Please, Jasmin, please."

"Fine," she sighs and I hug her, a squeak escaping my lips.

I stuff the camera into my apron and head on out. Melanie's swamped with drink orders, and I decide to help her catch up before resuming my duties. It's half-past two in the morning, the peak hour of the night. Ribbons stays open until five, yet half the people here are drunk already. I silently wish they either have half a brain to order an Uber or had arranged to have a designated driver among them.

"Melanie, I need Bridget to attend to our guest in the left wing. A very important visitor has specifically asked for her."

I'm filling five glasses with fruity drinks, my back to Jas's boss and Melanie, but I catch her reaction in the mirror in front of me. Her face pales and her lips press into a hard, grim line.

"She's only fifteen, Robert, you know this. It's the reason she only works the coats."

The boss, Robert, approaches her. He's inches from her face, a head taller than her. "It's the mayor, Melanie. What am I supposed to tell him?"

"Well, her age, of course."

"I did. The bastard said he already knew that. He asked her himself on the way in. He likes ‘em young, Mels. What am I supposed to do?"

My body freezes; I've heard too much. Mayor Carlton has pedophilic desires and pays a great deal to keep it a secret. Here I thought him sick to enjoy girls half his age strip. No, it's way younger that hits his sickening funny bone. And I get to catch the perv—it's my lucky day. I watch Melanie's face fall and she reaches for the bar as if to stabilize herself.

Robert looks to the ground and then recovers. "Don't make him wait."

I serve the already drunk guys their fruity requests, shove the tips into my apron, and sneak underneath the bar. If I'm to do this, I mustn't be seen heading in that direction.

The left-wing is a fairly large chamber with a burgundy red, plush rug, deep purple walls with gold piping, and there's a single white and very long U-shaped couch with round cherry wood end tables on each side. An extraordinary chandelier hangs from the center of the room, its light a dim, omniscient shade that makes the room look more like a womb. Directly across from the couch is a small stage with two dance poles. Behind that are layers of wine-colored satin curtains separating a hidden corridor from the entire room.

I find refuge behind the curtains and crouch near the edge, my camera in position. Bridget isn't here yet, and Mayor Carlton is angrier than a rattled bee. The bastard positioned himself right in the center of the couch, a glass in hand with what seems to be brandy served with a few cubes of ice. Three security guards, no doubt his, linger behind him, each standing with their hands folded in front of them.

"I've been waiting for half an hour! What's fucking taking so long?"

The guard to his left, my right, moves, and seconds later returns with a very timid, beet-red Bridget. She's wearing red panties, a sheer and sparkly red tutu, along with a simple black bra. She's barefoot.

Mayor Carlton licks his lips and extends his hand to her. "Oh, so sweet, come here, baby. Come."

She's frozen in place, staring at her hands and fidgeting uncomfortably.

"I won't ask you again, baby."

Bridget looks up, startled, and it takes all my strength to not run out there and insult him and then run away with her. My first instinct is to throw an oversized raincoat on her, put her in some slippers, then serve her something warm while she sits comfortably and safe. My hands are trembling, and I realize I've been holding my breath. So I sit on my ass and rest the camera on my knees to steady it.

Bridget moves cautiously toward Carlton, but doesn't take his hand. Instead, she readjusts her tutu and squares her tiny shoulders, her chin up high. "You've requested a dance, yes?" Her voice is small, but surprisingly strong, in a way.

El cerrosmiles wickedly and signals to the pole. He nods at one of his guards, who steadily walks toward one of the end tables and starts the music. It's a fancy Bluetooth speaker–I think it's the first time I've been in the presence of one, but I remain still, not once eyeing it, and keep my eyes on Bridget and el cerro.

Bridget's face is full of fear, and her eyes are glistening. My camera catches this, he does not, because when she turns back toward him, she's morphed before us. I'm reminded of Jasmin, how she, too, transforms drastically before my eyes. Bridget takes hold of the pole and slowly slides down and begins a rather awkward dance.

I'm thrown back, unable to keep watching. So instead, I focus on the camera, making sure it stays on cue, and I go numb. Such corruption and sickness, I can't bear it. Bridget turns suddenly and faces my direction and bends, then grasps her ankles. Carlton's breath hitches and he moves to stand. It's really the first time I'm seeing him; I've only ever heard of him but have never had the pleasure, or disgust, of seeing him in the flesh.

Oddly, something about him makes me think of Piper and her sister Macy. Mayor Carlton has the same reddish hair and light green eyes. His square jaw matches that of Piper's, his nose exactly like Macy's, the way his mouth sets in a thin and pleased way. And now that he's smiling like a fool, I realize his smile is a copy to Macy's.

No!Didn't Mayor cerro have two daughters and one son? Yes… what were their names?

My thoughts are quickly scattered when el cerro approaches much too close for both Bridget's, and my, comfort. He suddenly reaches out and grasps her hips, pulling her toward him. He leans down and stuffs his face into her neck.

"You smell so good, baby."

"Please, I'm only here to dance. No touching allowed."

