Chapter 9

Nine

SCOTTIE

"How are you doing?"

I make a face at myself in the mirror with the amount of blush I have on my cheeks and try rubbing to blend it a little more. My brother takes too long to answer my question, and heat starts to make its way down my barely-clothed body.

" William ." There's an authoritative tic to my voice that I acquired the moment I practically adopted him.

"I'm…"

I lower my hand, forgetting all about my too-pink cheeks. "Hey, talk to me."

"I need more money," he blurts.

My lips part, and I want to be angry and resentful, but how can I? To say my brother is naive is putting it lightly. He doesn't understand social cues like others, and the only person to blame for that is my mother. I may not have noticed the alcohol she consumed while pregnant because I was too young to do so, but over the years, I've researched enough to know who's responsible.

The only problem with suspecting William has Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder is that it is highly complicated to diagnose, especially if you are without health insurance. To make matters worse, the only advocate William has is me. I still remember the moment I met with my high school principal and guidance counselor during conferences. They were expecting a parent to show, not William's barely older sister who was still a student herself.

FASD requires multiple assessments. It's a complex disease, and now that William is a legal adult and currently in prison, the chances of anyone listening to my pleas for help are long gone until I can at least get him out.

Something has to change. Otherwise, William will continue to walk down the wrong path, and I'll be in debt for the rest of my life, spending every day trying to protect him from people who use and abuse him. Spoiler alert: the men inside that prison will use anyone they can, and unfortunately, William is the weakest link.

"What do you mean you need more money?" I ask, holding my finger up to Kitty.

She comes over to blend in my blush a little more and adjusts my pink bra strap.

"Give me one sec," I whisper.

"I'll cover for you." Kitty disappears, and I know it's to distract Russ before he comes hunting me down to get on stage.

"My friend Ike needs money," William says.

Anger surfaces. "Well, tell your friend to get his own money."

"But I owe him."

It doesn't take a genius to understand that owing someone in prison isn't a good thing. Just like it doesn't take a genius to recognize that these friends of William are manipulating him and—oh, that's right— using him, which is ironically the same thing that landed him in prison.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What do you mean you owe him? Just because someone tells you that you owe them, doesn't mean that you actually do."

"He protected me."

My heart sinks. I should be the one protecting him.

When I say nothing, William clears his throat, and I swear, he still sounds like that little eight-year-old boy who came home naked because a boy at school manipulated him into taking the clothes right off his back. "Someone was messing with me, and Ike stepped in. Scottie, I'm…I'm afraid. I don't like it here."

I drop my head and shut my eyes. I give myself approximately three seconds to get my shit together, and then I pop back up and level my voice. "I know you don't. I'm doing everything I can to get you out, but with having to pay the lawyer fees, keep a roof over my head, feed myself, and put money on your books, it's… I can't keep up."

"Cherry!" I jump. Shit. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll see what I have leftover to put on your books. Check back tomorrow. I love you. Remember what I've taught you about people, okay?"

"Scottie, wait."

I nibble on my lower lip and rush over to the side door. Russ is going to come get me any second now.

"If anyone comes by?—"

"Cherry. Get out there! What are you doing?" Russ comes around the bend in the hallway, red-faced and sweaty.

I end the call quickly, not because I'm afraid of my boss but more so because I can't lose my job.

Not now, anyway.

"Sorry," I mutter.

He curses under his breath and mumbles something about me being lucky that I'm hot. My stomach churns, and I wonder what Russ would do if I threw up on his shoes. Actually, he'd probably still bark at me to get on stage and then force me to clean up my own vomit after my shift.

I pull back the curtain, level my shoulders, and quickly morph into Cherry the Stripper instead of Scottie the Desperate.

One hour left until my shift is over and done with. Russ always puts me on the first shift and saves the veterans for the late hours, knowing they're the ones willing to go above and beyond. To do what? I'm not exactly sure. But considering it's behind the doors labeled private , I have a pretty good idea.

"Hey, babe?" I turn and meet Chastity's furrowed brow across the short distance between poles.

"Yeah?" I breathe out.

"Some guy is asking about you."

I quickly look around the Cat House, weaving in and out of the strobe lights that give me a headache, and half expect to see one of the hockey players, even though they had a game.

"Where?"

Chastity's bottom lip juts forward. "Hmm, I don't know where he went. He was staring at you for a long time, though. I'm surprised you didn't notice him."

Of course I didn't notice. I go fully internal each time I'm on the stage.

Surprisingly, the next hour flies by, and although Chastity and I have been watching for the mystery man, we both come up empty-handed. I climb off the stage with a bra full of cash and practically skip to my car after changing. I secretly check the stats of the hockey game on my phone and smile to myself when I see that the Devils won again. Not wanting to use too much of my data, I quickly power down my phone and slip it into my bag.

The parking lot is dark and eerie because Russ is too lazy to replace the lightbulbs out back, and he's too cheap to hire any security to escort us to our cars. Some would say that Russ doesn't care about his employees, and as I walk to my car in the pitch black without an ounce of protection, I'd say they are right.

"Cheap ass," I mumble under my breath.

Usually, I have one of the other girls with me, and I occasionally give them a ride home, but tonight it's just me.

I open my bag to grab my keys but stop as soon as I hear the crunching of gravel. I glance down, and I'm on the flat asphalt without even a pebble nearby.

"Is someone there?"

Seriously, Scottie?

Suddenly, I'm the star of a horror film. Now who isn't reading social cues correctly?

I firmly grip my keys and slip the pointiest one through my first and second finger while making a fist. I quickly revisit the hazy lesson my father taught me when I was young on how to punch correctly, and though I've had to latch onto the memory a few times throughout my life, it isn't a skill I naturally possess.

I can pretend, though.

Spinning with the wind, I hold my hand to my chest and look at my surroundings. Shutter, the stray cat that won't disappear because I continue to feed it, scurries into the alley in fear, and it causes the hair along my neck to stand.

"Scottie Monroe?"

The voice comes from the left, and I turn a little too fast and lose my footing. Two hands catch me by my upper arms, and when we come face-to-face, a chill races to the soles of my feet. His eyes flash with something dangerous, and the first thing I notice is the tattoo peeking up from the collar of his long-sleeve shirt.

"Get your hands off me," I demand, proud that I sound confident. All those years of fending off mom's boyfriends are paying off. Thankfully, it wasn't all for nothing.

The man chuckles, and it sounds like he has a throat full of loose gravel. "Relax, princess."

I growl and fling his hands off me. He goes willingly, but in between choppy laughs, he manages to let me know why he's at my place of employment. "I'm here to make sure you got the message to pay."

My first thought is my mom. But she's too far off to even recall she has a daughter half the time, so that leaves one person. I think back to the phone call from William, and there's a sadness lingering that I can't get rid of.

"Let me guess." I feel defeated. "You know Ike?"

He snaps his finger at me. "You betcha."

"Tomorrow." I swallow my pride. "I'll add money onto William's books tomorrow."

Gravel crunches, and I shove my fist with my key pointing out like a weapon into the gaping space between us. "Don't come closer."

My vision blurs, and my heart skyrockets. Heat pools in my lower stomach, but I'm cold at the same time. The guy's hands go up in defense, but when I look back at his face, I realize he isn't looking at me. He's looking past my shoulder.

I sigh in relief.

It's about freaking time Russ starts being a decent boss.

My hand lowers, and I peer behind my shoulder. Except, I don't come face-to-face with my slimy boss who apparently still doesn't care about me or the rest of the girls walking to their cars at night.

It's Emory Olson.

And for the first time since meeting him, he isn't looking at me with that familiar tinge of vengeance. He's looking at the stranger instead.