Filthy Wicked Psychos: Complete Series

Chapter 1

WILLOW

“You haven’t paid the remainder of this semester’s tuition,” the man behind the desk says flatly. “If you don’t pay it soon, your enrollment will lapse.”

Around us, the sounds of the Wayne State University administration office seem to fade into the background, and I twist my hands together in my lap as nerves chew at my insides.

Fuck. I knew this was coming. The moment I opened the email with the subject line TUITION REMITTANCE DUE from the admin office this morning, my stomach dropped like a rock.

I’ve been scraping by on a few small scholarships I’ve pieced together, but one of them fell through last week, and I haven’t been able to cover the difference.

“I know,” I say, my fingers tightening around each other. “I had a scholarship lined up, but it didn’t work out. Are there any other scholarships I could apply for?”

I try really hard not to sound like I’m begging, but it’s difficult to keep the desperate edge out of my voice.

The idea of getting kicked out of college makes me feel sick. I’m twenty-two years old and only a sophomore, which makes me older than all the other students in my year. I’ve been behind since I got here, and if I get kicked out because I can’t pay, I’ll have to start all over again somewhere else.

The only way I can ever make something of myself and get out of the shitty world I was born into is to get an education. I have to make something better for myself, and that means I can’t lose this chance.

I can’t lose my place here.

“First and last name?” the man drones.

“Willow Hayes,” I say, biting back the urge to remind him that he just said my name a few minutes ago when he called me up to his desk. It’s clear he’s already annoyed about having to meet with me, and I don’t want to piss him off any more.

He sighs heavily and starts typing, his fingers flying across his keyboard. It seems to take him forever to go through my records, and when he looks up again, his expression is even more dismissive than before, if that’s possible.

“Ah. I see here that you didn’t come to us with a high school diploma.” He purses his lips. “Just your GED, which you got at an… advanced age.”

My lips press together as I fight to keep my expression neutral. Twenty isn’t even that far off from when most people get their high school diplomas, and calling it an ‘advanced age’ makes me sound like I’m a grandma or something.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I confirm.

“Unfortunately, that means other scholarships are pretty much off the table. The deadlines for the ones you might’ve been eligible for have already passed. Sorry.”

The condescension in his voice sets my teeth on edge.

There are a lot of things I could tell him about why I only got a GED instead of an actual diploma—like how I had to work all through high school before finally dropping out, or how my adoptive mother pulled me out of school so often when I was growing up that I barely had time to learn anything anyway.

But none of that would really matter to him, so I don’t even bother.

“I’ll figure something out,” I promise instead. “I’ll pay the rest of my tuition out of pocket if I have to. I just need a little more time to get the money.”

“Right.” He types a note into his computer, sounding skeptical. “I can give you until the end of next week to remit the payment. But after that, your enrollment will lapse.”

I nod, swallowing hard.

It’s not much time, and it’s a pretty big chunk of money. But I meant what I told him. I’ll figure something out.

“Next!” the man calls, looking over my shoulder as he gestures for another student to step forward. I take that as the dismissal it is and leave the office with my head buzzing and my stomach twisted into a knot.

I feel like shit, but at least the school day is over, so I don’t have to sit in any more classes right now.

I keep my head down as I walk across campus, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone who’s hanging around.

I don’t feel like dealing with April Simms and her cadre of bitches right now, because if they start to torment me the way they usually do, I might just lose it.

Luckily, I don’t run into them as I head to the bus stop at the edge of campus, and I manage to get there right as the bus pulls up. My first lucky break of the damned day.

I throw myself onto the worn seat and heave a sigh, closing my eyes for a second to try to shake off the heavy feeling that’s weighing me down.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

Leaning my head against the window, I let the rumble and rattle of the bus vibrate through my body as the driver navigates slowly through the streets of Detroit. Several stops later, I get off the bus and walk the three blocks to the strip club where I work as a cocktail waitress.

Sapphire is one of many strip clubs in this part of Detroit, and I’ve worked here for the past two years, fitting in shifts as often as I can around my school schedule.

