Page 33 of Resist

“That’s great news.” I glance around the room to make sure I’m alone, never knowing what my conversation might hold.

“I ran into a friend of yours last night,” she says.

“A friend?” I ask cautiously. Vee doesn’t have many friends.

“Archer.”

I pause midmotion with my purse halfway in my locker in reaction to the name of the only person who knows me, who knows the truth . . . about everything.

“Oh,” I say to buy time as my mind spins, wondering if she’s calling to tell me she has me all figured out. That this is all over for me.

“Such a nice guy. We were in a club, and I handed him one of my cards—”

My laugh cuts her off.

“Yes, I now know he’s gay and isn’t interested in female anatomy, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a woman came on to him.”

“He’s gorgeous—I can see why.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, he said he knew you when.”

“He said me, specifically?” I ask, paranoid about how much information has been divulged.

“No. Jesus, Vee. He’s not going around saying he knows who you are by name. He just said he knew the owner of the company on my card, and that was that.”

I feel my shoulders sag. Paranoid much, Vaughn?

I think of Archer. Tall. Handsome. Knower of everybody in this town who needs to be known. And the one person who helped me get Wicked Ways set up and my name out there to the silent masses.

Confidentiality agreement or not, it still worries me sometimes.

“Archer is a sweetheart.”

“Seems like it. How did the other night go? Did you find someone to fill in for me?”

“Yes.” No.

“Okay.” She draws the word out, and the resignation in her voice tells me she knows she missed out on a big client and is pissed about it.

“You know you’ll be the first person I call if the client decides to look for someone else.”

“Oh.” She stretches the sound out as if she hears my unspoken words that the customer wasn’t 100 percent satisfied. “You know I’m here.”

“I do.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “Look, I’ve got to go, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Everything okay?” she asks.

How do I tell a girl who works for me that I’m at my day job? That I waitress at a high-end club so that the social worker handling Lucy’s case sees a hardworking woman trying to do the best to provide for her niece. It also helps to explain where the money is coming from to pay down the debts I have looming over my head from trying to take care of my sister.

“Yeah, everything is okay. Thanks for asking.”

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up my cell and place it in my locker with my purse and jacket. Drawing in a deep breath, I shake my head and laugh at this ridiculous situation I’m in.

There are so many lies to keep straight. So many covers that I have to shift and finagle so often that if I survive long enough to accomplish my goal, I might die from the sheer exhaustion when all is said and done.

The door opens and then closes. A fellow server, Melissa, comes in and throws a smile my way as the speakers on the other side of the wall throb a dull beat.

“It seems like it’s a busy night out there,” I say as I double-check my uniform: emerald-green bustier, black skirt—short and tight—nylons with the seams up the back, and black high heels. The kind that are so comfortable to walk around in all night long, said no one ever.