“Good luck when the novelty wears off,” Lana said. “Or when you find out she’s really fifteen years old.”

  She got a glimpse of the panic on Jorge’s face before the door slammed shut behind her. That made her feel a little better.

  God, it felt good to be out of the club. She stood in the darkness, gulping in the cool night air. There were nights when the club stank like ball sweat and dirty feet. Tonight had been one of them. What the hell was the matter with her, wasting her life in a place like this? She wanted something better with the years she had left.

  Lana was contemplating whether she should hand all the money over to Dewey or skim a little to pay for the new brakes she needed when she heard shouting ahead. She squinted into the darkness. A small figure was struggling beside the open passenger side door of a sleek black Jag. Lana moved closer. It was the new girl. The driver of the Jag had her by the arm and was trying to pull her inside the car.

  Lana went into overdrive. She sprinted toward the Jag, tore the young girl away from her assailant, and began ramming the driver with the end of her duffel bag like it was a battering ram. “Get off her!” Lana screamed as she pounded at his face. “Get your filthy hands off her, you dirty-dogged perv.”

  “Stop it! Stop it,” Lana heard a deep voice beg from inside the car. Then she realized that the new girl was pulling on her arm, yelling at her to stop as well.

  “Trust me,” Lana told the girl as she continued to pummel the man in the car. “You put up with this at the beginning and it only gets worse.” She landed a solid blow on the man’s face and smiled with satisfaction. Maybe she had to live with shit like this, but she’d be damned if this girl, barely old enough to be out of high school, should have to.

  “You don’t understand,” the girl yelled as she tugged on Lana’s arm. “That’s my brother. He’s not trying to hurt me.”

  “What?” Lana froze and dropped the duffel bag to the ground. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” she said, peering into the car.

  A tall black man sat behind the wheel, staring wide-eyed at Lana. “Damn, girl,” he told her as he felt his jaw. “You ought to be on a SWAT team.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Lana begged. “Really, I’m so sorry.”

  Unexpectedly, the man flashed her a smile that Lana could feel down under. “Perhaps I should explain,” he said.

  Lana looked at the new girl for guidance, but she was too busy glaring at the driver. “I told you, Quinton,” the girl shouted at her brother. “I don’t like college. I can make way more money this way. I’m sick of you telling me what to do.”

  “Get in the car,” her brother said. “Or I will toss you in the trunk and you can ride in it all the way to Atlanta.”

  “You think just because you’re paying for my college, you can tell me what to do?” The girl shot him the bird. “You’re not my father.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lana interrupted. “Back up, buttercup. Are you telling me that your brother is paying for your college?”

  “Tuition and all expenses,” the driver called out. “For her and two other sisters.”

  Lana had heard enough. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” she asked the girl. “You really think that dancing in this rat hole is gonna get you further than a college education will? Look at you. You’re young. You’re beautiful. You even seem intelligent, although you sure as hell are not acting like it right now. And you are turning your back on an all-expenses-paid trip to college? You know what I would’ve done for that when I was your age.” Lana shook her head. She could not stand stupidity in other women, even if she had to forgive it when it came to men.

  “You may have made a boatload of money tonight,” she continued. “But honey—it does not last. Within a few days, you’re going to start noticing the creeps in the audience coming in, night after night, sitting closer and closer to you, ordering one lap dance after another. Then they’re going to start touching themselves around you. One night, they’re going to grab at you. They’ll try to stick their dirty fingers in you, whether you like it or not, and they’re gonna act surprised when you tell them to back off. They’re gonna pull out hundred-dollar bills and throw them in your face and act like you need to drop and spread right then and there for the money. That’s just a start. Pretty soon, you’ll do what they want because you will be hooked on the cash and what it can buy you.”

  She was just getting started.

  “The more you do it, the more you’re gonna hate yourself. Because when the customers get tired of you, and they will, there will always be someone new coming along, meaning you’re going to have to start doing more and more things you don’t want to do. And for what? For money you’re gonna blow on shit you don’t need in the first place? So you can party it away? So you can support some deadbeat asshole who can’t be bothered to work for a living, and why should he when he has you to pick up the slack, not that it will stop him from slapping you around and acting like he owns you because, to him, you’re just a whore to turn out.”

  The girl was staring at her, mouth open, but Lana was not finished yet. “Ten years down the road, you’re gonna be me, you understand? You’re gonna to be too old for this shit but you’re gonna have to do it, anyway. You’ll start to hate every man you meet, because of the pigs you meet here, and you’ll start to hate sex, too, because you’ll be too goddamn tired at the end of the night and just the smell of a man will make you puke. Is that what you want? You want a lifetime of that? Because I’m here to tell you—you give it six months and you won’t be so beautiful and young anymore. You’re gonna die on the inside and it’s gonna show on the outside. You think I don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  Lana was panting by the time she finished her speech. She didn’t quite understand where it had come from, but she knew that, for her, it was the god’s honest truth. Sure, she’d worked at clubs where women were proud to be dancing. Where they claimed it was a form of liberation. But it wasn’t that way for her, and it wasn’t that way for most of the women she met. It was a last resort. And this young girl, with so many possibilities in front of her, why would she throw it all away just to shake her ass in a joint like this?

