“Thank you, Peaches!” The DJ’s voice booms through the club. The whistling and clapping overtake the room before he speaks again. “All right, now put your hands together for our newest, and hottest girl . . . Dallas!”

  The music kicks on again, the bass thumping so loudly that I can feel the floor shake. Chrissy comes out and the crowd of wolves comes to life. In spite of everything, I find my lips pulling into s small smile. Her little stage name is creative and it makes me contemplate what I’m going to call myself. Continuing to think, I watch on as she owns the stage, working it like a pro; which, in a way, I guess she is. She shakes her ass and touches herself in such a way that I find myself unable to look away. That is, until I realize the heaviness of the situation.

  We’re both lost.

  And I watch on helplessly as my best friend objectifies herself to the horny men that look on eagerly, waiting to pounce on anything that has boobs. But more specifically, on her.

  And on me.

  MY EYES NEVER LEAVE CHRISSY as she goes about her performance. Her confidence is intoxicating and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that she’d done this before. Maybe she has; it’s not like I know everything she does. She’s had enough Joe’s that it would make sense for her to have performed a striptease a time or two. She has every set of eyes in the room on her, including mine, and she deserves it. Chrissy is damn good.

  As her song ends I’m reminded that I’m sitting on some guy’s lap, by his erection which is pressing against me. I want to get up, to go to Chrissy and figure out how I’m going to deal with this, but I know better. People are watching me; people who will report me to Big Earl, and Big Earl will have no problem tossing me out on my ass . . . or worse.

  The guy leans forward, his arms around my waist. “So, beautiful, now that I’m all fired up, how about a little private show?”

  My stomach drops and the thundering of my heart is so loud that I can barely hear the music start back up, but I have no choice. This is what I have to do. “Of course,” I coo, hopping to my feet and taking him by the hand. Chrissy and I aren’t going to get the chance to iron out the details of how she will help me so I’m going to just have to fend for myself, and even though my legs are shaking as we walk towards the back, I force a smile as we approach the guy guarding the velvet roped off area. Someone told me his name when they ran through everything when I first got here, but now I can’t remember it. I just hope he remembers me and that he’ll be helpful.

  “My friend here and I need a room,” I state as we stop in front of him.

  He uncrosses his arms and nods. “It’s $300 for the room,” he says to the guy I’m with, who doesn’t hesitate to reach into his pocket and pull out three hundred-dollar bills, handing them over to the bouncer.

  George! George is his name.

  George takes the money, shoving it into his pocket and unclasping the velvet rope. Still holding on to the guy I’m with, we walk through and stop, waiting for George to show us where to go. Without a word, he puts the rope back and starts walking down the darkened hallway, stopping at a room numbered six. George looks at me and gestures for me to come closer. I lean my head near his and he whispers, “This will always be your room, Presley. Number six. Remember that.”

  I nod. For some reason this seems like it is important—that George is somehow on my side, and is sending me a message of sorts. But I can’t be sure. Do girls always get their own room? Maybe this is the norm and I’m just making something out of nothing, overthinking again.

  With a fair amount of trepidation I push open the door and go inside. It’s dark and sparsely furnished; only a couch with a side table occupying the space. The guy heads right to the couch, flopping back and sighing. I look around, noting that there’s an iPod and speakers on the table. On top of the speakers I see a piece of black cloth.

  A blindfold.

  Panic rises within me as I think about dancing, or doing more than that, with this man that I barely know. Without really thinking, I reach down and take the cloth into my hands. At least if he can’t see me maybe I’ll be a little more confident. Maybe I’ll pretend that he’s Emerson. Maybe I’ll fake that I actually have feelings for him. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to make it through the next hour unscathed.

  With a sudden air of confidence I hold the blindfold up. The man wags his eyebrows. “I like how you think . . .” He pauses and I know he’s wondering what my name is. This is my chance to start afresh with something new because one thing’s for sure—while I’m here I can’t be Presley. My mind struggles to function and the only thing I can think of is my favorite Edgar Allan Poe poem: The Raven.

  “Raven,” I say confidently. “My name is Raven.”

  “Nice to meet you, Raven.”

  “You never did tell me your name,” I say as I straddle his lap.

  “My name is Mr. X,” he says, laughing.

  I know it’s not his real name. Men like this don’t use their real names while they’re in places like these. “Well, Mr. X, I hope you’re ready for a wild ride,” I purr, before placing the blindfold over his eyes. My hands are shaking as I fumble to tie it behind his head, but the smile never leaves his face. I stand up, leaning over to queue up some music on the iPad and I can see him practically humming with excitement.

  Looking at him, listening to the music thump, I know I’m in over my head. I don’t know what to do, or even where to begin. I’m just about to start with some lap gyrating when the closet door pops open. I look over and see Chrissy beckon me over. She grabs my hand, pulling me into the closet with her.

  “What are you doing in here?” I ask in a whisper.

  “I told you, I’ll take care of you.”

  It doesn’t take long for me to piece it together. Chrissy organized the whole thing. That’s why George told me this would always be my room.

  Chrissy.

