Million Dollar Devil

3.

The neon lights were shades of purple tonight, they reflected off the tiny silver outfits worn by our female servers. The sound of bartenders shaking drinks and drunken laughter echoed in the corners of the room. The stage was littered with dollar bills and residue glitter. The music bumped as I danced on the stage, beads of sweat dripping down my chest.

The man in the front row looked at me like I was a medium rare ribeye he was just waiting to devour. His eyes were fixed on me like I was the only person in the room, maybe even the world. I moved my hips to the beat and ran my hands through my hair. The toxic part of me craved that stare, craved that feeling. Though I knew it was nothing more than lust, sometimes I didn't mind. The twisted part of me wanted him to leave tonight and think about me. Though everyday I dreamt of leaving this godforsaken establishment, there was a part of me I couldn't deny that sometimes I thrived off the attention, a momentary power trip.

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

Lilacs was not a bottom tier club by any means, in fact, there were many nights where we serviced high class clientele. But private parties were and are never my favorite. Lap parties require lap dances, especially close contact to strange horny men who think they have a right to your body because they slipped $3 in your push-up bra. Pole parties on the other hand were a bit better, I was more of a side entertainment then the center of attention. The men would talk, usually about business, and I would mind my own business and dance on the platform in the center of the room.

But tonight, I didn't mind the private party at all. In fact, time moved faster. With no one bothering me, hooting and hollering or trying to grab my ass, I could just dance. I let the silly men have their silly conversations, and I danced as the clock ticked. With every minute that passed, I knew I was one minute closer to finding out my fate with AKMO. Every minute I got a little closer to the chance that this might be my last dance, that these assholes might never see me again. Next time, they would come in and ask for Lillian, filthy Alex would say, "she doesn't work here anymore."

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

As I walked through my front door, I was greeted with frigid air and a broken heater. Yet another casualty of my dilapidated apartment and distant corporate landlord. Pulling out my laptop I began 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 came 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 slammed 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 watched a What Not to Wear re-run episode I felt my eyes begin to flutter closed as I drifted to sleep.

Ding!

The sound of my email alert jolted me awake. I reluctantly reached to the side, grabbing my phone of the side table. 4:55AM, are you fucking kidding me. Who sends and 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.