Chapter 1
Aurora
I stare at the polyester nightmare dangling from my boss’s meaty fist and wonder why I even bothered getting out of bed this morning. The so-called maid costume hangs limply, a black-and-white mockery of what I thought this job would be. The ridiculously short skirt could pass for a napkin.
Not a costume. More like a couple pieces of fabric.
Nick Basso’s lips curl into what he probably thinks is a persuasive smile while he lounges at his desk in the back office of Red Bird’s Cocktail Lounge. The small space is a disaster. Crinkled receipts, cheap cigars, and a week’s worth of half-full coffee cups clutter the worn oak surface. Half a dozen or so dress shirts are strewn across a faded green sofa I wouldn’t let my cat sit on. Or even my worst enemy’s cat.
Given Nick’s reputation, far too many staff members and customers have utilized the stained eyesore for a late-night booty call.
I may be desperate for cash, but I draw the line at sleeping with my boss.
And I draw another one at this absurd outfit that would have even Barbie blushing.
“I’m not putting that on.” I fold my arms across my chest as if I can physically deflect the suggestion. Or maybe I just want to protect my girls from that mortifyingly low neckline. “You’ve never had a problem with me wearing my regular clothes for waitressing before. What’s different tonight?” I wrinkle my nose.
The little black dress I’m currently sporting may be five years old, but it’s still in decent condition…as long as no one examines the small patched tear under my armpit. The shape accentuates my curves, which is a plus in this line of work.
My boss thrusts the sorry excuse for a maid costume at me with his thick hands. The coarse black hair on his knuckles matches the greasy mop on his head and the rug on his chest that peeks out from his open collar. Together, they form some sort of unholy trinity. “Bachelor party in the back. They paid extra for the theme.”
Of course. Because Nick will do anything so long as enough money is involved. “What’s the theme? Sorority Halloween bash? It’s not even October yet. Are we going to serve them shotgun beer and watch them do keg stands, too, while everyone clusters around and cheers?”
“The theme is making Nick enough money to hire someone else if you’re gonna be difficult.” Still clutching the heinous outfit, Nick rounds the desk and squeezes my shoulder. I suppress a shudder when his knuckles skim the top of my breast before he drops his hand. “Be thankful the stripper costume’s already taken.”
The threat lands exactly as intended. Right in my empty wallet.
My jaw clenches so hard, my teeth protest. “I won’t be able to bend over in that without mooning half the bar.”
“Yeah? Bet you’ll see some great tips then, Bailey.” His eyes glaze as if he’s picturing my ass already. “But if you don’t want to get paid, I’m happy to send you home.”
I want to continue arguing until my boss morphs into a halfway decent human being, but we both know how this ends. My little sister has hopes of attending medical school once she graduates college. Both are expensive.
I can’t let her down.
My mind flashes to Samantha’s elated expression when I told her I’d help pay for her education. She was ready to give up, but at least one of us should have an opportunity to turn a dream into a reality.
A pang of intense, familiar longing cocoons me.
Aurora Bailey, don’t go there. You have a hell of a lot to be thankful for.
“Fine.” I snatch the costume from his hand and try to ignore the incoming tension headache. “But if anyone touches me, I’m adding five percent to their tab. And that’s five percent for every finger.”
Nick’s condescending chuckle haunts me as I trudge toward the staff bathroom. “That’s my girl. Feisty sells drinks.”
I bite back a retort telling him exactly what he can do with his drinks. Maybe tonight won’t be as awful as I’m expecting. Inebriated guys at bachelor parties do tend to tip more.
Extra cash could allow for an extra grocery run. I ate the last of the bananas and a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast. Lunch consisted of an emergency single-serving bag of pretzels I’d stashed in my locker.
As if on cue, my stomach growls, and I force away fantasies of a hot meal.
The walls in the cramped employee bathroom close in on me as I strip out of my dress. The fluorescent bulbs overheadflicker, painting my skin a sickly shade of pale. Grandma’s gold cross gleams at the end of the long chain around my neck.
I pull the costume over my head and as suspected, the outfit barely covers my ass. At least I’m wearing a pair of panties without holes today for the inevitable moments I flash customers tonight.
It’s those little things in life that count.
Suppressing a yawn, I study my reflection in the scratched mirror. My green eyes look huge thanks to kohl eyeliner, though my concealer does little to hide the dark circles beneath them. Pulling the band from my ponytail, I shake my hair loose. The strands reach my collarbone, just long enough to hide my blush every time I lean forward and flash my cleavage at the entire bar.
