‘Are you allowed to drink during the week?’ she asks, hovering above me.
I resist the urge to reach out and trace my fingers around the back of her thigh, right at the crease of her knee, over her jeans. ‘I can have one.’
She nods her head. I pull the other chair a little closer toward mine and she lowers herself into it, passing me an open bottle.
I swallow a mouthful of beer. For a moment, I just watch her. Our knees are touching, and she plays nervously with the end of her ponytail.
‘Dad has oxygen therapy, though it’s not regular,’ she says. ‘They show up with the tank out of the blue and then some other guys come and take it away again. Ideally, he needs the treatment twice a day, but we don’t get that.’
‘Do you have insurance?’
‘We have a managed care program. We get tax credits. It’s not perfect but we get by.’
‘And you work three jobs.’
She raises her eyes to me and her voice trembles. ‘I only get paid for two of ’em. It’s not enough.’
My frown is deep. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you’d… I would have thought it’s good money… you know. Taking your clothes off.’
This time she looks away. Presses her lips together. I reach for her hand and squeeze her fingers. ‘I just want us to be honest with each other,’ I tell her.
Her eyes come back to mine.
‘Can we do that?’ I ask. ‘Be honest? No matter how bad you think it is.’
It takes a moment, but she nods her head, then takes a breath.
‘When I was growing up,’ she begins, ‘my dad wasn’t around all that much. He worked various jobs; I never quite knew what he did day to day. One minute he was laying carpet, the next he was fixing somebody’s refrigerator. Some nights he spent in a bar someplace, and he’d roll on home after I’d gone to bed. But there were some nights when we were a family. My mom worked as a nurse, then she quit that, and she worked in a hardware store for a while. By the time I turned seventeen, she’d had enough. Said she wanted to leave and that I should go with her. But by then I knew my dad was sick and had landed in some hot water.’
‘What kind of hot water?’
‘He’d been gambling and got into some serious debt that year.’
‘How serious?’
She doesn’t answer immediately. ‘A little less than a half million dollars all in.’
‘Holy shit.’
She lets out another heavy sigh. ‘The debt was with a man named Kale McCoy. He owned a casino, and also a titty bar in Canyon… Surly’s Tavern.’
I grip my bottle of beer a little tighter and shake my head, hardly able to believe what I know she’s about to tell me.
‘Soon after my mom left, Kale paid us a visit. The moment he saw me… I guess he saw potential. He asked how old I was, and we made a deal. The day I turned eighteen, he had me at the club, learning the ropes—’
I shoot to my feet, the chair scraping back against the rustic wood. I pace up and down for a moment as she watches me.
‘How could your own father let you do that?’ I say, keeping my voice low.
She gives a shrug. ‘He was scared. He didn’t want me to do it, of course, but you don’t mess with these guys. I knew what would have happened if I’d have said no.’
Questions rip through my mind. So, she’s not doing this by choice, but to save her father’s life?
‘Do you get paid anything at all?’
‘No. I keep a ledger. Every shift I work goes toward paying off the debt. So does every tip I make. Every lap dance. I don’t get to see a dime of that money, though I do well for tips. And I keep track. I keep a copy here in my room.’
‘How much is left to pay?’