  Somewhere in the middle of her speech, the girl’s brother had gotten out of the car to lean against the hood and watch Lana, his smile growing wider with every word she said. When she was done spouting off, he opened the passenger side door and gestured for his little sister to slide inside, bowing as if he were a doorman. The girl did it, too. She did not say a word. She just slipped into the front seat, buckled up, and stared out the front windshield glumly.

  “Thank you,” the man told Lana. “If I can ever return the favor, please let me know.” He took a business card from his wallet and presented it to her with another bow. She took it and stared down at the gold lettering:

  Quinton Shakespeare

  HANDYMAN

  It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

  Lana looked up at Quinton. “A handyman can afford a Jag?”

  He shrugged. “Lots of jobs need doing these days that other people don’t want to do. You may find yourself in a similar predicament. My phone number’s at the bottom. Call me if you do.”

  When he smiled at her again, Lana could feel that smile in her pelvic core, and it had been a long time since she’d felt anything down there other than itching. She nodded, running her fingers over the gold lettering, then tucked his business card into her duffel bag. “I’ll remember that,” she told him, then peered through the window of the Jag. “I don’t want to see you back here,” she told the girl. “You take what your brother’s giving you, and you make something out of it.”

  She waved as they drove away. Exactly how handy was Quinton Shakespeare? she wondered, thinking of his spectacular smile. And what exactly was he handy at?

  Lana knew Dewey was in an evil mood the moment she got home. He was piss-eyed drunk, high on meth, and ranting about being cheated as he pawed through a pile of weed spread out over the kitchen table.

  “This is bullshit,” he slurred as he emptied another quarter pound out on the tabletop. He tried to focus on what he was seeing. “Stems. Seeds. When’s the last time you saw goddamn seeds in weed? I’m gonna go get my money back.”

  Lana stared at him in contempt. “I wouldn’t plan on a cartel just yet,” she told him. “Seeing as how you can buy that shit legally with a thirty-minute drive and get better weed while you’re at it.”

  Dewey stared up at her, and she got a bad feeling. His eyes were tiny and dark, like pig eyes. No, worse: like wounded boar eyes. Mean eyes, for sure. When would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? But it was so hard not to talk back. It was the only weapon she had.

  She should have listened to her mother. That woman could spot an asshole from five miles away, if only for the purposes of dating him. Other people had moms who showed them how to put on makeup and fix their hair. Her mother had taught her how to put Visine in a man’s beer if you needed a break from him and how men always hid their extra cash in the wheel well of their cars. Too bad her mother had never explained that it was best to choose a boyfriend in your own weight class. That way, you had a chance of surviving the relationship.

  “Give me the cash,” Dewey demanded, holding his hand out. “How much did you make?”

  “Three hundred.” She was afraid to keep anything back. “It was a slow night at the club.”

  Dewey came at her so hard he knocked over his chair and sent it skittering across the floor. He grabbed her by her hair, ripping out her extensions, giving her a chance to wiggle free. Her escape did not last long. He had her in a headlock before she could run and rammed her straight into the refrigerator. It was like being hit over the head with an anvil. She went down and didn’t remember much after that, which might have been a small mercy.

  When Lana woke, it was dawn, and she was still curled up on the kitchen floor. It was hard to open her eyes. Something sticky glued her lids together. It hurt to move, but she managed to dig out the gunk, leaving red streaks across her fingertips.

  As she struggled to sit upright, she felt pain in every part of her body. Like a pilot going through a checklist before takeoff, she inventoried her injuries. Chunks of her real hair pulled out? Check. Bruises on neck and arms? Check. Dull throb from being kicked repeatedly between her legs? Check. A long gash on her torso from God knows what? Check.

  What the hell? There was a bite mark among the bruises blooming up and down her legs. She must have tried to kick herself free, and made him even madder.

  The apartment was quiet. Dewey was sleeping it off in their bedroom. She could not hear his snoring—he usually sounded like a buffalo bellowing into a bullhorn—but that was probably because the beat-down had damaged her eardrums. The silence was comforting. She laid her head back down on the linoleum and closed her eyes. She’d sleep for a few moments more.

  When she woke, the sun was shining. Her body felt as if a convoy of monster trucks had run over her. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her that there was no way she’d be able to work that night. At least the other girls might be able to make back what they lost last night, she thought, what with the new girl gone and all.

  Thinking of the new girl dislodged a memory from the night before. Had it been real? She crawled toward her duffle bag, still in the hallway where she’d dropped it, and found the business card inside. She stared at, trying to decipher what it meant. She remembered the lanky man in the thousand-dollar suit and his wide, amused smile. She remembered his hazel eyes. They had been unexpectedly kind for a player putting on a show.

  She hesitated, but knew he was her only hope. She found her cellphone in the bottom of an otherwise empty pocket of her bag—Dewy had taken the time to claim all her cash before he had stumbled to bed—and thought about it some more. But not for long. Looking at the business card again, she dialed.

