Worth Saving(3)

There’s only one light outside the building I pull up to, and it’s that way on purpose. They don’t want to bring too much attention to the place because it isn’t a well-known establishment to the tourists, and that’s the way they like it. The light comes from the red sign that’s above the entrance. Big red letters, two words. Red Pony. It’s owned by the Baxter Brothers—David and Damien—and it’s the place that has employed me for the past four years, since I was just seventeen. The things I’ve seen and done since I started working here have changed me, and not in ways I’m the most proud of. I ran away from my father’s house for so many reasons, but when I got out on my own I realized I needed money and a place to stay, of course. I was lost. No parental guidance or idea on how to be a grownup, and an incomplete education. Life was tough, and I needed to find something—anything. I ended up deciding that it’d be easiest to take advantage of the things I was born with and that I had to work the least for, so I took a look in the mirror. At five-foot-six, a hundred forty pounds, I’m what these * men would call thick. Thick is what makes girls the big bucks in Vegas, so I went on the hunt for small, quiet strip clubs that were off The Strip and got less attention from the tourists. That’s how I ran into Red Pony Gentlemen’s Club. In the beginning, I thought it was exactly what I wanted—a small club with one light on the outside that nobody really knew about. I thought I’d be good to go here. I was wrong.

I pull into the fenced in area behind Red Pony where all the employees park. It’s dark out back, and since it’s Tuesday and one-thirty in the morning, there aren’t a lot of girls working tonight so the place looks as empty as it ever gets.

Once I make my way inside, I think to just go downstairs—just get it over with—but I stop at the bar.

Red Pony is a little bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside. It’s got a couple of stages in the center, each with their own pole for girls to work up and down. There’s a few booths where the strippers can make a little extra cash giving lap dances and private dances to the guys willing to pay for it.

Then, there’s downstairs. It looks the same, but it’s different. Downstairs is where the guys with the real money go. Down there, the girls on the poles are “available.” If two guys want the same girl, she goes to the highest bidder, and he basically owns her for the night. That’s the part they failed to mention when I applied here.

“You look stressed out, honey,” I hear a sweet voice say from behind me.

I turn around and see the upstairs bartender, Marlene, standing there leaning up against the counter. Both of her arms are covered shoulder to wrist in tattoos, and she has her nose, lip, and cheeks pierced. Even with all those modifications, she’s f*cking gorgeous, and her beauty is only made more apparent by the fact that she’s an awesome person.

“You okay? You’ve got that look again,” she says, giving me a worried smile.

“I’ll be okay,” I reply. “Can I get a shot of Patron?”

She doesn’t reply verbally. Marlene just nods her head in silent acknowledgement of my plight and grabs a shot glass for me. When she hands me the drink, I don’t hesitate, not even for a millisecond. I grab the glass and toss the harsh liquor to the back of my throat, then I hand the empty glass back to her and turn on my heel. I’ve got to get downstairs so I can get this over with.

As I make my way through the nearly empty club, I don’t think about who’s downstairs, or what’ll happen when I get down there. Instead, I do what I usually do when things start to become a little too much for me to handle. It’s something I’ve done since I was a little girl, when my father would get drunk and start to take the fact that his job paid him like shit out on my six-year old face. It’s the same thing I do when I’m alone with some * who’s just paid Damien top dollar to spend the night with me. I go somewhere else. Not physically, obviously. Mentally, I just check the hell out. I go to my nirvana—a place in my mind where everything is beautiful and I have no worries at all. It’s usually somewhere where there’s a beach, like the Bahamas or Hawaii, and I sit there on my quiet beach with a drink in my hand, listening to nothing but the sound of the ocean waves crashing against each other. I adjust my sunglasses so the sun doesn’t hurt my eyes, I sip my drink, and I relax. All alone, in pure bliss, unable to be harmed by anyone or anything. In that perfect place, I’m perfectly happy.

“Maybe you should explain to me why the f*ck you’re here right now.”

Damien’s husky voice snaps me out of my quiet nirvana and back into the shitty reality that is the downstairs level of Red Pony. Even though the setup is the same down here, it feels very different from upstairs. The lights are a little dimmer, the music is a little louder, but the most obvious difference is the mood. The vibe down here is somber and filled with something that just makes you feel sad and a little anxious.

I turn around to find Damien Baxter standing there with his thick arms crossed and his head tilted to the side. His black beard is thick, and his white, bald head reflects the little light that there is in the room. His six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pound frame seems to cast a massive shadow over me and I instantly feel like I’m four feet shorter, standing in front of a man-eating giant who lives at the top of the beanstalk. His size and demeanor are intimidating, but it’s the things I know about him that scare me the most. So, I make sure to clear my throat and sound as un-threatening as possible. It’s what I always do. It’s what we all do.