Random Acts of Hope by Julia Kent Page B

area about the size of my entire shithole apartment.
    “Yeah—thanks!” I holler ed back, fishing around for my shirt and pulling it on. Aside from the tousled bed, her bedroom was neat as a pin, with makeup and bottles of girl creams and crap like that on a little desk, some mirrors, a bunch of books sta cked on their sides on her e nd table, and an e- r eader tablet on top.
    I threw my shoes on and wandered out. The furniture looked like someone in the Soviet army had issued it, but you could tell C harlotte had tried to personalize it.
    She handed me a steaming mug with coffee the color of caramel in it.
    “You remember?” I took a sip. Yep. A tiny bit of sugar in there, too.
    She tried to hide a smile b ut it snuck out. “I have a memory.” Her shrug was supposed to take the edge off, but didn’t.
    We both settled into old, metallic kitchen table chairs with duct-taped vinyl seats, facing the window. Sunlight poured in around the buildings outside. Her view left much to be desired, just a n expansive look at the other side of the huge compound w a lled with brick buildings.
    “We used to make fun of this college,” I said, trying to think of somethi n g to say other than I want to take you right now . Up against that wall. In your bed. Anywhere. Please. God, Charlotte —please .
    Her hands couldn’t stop fidgeting, which meant she was super nervous. Years ago, I would have been, too. Now I just had a boner bigger than my head and a preternatural calm that I’d only recently cultivated.
    “Pays the bills,” she said, sweeping her hand around the room. “And who could give up this life of luxury?”
    I knew she was joking, but I came to her defense. “This is amazing.”
    “You have frighteningly low standards.” She picked at a piece of duct tape stuck to her ass.
    “No,” I said, laughing. “Not the décor. But the job. You’re a grown-up. When did we become grown-ups?”
    “We?”
    Ouch. I deserved that. “Yeah, well, stripping doesn’t come with dental insurance, but it has other benefits.” Shit. That wa s not what I meant to say.
    She snorted. “I’ll bet it does. Just stock up on antibiotics.”
    How the hell did we go from awkward to wistful to putdowns?
    I let silence prevail. If women can perfect the art of the icy stare, men can nail the brooding silence.
    It worked.
    “That was…that was rude,” she admitted  
    “But true.”
    “You get STDs in your line of work?”
    “ I don’t, because I only let them touch me. One-way street. Jack’s a walking nineteenth -century germ factory.”
    “Who’s Jack?”
    “One of my stripping partners.”
    “Anyone I know from high school?”
    “No. But you remember Sam Hinton?”
    “Of course. The drummer.” She took a few sips of coffee and then her eyes bugged out of her head. “SAM? S am strips with you?”
    “Yep.”
    “ T he minister ’s son?”
    “Mmmm hmmm.” Way more fun not being the target of ridicule. Deflect it all on Sam.
    She shook her head and took a long drink. “Good for you guys. You must make bank.”
    “Five hundred last night.” I reach ed into my jeans and pull ed out a wad of money almost as big as my aching—
    “Holy shit!” she chirp ed , excited and shaking her head in amazement. “Around here if someone has a wad like that we assume he’s a drug dealer.”
    “If he’s built, he might be a stripper.”
    She shape d her hand like a gun and pretend ed to pull the trigger. “Good tip. Thanks. Now when Julian down the hall keeps strange hours and co m es back smel l ing like Estee Lauder perfume I have a new line of thinking.”
    “Good coffee,” I said, trying to change the subject.
    “Good company,” she countered, eyes shining.
    “Yeah.” Keeping eye contact killed me, because five thousand words hovered in the air between us, begging to be said the way bachelorette party women begged to be noticed.
    Charlotte d id n’t crack. Neither d id I.
    And then— tap tap tap.  
    She jump ed up