  “Yeah?” His voice was harsher than she remembered. She hesitated.

  “Who is this?” Quinton Shakespeare, Handyman, demanded.

  “Lana,” she whispered, then willed herself to get a grip. “From last night. With your sister.”

  “What’s the matter?” Quinton asked, his voice softening. “You sound like you’ve got a mouthful of cotton.”

  “Did you get your sister back to college?” she asked, stalling for time.

  “Yeah. Took all night to get there and back, but I don’t think she’s going to run again. Thanks to you.”

  Lana should have protested it was nothing. She’d only told his sister the truth, but her jaw did not work much better than her brain. “I need help,” was all she could manage to say. “I got a job I need you to do.”

  “Where are you?” he asked. “I can come to you.”

  Lana thought of Dewey, still passed out in the bedroom, and knew that would be a very bad idea. “I better meet you somewhere,” she told him. “But not any place public. You’ll understand when you see me.”

  There was silence on the other end. “I understand now,” he finally said. “How about right where we said goodbye?”

  “Okay,” Lana agreed. The club parking lot would be deserted this early in the morning. “I’ll look for your car.”

  She did her best to look human, but there wasn’t enough concealer in the world to do the job right. When she slid into the front seat of Quinton Shakespeare’s car, sunglasses covering her two black eyes, Lana flashed on what she must look like to him and her shame overwhelmed her. She had let someone do this to her. She buried her face in her hands and wept.

  “Lana,” Quinton said quietly. “I brought you coffee and doughnuts. Eat, and then we’ll talk.”

  His kindness only made her cry harder, but she got herself under control a few minutes later. He was waiting patiently, sipping on his coffee. When she finally looked up, he handed her a cup just the way she liked it, lots of cream and sugar, then opened the box of doughnuts and presented them to her as if he were a maître d’. “I got four kinds,” he told her. “I wasn’t sure which one you’d like best.”

  If she wasn’t so damn hungry, Lana would have started crying again. Instead, she chose a plain doughnut, finished it in four bites, then reached for one stuffed with jelly. “I forgot to eat last night and this morning,” she mumbled. Something was off in her mouth. She explored with her tongue. She was missing a tooth. It was probably lying on her kitchen floor.

  “Tell me what happened,” Quinton said. His voice was calm. She told him, and when she was done, he waited a moment before he spoke again. “How long you been with him?”

  “Three years,” she said. “He wasn’t like this in the beginning.”

  “They never are. Have you tried to leave before?”

  She nodded. “Twice. He always finds me. The first time, he dragged me out of the nail salon when I still had four acrylics to go. The second time, he found me at the shelter and when I walked out of it that day, he had my little sister sitting beside him in the front seat of his truck. She had no idea. His smile was so wide and innocent it was like he was picking me up from church. I got the message. I went back home with him.”

  Quentin nodded like he understood. “Did you fight back last night?”

  “Not much use trying to fight Dewey off. He’s at least twice as big as I am.” She looked down at her battered body. “You should see me when I do try to fight back. It’s not worth it.”

  “Cops?”

  She shook her head. “They think I’m a whore, plus Dewey played football in high school with a couple of them.”

  “Why don’t you just walk away?” Quinton asked, studying her face carefully.

  She looked up at him and the answer came to her like it had been channeled straight from her soul. “Because he said he’d kill me if I did—and I believe him.”

  “Okay,” Quinton said, nodding as if she had passed some sort of test. He held out the box of doughnuts again. “I can help. Here, have another doughnut.”

  “How much will it cost?” Lana asked fearfully. She had exactly $800 hidden in one of her boots in the back of her closet.

  “This one’s on me,” Quinton said. He pretended not to notice when she began to cry again. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

  When he was done explaining, he made her repeat his instructions. She nailed it, word-for-word. “Go to the hospital,” she said. “If I need to, let people go in front of me in the emergency room until at least an hour has passed. Tell my story slowly. Ask for a rape kit. If it looks like they’re going to cut me loose in less than four hours, pretend to faint and stay unconscious until they give me a room and keep me overnight.”

  “Good,” Quinton said. “That will cover you during the critical time frame. Now, let me have your apartment key and give me your address.”

  Lana started crying again as she pried her door key from its chain and sobbed out her address. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I know you don’t know me, but—”

  He cut her off. “I owe you one, remember? Just do what I say, then meet me at the Denny’s out on Highway 55 in four days. Same time as today. You can buy me breakfast.”

  Something stirred inside her. Hope? Something even better than hope? Lana stared out at the sunshine and blue skies of a new day. Maybe this time, she thought. Maybe this time.

  “What the fuck?” Dewey was still half asleep. He felt something cold pressed against his temple and tried to swat it away. That goddamn Lana never quit, did she?

  “Get up,” an unfamiliar voice ordered him. Something hard poked him in the belly.

  Dewey opened his eyes. He was hallucinating. Some tall Black dude in a suit was standing over him. Dewey closed his eyes, waited a moment, then opened them again. The man was still there.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Dewey asked. His voice betrayed him by cracking.

  “Get up,” the man ordered him again.