Million Dollar Devil

3.

The neon lights are a deep shade of purple tonight, reflecting off the tiny silver outfits worn by our female servers. The sound of bartenders shaking drinks and drunken laughter echoes in the corners of the room. The stage is littered with dollar bills and scattered glitter. The music bumps as I dance on the stage, beads of sweat dripping down my chest.

The man in the front row looks at me like I'm a medium rare ribeye he's just waiting to devour. His eyes are fixed on me like I'm the only person in the room, maybe even the world. I move my hips to the beat as I run my hands through my hair. The toxic part of me craves that stare, craves that feeling. Though I know it's nothing more than lust, sometimes I don't mind. The twisted part of me wants him to leave tonight and think about me. Though every day I dream of leaving this godforsaken establishment, there's a part of me I can't deny that sometimes thrives off the attention, a momentary power trip.

"Lily, private party in room three. No lap, just pole," Alex yells at me from across the bar. His gold manager name tag is scuffed and chipped from years of not giving a fuck. His greasy black hair is almost as slimy as his personality. I give the front row man a side-eye bedroom stare before batting my lashes and walking off the stage.

Lilacs is not a bottom-tier club by any means. In fact, there are many nights where we service high-class clientele. But private parties are and always have been my least favorite. Lap parties require lap dances, especially close contact with strange horny men who think they have a right to your body because they slip $3 in your push-up bra. Pole parties, on the other hand, are a bit better. I'm more of a side entertainment than the center of attention. The men talk, usually about business, and I mind my own business and dance on the platform in the center of the room.

But tonight, I don't mind the private party at all. In fact, time seems to move faster. With no one bothering me, hooting and hollering or trying to grab my ass, I just dance. I let the silly men have their silly conversations, and I just let the clock tick. With every minute that passes, I know I am one minute closer to finding out my fate with AKMO. Every minute I get a little closer to the chance that this might be my last dance, that these assholes might never see me again. Next time, they will come in and ask for Lillian, and filthy Alex will say, "She doesn't work here anymore."

Around 3am I begin to pack my things in for the night. I refresh my email on my phone a good four to five times before accepting that there is nothing of any importance in my inbox. Turning the keys in my ignition, I peel out of the parking lot, cranking the car heater.

As I walk through my front door, I am greeted with frigid air and a broken heater. Yet another casualty of my dilapidated apartment and distant corporate landlord. Pulling out my laptop, I begin to draft yet another email to the apartment complex:

Hello,

I am the resident of Apartment B15 - the air conditioning is still broken (as it has been for four months) and today I come home to find the heater has also gone out in the middle of winter. Please send maintenance as soon as you can. Thank you.

Lillian Wright

I slam my laptop shut before bundling up in a warm winter coat and settling in on the tattered couch with a microwaveable mac n' cheese meal. As I watch a What Not to Wear re-run episode, I feel my eyes begin to flutter closed as I drift to sleep.

Ding!

The sound of my email alert jolts me awake. I reluctantly reach to the side, grabbing my phone off the side table. 4:55AM, are you fucking kidding me. Who sends an email that early? Then I read the title: Executive Assistant Position - AKMO Inc. Kyle Jennings, of course Kyle Jennings is working at 4:55am. That checks out for sure.