  I look at her with so much happiness and fight the urge to hug and kiss her a million times. “Thank God, Chrissy. I’m freaking out!”

  “I can tell. You sit here and I’ll go out there and take care of Mr. X. Shouldn’t take long since you’ve got him all worked up with that blindfold.”

  I wish I could say that I did it on purpose—that I’d been smart and remembered that it was part of the plan—but in all honesty it was just me freaking out. I stalled because I didn’t have the slightest clue what to do next.

  Chrissy pulls me toward her and kisses me on the forehead before slinking out of the closet. She doesn’t shut the door behind her; instead leaving it open just a crack so I can see all that’s happening and know when we need to switch back.

  It’s voyeuristic; watching her take her spot, straddling his lap, moving her hips to the music. She gyrates on top of him as his hands travel up the sides of her legs. She grabs his hands as they reach her thighs, stopping them before they make it any farther and he groans in protest when, using just one hand, she pops the clip of her bra from behind her back and lets it fall down her arms to the floor. She leans forward, allowing his chin to nestle between her perky breasts.

  Effortlessly, she spins around so that she’s facing me, her ass directly in his lap. She stills for a moment, allowing him to get his bearings before she starts moving to the music again. His hands land on her hips as she moves in circles in his lap and he hisses and groans as she continues to work him up.

  It’s erotic to watch my best friend in complete control, this man writhing beneath her. In this moment, I get it. I understand what Chrissy has been talking about all these years; why she enjoys what she does. When everything else in her life is chaotic and unpredictable, here she is in control. It’s empowering, and she’s damn good at it—I can tell just based on the look on his face.

  He shifts underneath her and she bends over, grabbing her bra and placing it back on. She reaches behind her back and snaps it together before running over to the closet and switching spots with me. Even though we’re in a rush, I take the time to give her a quick hug before going back out into the room.

  Mr. X is still sitting on the couch, his breathing quick and shallow. He’s still smiling and I look down at him from the spot I’m standing. The wet spot on his pants is obvious and a shiver runs through me. I don’t think I will ever get used to this business and the disgustingness that it brings.

  I carefully lean forward, freeing the knot in the blindfold. His eyes open and take me in. “Well, beautiful, that definitely wasn’t your first rodeo. It takes talent to make my snake spit.”

  Forcing a smile, I nod. He reaches into this pocket, pulling out his wallet and hands me another hundred-dollar bill. Stunned, I take it from his hands and immediately shove it into my bra. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  He stands and places his hand on the small of my back before leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek. “I’ll see you again soon, sweetheart. And that’s a promise.”

  Without another word, he walks out of the room. I collapse onto the couch, throwing my head into my hands. My emotions are all over the place. This is just too much for me to cope with.

  I feel an arm around my shoulders and I jump at the contact. Looking up I see Chrissy, a concerned look painted on her face.

  “It’s going to be okay, Presley,” she reassures me, her hand rubbing my head.

  With tears in my eyes, I nod. “It’ll have to be, won’t it?” A sob rips through my core and the tears spill from my eyes. Chrissy pulls me closer, her arms clinging to me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. She smooth’s my hair with her hand.

  “We’ll figure this out, Presley, I promise.”

  My body trembles with sadness before Chrissy starts to hum. It takes me a second to place the tune. As the softly sung notes join together I realize she’s humming In The Ghetto and my heart breaks a little more. There’s so much meaning and so many memories attached to those words that I slowly find myself singing along with her.

  As we sing I come to a decision: no more feeling bad for myself. No more mourning the life that I’ll never get. I’m going to live each day as it comes.

  That will just have to be enough.

  A month later…

  DAYTIME HAS BECOME RELAXING for me. With nothing better to do but lie around and read, it has been the only saving grace in my crazy life. Some days I cry a lot—mostly when the visions of what Big Earl did overtake my consciousness, driving me insane. There are still days that are hard for me, but once I took a hammer to my cell phone in order to silence the endless stream of text messages from Emerson, I was able to find a little peace. There are even some good days.

  Like today.

  Reading Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poetry connects me to Emerson, without making me overly emotional.

  Celestial Love

  Love’s hearts are faithful, but not fond

  Bound for the lust, but not beyond.

  Ain’t that the sad truth.

  Chrissy enters my room and gives me a knowing look before sitting on the edge of my bed. Without a thought for what I might have been doing, she grabs the book from my hand and throws it across the room before I have the opportunity to stop her. “What the hell!” I cry, sitting forward.

  She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I don’t know why you torture yourself like that.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie. I know exactly what she’s talking about. Reading a book of poetry that Emerson gave me is probably not the best thing for me to do, but it’s all I have left of him.

  “Why don’t you just call him? Go to him? It’s obvious you miss him.”

  I shake my head. “No, I can’t.” He and I would never work out. Chrissy knows that just as well as I do. She’s living in a dream world if she thinks that the two of us could ever make it.

  “The only reason you can’t is because you’re too scared—again. You never take risks, and being with Emerson would be just that—a risk.”

