Chloe Wallace needs a new start. When she lands in Washington, D.C. she hopes for the best. Finding a new job, meeting new people, and living a normal life away from her abusive ex-husband.
She moves into the Capital Plaza Apartments, right across t...
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CW: Discussions of domestic violence, blowjobs, fingering, (sort of) sex in the champagne room.
chloe.
It's been two weeks since I've seen Spencer. He's called every day, but he had to return the opera tickets he bought in exchange for another date this weekend.
He said they're no closer to catching the guy, but that there haven't been any new murders.
It's kind of a blessing and a curse.
I've been trying to carry on life as normal, catching up on all the TV I missed while I was with Dean and waiting on him hand and foot, reading books, and then talking to Spencer about those books. He's gotten me into Sherlock Holmes recently, even telling me where he hid his spare key so that I could peruse his bookshelves.
On one of them, I found a book called The Narrative of John Smith with a quote written inside.
"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another." — Thomas Merton
When I asked him about it, he was honest with me.
"I loved her, and I watched her die right in front of me."
Carefully, I slid the book back on the shelf where it was safe and protected, and he promised he'd tell me more about her if I wanted to ask.
I haven't brought myself to do that yet, because he sounds so heartbroken every time he talks about her. It kills me to think that he could have been in that kind of pain, and part of me wants to shield him from it and tell him that it's going to be okay.
That he's safe with me.
So far, our most vulnerable conversations have been over the phone.
I sigh as I glance around the club. It's dead tonight, and on a Saturday, that spells bad news for my tips. I only work three nights a week, sometimes a day shift if a girl calls in sick.
Sarah's just finishing up a lap dance, the customer tucking some bills into her g-string. She gives him a peck on the cheek and strides toward me as I sip my diet soda.
"Forty bucks," she sighs, leaning up against the bar along with me. Joey, the bartender, slides her a glass of water. "I've made forty whole dollars tonight. Crystal should just cut one of us."
"You can go," I offer. "There's only two more hours left. I'll stay. Maybe I can convince Glen to let me on the pole again."
Although, the last two sets I did, I made a whole ten dollars.
The guys who are here are young frat dudes with no real money to speak of. Sarah and I have spent a lot more time at the bar tonight than actually entertaining anyone. The other girls look bored, too. Cheyenne is sitting at a table by herself, talking on the phone with her boyfriend.
