A Hand of Spades

Chapter 1. Bottom of the Barrel

I don't know what day it is.

The realization strikes me somewhere after my second energy drink and my third time on stage. I know it's after midnight, because the gum I started chewing the last time I checked the clock - eleven-thirty - went stale ages ago. I swipe a hand across my sweat-slicked forehead.

It feels like I'm forgetting something.

Time has a way of speeding by when you're supposed to be paying attention; when you're supposed to remember something. Around Throckmorton County, entire months slip away from you. The weeks are too similar, too monotonous, to tell them apart. Nights at the Stella are practically identical. It's the only strip club around for miles, and every night is a sad parade of the same men.

The girl behind the bar is newer, she mostly keeps to herself. Karli? Candy? I'd ask her what day it is, except she's already working on the drink order for my table and she doesn't look happy about it. I've caught sharp sideways glances from her a few times tonight for drumming my fingers impatiently against the bar top. I can't help that I'm antsy. I want to get the fuck out of here. She rakes her glossy black ponytail behind her shoulder, sets six jack and cokes on a tray and slides it in my direction without any acknowledgement.

I thank her over the music and head back towards the table of drunk college boys. I'm ten feet away from them when the smell of Hugo Boss cologne hits me in a cloud. I hold my breath as I approach, plastering on a flirtatious grin. Still, I can't complain. They've tipped well, hardly groped at me in favour of angling for any information on Cherry, and they seem as though they'll be here until last call, making them the ideal customers.

"Babe," one of them - their blonde ringleader decked out in a pink Ralph Lauren polo - gestures for me to lean closer, "you have to get us the redhead's number. Please."

My eyes flick to the stage, where Cherry's curvy form is spinning expertly around the pole to Def Leppard's 'Pour Some Sugar on Me'. It's her go-to track to dance to. She calls it her 'money song' and it's clear why. Blue collar country boys go nuts for it. They start worshiping at Cherry's feet like she's an American flag up on that pole.

It's hard not to be envious while she's up there. Cherry moves like a professional dancer, and she's got the perfect body for this work. I'm wearing the most aggressive push up bra I own, and I'm practically invisible to the table of boys. She spins elegantly, blowing a kiss in my direction. The frat boys think it's for them, and they practically launch themselves over the table.

I shake off my jealousy and shoot her a grin as she lands in a split at the base of the pole. I nod towards my table so she knows to come collect their cash. The girls at the Stella all look out for each other, and there's a chance Cherry could make some good tip money off these guys.

I lean over the ringleader, putting on a conspiratory grin. "Tell you what honey, I'll talk to her for you, okay?"

I know full well that Cherry is a married woman, but these college boys with their designer golf shirts and their family's money can find that out after they've opened their wallets for her. The ringleader nods eagerly, his slightly off-focus eyes zeroing back in on the stage.

I'm killing it tonight, spinning around tables like I'm on wheels. I've maybe made Cherry a bit of extra cash, and I'm keeping the Stella tidy enough - as clean as this place can get, anyways - that we could get out of here at a reasonable hour for once.

If it weren't for the nagging sensation that I'm forgetting something vital, I'd be floating on air.

As if on cue, the door of the Stella opens and Hoyt strolls through, looking the part of strip club owner. He clocks me, his palm tree patterned dress shirt buttoned alarmingly low, and his lips curve upwards into a languid and sinister grin; a predatory warning.