reaches up to cup my left breast, giving it a rough squeeze. His breath reeks of stale coffee and cigarettes. “A C-cup?”
I swallow my revulsion. Outside of female retail specialists at Victoria’s Secret, I’ve never had to answer that question. And they certainly never groped me while they asked. So long as he focuses his grabby attention above my waist, I can stomach it. “Yes, that’s right.”
“And,” he says as his hand slides down to graze my abdomen with his knuckles, “I’d say maybe a twenty-two-inch waist.” He snorts. “Like your age.”
Fighting the urge to shrink back from him, I distract myself by scanning the cramped office. There’s a small desk off in one corner, covered in folded newspapers and cans of Diet Coke. Most of the space is taken up by a worn brown sectional leather couch. One that looks well used. There’s no way I’m ever sitting on that. In the opposite corner, I find a camera pointing toward us, the red light flashing tells me that it’s recording this “interview.”
Ugh.
“Here,” I say, steadying my hand as I hold out a copy of my résumé. It seems ridiculous, offering him my information now , but I may as well since I’ve gone to all the trouble of making it up. “I worked in Vegas, at—”
“Don’t care,” Rick dismisses with a wave of his hand as he saunters over to the couch. “As long as you can give a good lap dance, you’re hired.” When he turns to face me—revealing a wide grin and a set of crooked front teeth—his fat fingers already have his belt undone and his zipper down.
It only takes another second for those department store khakis to slide down to his knees. His black boxers follow next with the help of his hands, and my wide eyes automatically drop to see the veiny repulsion sticking out. Now I do wince. I can’t help it. Letting himself fall back into the couch with a smile of anticipation, he says, “Come show me how much you want a job at Sin City . . . and lose the panties.”
It’s still dark when I bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, struggling for air, shaking with disgust. That’s the second time I’ve had that nightmare.
No, not nightmare. Memory . Because it happened.
Exactly. Like. That.
Thank God it had ended with me throwing on my dress—skipping the bra—and running out the door. But, if Cain doesn’t hire me for this job, the nightmare may very well have a new ending soon. I need this job. It has to be Penny’s.
■ ■ ■
“You’re a skeevy bastard!”
At least I have some entertainment from my neighbors.
If I can piece together the last five days at this place, it sounds like the guy has issues keeping his pants on with any and all willing females and the couple is trying to work their marital problems out with verbal abuse and flying objects. They usually make up by noon. Then I get to listen to them have wild monkey makeup sex. Today sounds more hostile, though, so I think she caught him in another compromising position last night.
I moved to this small studio apartment two weeks ago. With its sunny-colored stucco walls and red tile roof, the building looked approachable. Cozy, even. It was the low rent that won me over, though. The extended-stay hotel was costing thousands per month and, though Sam ensured I had more than enough to cover it, I decided that the whole I-need-enough-money-to-disappear-off-the-face-of-the-earth plan required extreme changes to my lifestyle. So, I quietly moved here. As far as Sam knows, I’m still at the extended stay.
Right now, I really wish I were.
Maybe I went a little too extreme.
Something loud hits the wall next to my bed. I’m picturing a skillet. I’m hoping it’s not a head. I’d call the cops and report it, but I don’t need them on my doorstep asking me any questions or taking my name. So I wait, crossing my fingers that someone else makes the call.
As I do, I check for any responses to my many chat-room inquiries. I know that I need a
I swallow my revulsion. Outside of female retail specialists at Victoria’s Secret, I’ve never had to answer that question. And they certainly never groped me while they asked. So long as he focuses his grabby attention above my waist, I can stomach it. “Yes, that’s right.”
“And,” he says as his hand slides down to graze my abdomen with his knuckles, “I’d say maybe a twenty-two-inch waist.” He snorts. “Like your age.”
Fighting the urge to shrink back from him, I distract myself by scanning the cramped office. There’s a small desk off in one corner, covered in folded newspapers and cans of Diet Coke. Most of the space is taken up by a worn brown sectional leather couch. One that looks well used. There’s no way I’m ever sitting on that. In the opposite corner, I find a camera pointing toward us, the red light flashing tells me that it’s recording this “interview.”
Ugh.
“Here,” I say, steadying my hand as I hold out a copy of my résumé. It seems ridiculous, offering him my information now , but I may as well since I’ve gone to all the trouble of making it up. “I worked in Vegas, at—”
“Don’t care,” Rick dismisses with a wave of his hand as he saunters over to the couch. “As long as you can give a good lap dance, you’re hired.” When he turns to face me—revealing a wide grin and a set of crooked front teeth—his fat fingers already have his belt undone and his zipper down.
It only takes another second for those department store khakis to slide down to his knees. His black boxers follow next with the help of his hands, and my wide eyes automatically drop to see the veiny repulsion sticking out. Now I do wince. I can’t help it. Letting himself fall back into the couch with a smile of anticipation, he says, “Come show me how much you want a job at Sin City . . . and lose the panties.”
It’s still dark when I bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, struggling for air, shaking with disgust. That’s the second time I’ve had that nightmare.
No, not nightmare. Memory . Because it happened.
Exactly. Like. That.
Thank God it had ended with me throwing on my dress—skipping the bra—and running out the door. But, if Cain doesn’t hire me for this job, the nightmare may very well have a new ending soon. I need this job. It has to be Penny’s.
■ ■ ■
“You’re a skeevy bastard!”
At least I have some entertainment from my neighbors.
If I can piece together the last five days at this place, it sounds like the guy has issues keeping his pants on with any and all willing females and the couple is trying to work their marital problems out with verbal abuse and flying objects. They usually make up by noon. Then I get to listen to them have wild monkey makeup sex. Today sounds more hostile, though, so I think she caught him in another compromising position last night.
I moved to this small studio apartment two weeks ago. With its sunny-colored stucco walls and red tile roof, the building looked approachable. Cozy, even. It was the low rent that won me over, though. The extended-stay hotel was costing thousands per month and, though Sam ensured I had more than enough to cover it, I decided that the whole I-need-enough-money-to-disappear-off-the-face-of-the-earth plan required extreme changes to my lifestyle. So, I quietly moved here. As far as Sam knows, I’m still at the extended stay.
Right now, I really wish I were.
Maybe I went a little too extreme.
Something loud hits the wall next to my bed. I’m picturing a skillet. I’m hoping it’s not a head. I’d call the cops and report it, but I don’t need them on my doorstep asking me any questions or taking my name. So I wait, crossing my fingers that someone else makes the call.
As I do, I check for any responses to my many chat-room inquiries. I know that I need a
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