I didn’t even have time to go home between classes and work, and I heft my school bag higher on my shoulder as I make my way toward the back room.

It’s late afternoon, so the club isn’t busy yet. Just the regulars are here now, sitting at the bar or close to the stage, already half wasted and lazily ogling the lineup of second string dancers gyrating on the stage.

They’re the saddest customers we get in here, the ones who are down on their luck or cheating on a spouse or just so out of it that they come here just to feel something while everyone else is still at work.

After slipping into the bathroom, I change from my street clothes into my waitress uniform—a skimpy dress that rides high on my thighs and dips low in the front. My wavy hair tumbles over my shoulders as I tug at the hem of the dress, adjusting it a little the way I always do.

Still, no matter how much I tug at the fabric of the dress, the burn scars on my right arm, my right thigh, and my left leg are all still visible, although the ones that cover a portion of my ribs and back are hidden.

They’re long healed by now, but the scarred flesh is still ugly and gnarled, and in the florescent light of the bathroom, the marks look even worse.

My soft blonde hair, delicate features, and light brown eyes might be considered striking on someone else, but I’m pretty sure the scars are all anyone ever sees when they look at me.

“It doesn’t matter, Willow,” I remind myself, whispering the words to my reflection. “Everyone here is looking at the dancers anyway.”

I take a deep breath and pull the skirt of the dress down as far as it will go, then slip out of the bathroom so I can get to work. The tables are starting to fill up, and I make my rounds on autopilot, my mind still buzzing with the ultimatum I got earlier.

I have to figure out a way to pay the rest of this semester’s tuition, or I’ll lose my enrollment.

Someone wolf whistles, the sound cutting over the hum of conversation and the beat of the music. I turn to see one of the dancers finishing her set, winking at the crowd and gathering her tips before she sashays her way off the stage.

Fuck, if only I could do that.

The dancers probably make ten times what I do.

Even the ones who aren’t as popular usually leave with stacks of cash by the end of the night.

The patrons should technically tip me for serving them drinks, but most of them save their bills to throw at the dancers or tuck into their g-strings, so I don’t make much more than the hourly wage Carl pays me.

As I drop off a tray of drinks at a table in the back, that thought sticks in my brain, and I chew my lip as a wild, insane idea pops into my head.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I set down my empty tray by the bar and then head to the back of the club to my boss’s office, drawing in a deep breath.

The door is cracked, and I peek my head in to see him sitting behind his desk, watching a live feed from the floor of the club. Checking out the dancers, probably.

“Um, Carl?” I ask, knocking on the door frame. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

His eyes snap to me as I open the door wider, immediately flaring with irritation.

Carl Gleason runs Sapphire, and there’s never been any need to question why he runs a strip club, considering how ‘friendly’ he tends to get with the dancers and the fact that he always has a live feed of the stage up on his computer screen.

It’s just a step away from him lurking behind in the dressing room like a full-on peeping tom, and I don’t even want to think about what he does back here in his office where no one can see him.

“Willow,” he greets me, already sounding irritated. “What do you want?”

My stomach tightens, my skin prickling with nerves, but I lift my chin and dive right in.

“I wanted to ask about maybe… starting to strip. I need the money.”

That definitely catches his attention, his eyebrows shooting up toward his receding hairline.

His gaze runs up and down my body, and there’s something dismissive and gross about it all at once.

I can feel him taking in both every curve and every scar, and I fight the urge to try to cover myself up even more.

Finally, he shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says, his eyes lingering on the visible patches of scars.

“You’ve got an okay figure, but no one wants to see that shit.

The men who come here are already trying to get away from the ugly, nagging bitches they married, so they want to watch beautiful girls shake what they’ve got up onstage.

Not see something out of a circus sideshow. ”

My jaw clenches, and I have to swallow hard. His words are harsh, and they sting at the same time they piss me off. But I can’t afford to snap at him and risk losing this job. That would just make everything worse.