Her voice trembles and her next breath catches in her throat as he lowers one hand to cup her ass. He squeezes, then slips his hand inside her panties. She screams and he shoves his hand deeper. I can't bear it. I shut off the camera, toss it into my apron, and I'm about to attack him with all I've got when Howard appears out of nowhere. He's standing behind Mayor Carlton, all tall and beefy and menacing.

"Enough! This isn't that kind of place and she isn't that kind of girl. Let her go!"

Shocked, Mayor cerro lets her go and Bridget runs out of the room. As quickly and as quietly as I can, I walk backward and sneak out to the main floor like a fucking fox.

Jasmin pushes me into the maintenance closet and shuts the door. "Fuck, Justice, you look like you've seen a ghost. What the hell happened in there? I was so worried! I sent Howard to check things out, just in case you'd been caught and were slowly getting killed or something. Did he see you?"

Her voice is panicked, and I want to reassure her that no one saw me, but I can't. The words can't find their escape; they're stuck somewhere between my lungs, throat, esophagus, pharynx, whatever.

Jasmin shakes me. "Say something, Justice. Did they catch you? Oh, God, they caught you!"

"No," I manage to croak out. I shake my head, trying to clear it. "No, I wasn't caught. But if you didn't send Howard over, I would have been."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mayor Carlton requested a private dance from Bridget." I nod as my best friend's eyes go wide and she gasps, her hand clutching her chest and then her mouth. "She was doing her thing, and the next thing you know, that fucking pig gets up and starts fondling her goods. Right before I could kill the fucker, Howard came in and stopped him."

"Shit, that asshole!"

"Not so concerned about his privacy now, are you, Jas?"

She ignores my snide comment, her bewildered expression haunting. "What happened next?"

"I don't know. I ran out of there, just as Bridget did. But I did get enough data on my camera. This pedo is going down, Jas."

She breathes a sigh of relief. "I don't know what I would've done if something happened to you. Let's go find Bridget."

I nod, and she takes my hand. We emerge from the smelly closet and warily look around.

"Hey, Melanie, where's Bridget?"

Melanie calls us over like she wants to tell us a secret. "Where have you two been?" she hisses.

"We were with Drunk Guys Fifty-Two."

Melanie nods and accepts Jasmin's explanation. I have no idea what she just said, but I nod like I do.

"Bridget's gone home. She wasn't feeling good. Gerald took her, and I'm not sure she'll be coming in tomorrow."

"Oh, okay. If you see her, tell her I have her money." Melanie arches a brow in question and Jasmin sighs. "We take part in money pools, and her number came up. I'm sure she needs her cash. Just tell her to sweep by my place anytime."

This, I know, is true. A few people enter a pool of savings. Each person gives fifty dollars every week for three months. At the beginning of the draw, every person has a number which refers to the order in which you get your money. It's sort of like a savings—money that you're stowing and aren't touching until your number comes up. I never knew Bridget entered them, because usually, only the person in charge of the drawing knows the details.

Melanie nods but looks deep in thought, far away, and I'm sure I know what she's thinking. She's wishing the rag her hands are wringing was the cerro's neck. Hell, I wish that!

Jasmin pulls me toward the table upstairs with a bunch of drunken men our age. "This group is Drunk Guys Fifty-Two. We usually name our repeated guests."

Right when she's explaining, one of the guys throws a deck of cards in the air and they fly around, making them all laugh hysterically, and they signal us over. Jasmin smiles at them, then turns to me and rolls her eyes. "Hence fifty-two. They throw a deck of cards in the air and have us pick them up so they can stare at our asses. God, I hate my job. Come."

I follow her and she's all goddess, Aphrodite, vixen, and siren, all in one.

"We're back," she says in a sing-song voice I definitely do not recognize. "Shall we pick these up again?"

Oh, me? She's talking to me. I smile awkwardly and drop to my hands and knees with her. The guys are all roaring and hooting and somehow I get it. Her words connect to the explanation she gave Melanie. Drunk Guys Fifty-Two are all so wasted, they'll confuse the time frame and become my alibi. Oh, my best friend is so smart.

"They're going to lavish your waistband with wads of cash. Do not swat their hands away, Justice."

As she whispers this to me, I feel three rough hands on my ass. My first urge is to turn around and kick them off their stools, but Jas's warning halts me. It takes all my muscles to coil and retreat. I breathe out as I pick up the last two cards. We stack them on the table neatly and discreetly stow the cash into our aprons before it falls.

We spend the rest of the night with them and even walk them to their cab. I'm relieved to know none of them will crash due to their intoxicated states, and we wave them off. In my backpack is a gallon-sized bag fat with money.

"We'll catch a ride with Howard. He lives in the lot following ours."

We turn and freeze. Leaning against the exterior brick wall of Ribbons is Dylan. He shoots us a glare and saunters toward us, and my eyes scan for a way out. Fuck, these damn heels, I know once I make to run off, I'll fall flat on my fucking face.

Jasmin reaches for my hand and squeezes and we watch Howard's pickup truck drive away slowly behind Dylan.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!