I’m using these horny bastards to get the fuck out of this life. Every crumpled bill they shove at me is another brick in the wall between me and this shithole town.
When the song hits that chorus—“Pour some sugar on me, ooh, in the name of love”—I plant my heels and slide my hands down my body, slow as molasses. Fuck it, I might as well enjoy it.
I shut my eyes, letting the beat take over. For a hot second, I can almost pretend I’m not in this sleazy-ass room, just moving for myself.
My fingers trace down my stomach, over my hips. I arch my back like a cat, rolling my body in one long, fluid motion. It’s almost fucking zen if you ignore the reek of booze and desperation.
Some creep’s staring so hard I can feel it on my skin, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. They can watch till their eyes bleed—doesn’t mean they get to touch.
I keep my eyes shut tight, losing myself in the music.
Let ‘em stare. Let these fuckers drool.
I’m here for the cash, not to feed their sad little fantasies.
Every move I make is another step toward telling this whole fucking town to kiss my ass goodbye.
I suck in a breath, choking on the stink of sweat and cheap-ass cologne. The gum in my mouth’s gone to shit, just a flavorless wad now.
Fuck, I’m tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.
But I keep moving. Keep grinding. ‘Cause what other choice do I have?
Every cent I make here is a step closer to freedom. To getting me and my siblings the fuck away from our alcoholic dad and his parade of strung-out girlfriends.
I picture the shithole apartment we’re stuck in. The sink full of dirty dishes. The empty bottles littering the floor. Dad passed out on the couch, reeking of booze. While Em and Lenny clean up his puke.
My heart throbs like a bastard.
In my head, I’m counting. Four hundred fucking dollars in the bank after groceries yesterday. It’s shit. Barely enough to keep us fed, let alone get us out of this hellhole.
Visualize it, Wren.
Ever since I was a kid, I’d imagine my life in some other fucking place. Somewhere without the stench of booze and vomit, without strange women stumbling through our living room.
A place where I didn’t have to be the grown-up.
As I spin around the pole, I picture it.
A little house, maybe. Clean. Quiet. No bottles rolling under my feet. No screaming matches at 3 AM. Just me, Em, and Leo.Safe.
It’s bullshit, of course.
Fairy tale crap.
But sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps me from losing my fucking mind.
I arch my back, feeling the stares on me.
Let the sick bastards look.
They don’t know shit about me. They don’t know about the babies I’ve cleaned up after, fed, changed. The ones Dad brought home and left for me to raise. Em. Lenny. My family, even if we’re only half-blood.
They don’t know about the mother I never met or the parade of women who came after. The ones who’d stick around for a few months, playing house until they got sick of Dad’s shit and split.
I’ve been holding this fucking family together since I could walk. Cleaning up messes that aren’t mine. Fighting battles I never asked for.
But I’m gonna win this war. I have to.
