Page 32 of Angels Fall

Pete laughs. It’s a nice laugh. I kinda like Pete. He’s not a bad dude as far as strip-club owners go. He runs a tight ship. Respects us. Pays us on time. Always remains calm when the girls complain, and never lets anyone harass us. Unless it’s Tyler Morgan, but I can’t fault Pete for falling for Tyler’s charm. He’s just kinda… charming like that.

And hey, if you’ve gotta sell your sexy for a living, you really can’t ask for a better place than Pete’s. I’ve heard stories from some of the other morning girls. They’ve got loads of stories about the skanky places they’ve worked before landing here. They’re like… bottom of the barrel, if ya know what I mean.

Which doesn’t say a lot about me.

“I can pay you for managing, but it’s not gonna get you out from under what you owe Carlos. I’m sorry. I wish I could. But I can’t.”

“I know. I get it. But still… how much?”

He thinks and then he says, “Three grand more a month.”

“Three…?” I ask, deflating. “I was hoping for a little more than that.”

“I know, but that’s the best I can do, Maddie. I don’t really need a morning manager. I could just tell Otis to do shit and he would. And besides, you’ll be managing a strip club in the morning, not running a hedge fund. Sorry, kid.”

I can’t even begin to hide the look of abject disappointment on my face. But then again, he’s right. I don’t know what I was expecting.

“Good enough. Thanks, Pete. I appreciate it.” I force a smile and start off.

“Madison?” God, I hate it that he calls me that here. I turn back yet again. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m really not. Just… Tyler. At first I thought he was a psycho, and then when he poured his heart out, I changed my mind. And then I changed my mind back to psycho, because, well, he is. But let’s face it. Guys do dumb shit when they fall in love. And an in-love-with-you-psycho is better than a psycho who ain’t on your side.”

“He’s not in love with me—”

Pete holds one finger up in the air. So I shut up.

“I’ve seen what I’ve seen, and I know what I know, and guys don’t do crazy shit like coming up to randomly talk to a woman’s boss for advice on how to win her back unless they’ve got it bad.” He presses his lips together and suddenly looks older than I normally think of him. “So I’m just saying to ya… You don’t always get a second chance to make things right. When you’re young and haven’t fucked your life up so bad it can’t be fixed yet, you think there’s always a next time. Well, there isn’t always. Read me?”

He stares at me for a few uncomfortable seconds. I shift my feet and sigh. I have to force myself not to wring my hands under his steadfast gaze.

“You read me?”

I nod, feeling unexpectedly chastised, even though I did get what I wanted when I came up here.

“OK,” he says. “So fine. You’re the new morning manager. Go ahead and get to work.”

I turn and walk to the door. This time I make it all the way out, half-hoping that I’ll wake up and discover it’s all a dream. But I don’t. Because it isn’t. Dreams are for people who still have hope.

I head downstairs, everything he said to me echoing in my head, and go into the dressing room to change.

Is it pathetic or ironic that my new costume is a devil?

I can’t decide. So I just put it on. At least I don’t have to wear a wig anymore. My flaming-red hair is quite perfect for this ensemble.

Candy comes into the dressing room, huffing air like she just ran a marathon. “Jesus Christ,” she says. “I hustled hard out there just now, Scarlett. You saw me, right? And I made forty dollars! Forty! I can’t even pay my sitter with this!”

I don’t know what to say to that. It’s sad. I’m sad.

So I just pull up my tacky red thigh-highs and attach them to my new black garter belt, and accept my life for what it is.

A goddamned disappointment.

There’s no DJ in the mornings, just a music track, and I hear the intro music that signals the next act—which is me. So I slip my feet into the six-inch stripper shoes, force my eyes to meet my gaze in the mirror, and say, “Fuck it.”

“Hey,” Jerry says. He’s the day bouncer until Drake gets in later.

“I’m late for the stage,” I say, picking up my pitchfork as I slip past him in the doorway. I got it last week at Tractor Supply. It’s real and everything. I painted it red. Usually I do this sexy little dance around it while I’m on stage. But right now I feel like stabbing someone with it.

“I just—” Jerry calls.