  She’s right. It would be a risk. But Emerson deserves more than me. He deserves someone he can take home and be proud of. A girl who will be able to have him take her home at night; not a girl who lives in the slums of Las Vegas. Not someone who takes their clothes off for money. No, Emerson needs more than that in his life.

  Defeated, I flop back onto my bed and sigh. “Life’s not fair.”

  “The only thing that’s not fair is you not giving yourself the chance to live.” She slaps my leg before standing again. “Give Emerson the chance to decide what’s right for him. You can’t make decisions for other people, Presley. Besides, we both know you suck at it.”

  Gazing at the ceiling, I think about what I’m doing. As much as I miss Emerson, I’m smart enough to know that this is for the best.

  I lie still for what seems like hours. My muscles start to ache almost as much as my brain before I decide to make better use of my time and reach over to my nightstand to grab my iPod and headphones. Pressing the earbuds into my ears, I hop to my feet and stand in front of my full-length mirror. My music comes to life as I stare at myself; my reflection reminding me of my mother in her younger years. I remember watching her as she readied herself for work when I was younger. I’d lie on my belly, propping my head up with my hands, watching lovingly as she sang Elvis songs and painted on her make-up. That was before I really understood what she was doing. She was my whole world, and I would look on with envy as she curled her beautiful hair. My mother had been gorgeous. I’d adored her. Loved her. But that was before this life killed her.

  My long dark hair cascades over my shoulders, complimenting my petite frame, just like hers. But my eyes, the same ones that used to possess the twinkle like Momma’s, are starting to dull; the heartache and loss is starting to win. Starting to dull my soul.

  I press my fingertips to my iPod, searching for a more upbeat song, and once I find something I let my body relax and search for the confidence that I know I need. Something to keep me here. Something to keep me positive. In times of need, people always use music to lift them up, and I’m no different.

  My hips sway to the beat and I let my worries melt away. Dancing is therapeutic, and that is how I’m going to have to look at it. Dancing will be my therapy—my escape. It will be my way to express my feelings and let all the bad shit go. I have to do something or I’m going to die just like Momma. Times will be tough, but as long as I find something positive to focus on everyday perhaps it might be okay.

  The beat picks up and I twist around and lift my arms, my knees bending as I allow myself to get into it. My ass does a little shake as I spin around and jump. A smile stares back at me from the mirror and I know I’m going to be all right. Somehow, some way, I will survive this. This will not define me.

  I won’t allow it.

  EVERY DAY THAT PASSES I gain a little more confidence. It’s been a little over a month since I started at the club and I’ve practiced so much in the mirror that I’ve decided it’s time to allow Chrissy to critique me before I finally hit the stage. She is the professional, after all.

  The beat of my song floods the room and I go through the motions for her. It’s only a dry run so I keep my clothes on and she watches me closely as my hips roll and I run my hands along my body, smiling the entire time. Once the song is over, I sit down next to her on the bed. “So,” I lead.

  “So, I think that it’s awesome.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” She leans forward and hugs me. “You’re going to drive the men wild with your innocence.”

  Big Earl and the guys who run the club have let me stay back for long enough, and now they want me to start hitting the stage. Before, I would have been too nervous to even consider it, but now, thanks to Chrissy, I know without a doubt that I’m ready.

  I’ve built my dance around my personality: keeping it sweet and sensual will make me more comfortable, plus it will offset what all the other girls are doing. With each dance, I feel myself slowly coming out of my shell and into my sexuality. Despite the shitty hand I’ve been dealt, I’m doing my best to live each day as it comes, refusing to keep living in the past because it hurts too damn much. Moving forward is necessary—no matter how sad it is.

  “So, are you nervous?” Chrissy asks as we pack our bags for the club.

  I fold my lacy lingerie and place it carefully on top of my platform heels. “A little.” I sigh. “It’s going to be nerve-wracking, knowing that all eyes are on me for a change.”

  “All eyes are always on you. People are drawn to you all the time—you’re just too naive to notice.”

  Once my bag is zipped I throw it over my shoulder and force a half-hearted smile her way. “I’d be lost without you, Chris.” She falls down onto the edge of my bed and throws her head into her hands. Confused, I kneel down in front of her and place my hands on her shoulders. “Chrissy, what’s wrong?”

  She looks up at me, her mascara leaving black trails down her face, and she lets out a long deep breath. “I’m pregnant, Presley.”

  My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my god.” It’s the one thing neither of us ever wanted to happen. We’d been brought into this life against our will; we couldn’t possibly do the same to another innocent soul.

  “I know, it’s seriously fucked up.”

  “How did this happen?” It baffles me how Chrissy could be so careless. She’s always so careful—making sure she uses her diaphragm in addition to making the guys use condoms. It just doesn’t make sense.

  “I had sex with Emerson’s friend a couple of times, and I didn’t make him use protection.”

  I shake my head at her carelessness. “What are you going to do?” It seems like a silly question, but I have to ask anyway. Whatever she decides, she needs to know that I’m here for her. She’s been my rock through everything and it’s the least I can do.

  She looks up at me directly, the brokenness in her eyes as she takes a deep breath before speaking. “The only thing I can do. I can’t bring a baby into this world, Presley. I just can’t.”