6. Clara
CLARA
Working at a strip club was never part of any plan.
But desperate times, and all that. When I walked in here last week, the owner, Bruce, took one look at me, his eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.
I told him I was willing to serve drinks and wait tables, but no way in any of the nine concentric circles of hell was I about to stand up on stage and take off my clothes.
No offense to the women who do—they’re damn good at it—but it’s just not for me.
Nobody wants to see my stretch marks, cellulite, or caesarean scar. I don’t care how drunk they are.
Reluctantly, Bruce agreed, offered me Friday and Saturday nights, handed me the most insulting uniform in existence, and told me I could start right away.
I wasn’t comfortable leaving Tom and Billie at the motel by themselves.
Tom’s a mature ten—more mature than any ten-year-old should have to be—but he’s still just ten.
He’s stayed at home with Billie before, but only for a few hours, and never at night.
But I couldn’t say no. It was either this, or…
sell my ass. And although I should probably be ashamed to admit that I absolutely would if I had to, I knew this was the safer option for all of us.
The last thing the kids need is my ass in jail.
Last weekend went smoothly. Tom had assured me that when I was gone, there’d been no issues and Billie slept peacefully the whole time.
I worked two five-hour shifts, and I made a couple hundred bucks in tips each night—enough to pay for groceries, put some money aside, and pay for another week in the motel, despite how disgusting it is.
The first thing I did was buy a mop and a bottle of bleach from the Stop and Shop and I scrubbed the hell out of the ceiling.
And although I know the mold is still there, and the place is rife with questionable people, it’s a roof over our heads, one with bars on the window and sturdy locks on the door.
I’ve been feeling a little lighter in the chest, slightly more positive, like perhaps things are starting to look up for us.
A few weeks working here, and we’d be able to get back on the road to wherever the hell it is we’re going.
Plus, it’s calving season. Whatever that is.
Maci, one of the other servers, told me that at this time of year, there are more traveling cowboys in town than locals, and they’re cashed up and ready to spend big.
And she wasn’t wrong; the tips have been coming in thick and fast. Unfortunately though, so have the pinches on my scantily clad ass. Price to pay, unfortunately.
I follow the dimly lit corridor to the dressing room for my only break of the night.
The clear plastic, six-inch platformed heels I’ve been forced to wear are killing my back, and I have a bruise on my thigh from one of the more overzealous pinchers who was deservedly tossed out on his ass quickly after becoming a little too handsy with me and Kendra, one of the other servers.
“Blondie?”
I pause at the sound of Bruce’s booming voice coming from his office. My jaw clenches tight at the nickname he’s bestowed upon me and almost every other woman who works here on account of our hair color. Turning, I stop in the open doorway.
“Clara,” I correct him.
“No personal calls at the club, y’hear?” he practically barks, not daring to look away from the small television in the corner of the room playing some baseball game on mute.
My eyebrows tug together as a low murmur of panic bubbles in my belly. “Excuse me?”
“Personal calls,” he grits out, slowly, like I’m an idiot, his gaze lifting only to spear me like daggers. “I don’t want your damn kid callin’ my club.”
My drink tray slips from my grip, falling to the floor with a loud clang. “M-my kid called?”
Bruce grunts in response.
“W-when?”
When he doesn’t grant me an answer, I storm into his office, slamming my hands down on his desk, causing his head to snap my way, his ruddy, sweat-beaded face inches from mine.
“When did my kid call?” I bite out each word, steadying him with a no-bullshit look.
“A few times,” he says with a dismissive shrug.
I place a hand against my stomach, bile burning as it rises up the back of my throat. Stumbling, I turn and bolt for the door, Bruce’s voice drowned out by the deafening thud of my very own heartbeat pounding against my ears.
Tears mixed with mascara are stinging my eyes, streaming down my face. I can barely see in front of me as I pull into the motel parking lot. Hell, I don’t even remember driving here, I’m that worked up.
When I see a big, unfamiliar truck parked out the front of our room, a sob bubbles up the back of my throat, and I’m out of my car without even shutting the damn thing off.
But as I round the truck, I’m stopped in my tracks by a fierce blue gaze that cuts through the darkness, spearing me hard and rendering me frozen.
Him.
The cowboy.
Cole…?
“W-what are you doing here?” My voice trembles with fear as I look from him to the door of our motel room and back again, my heart racing so fast it feels like it’s about to burst right through my ribs.
He just sits there on the metal seat chomping on gum, elbows resting on his knees, gaze hard as it trails up over me slowly, no doubt taking in the ridiculous stripper heels, the knee-high socks, the tiny shorts, before settling on the tank top with Meow’s emblazoned across the front in rhinestones.
He scoffs, the sound bitter and emphasizing the look of disgust that’s written all over his face. It’s a look I know well. One I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of times. A look that makes me cower because it usually results in a hard smack right across my face.
Shaking his head, Cole looks down at the ground and removes his cowboy hat, raking his fingers through his hair before rising to his full height.
“You left your fuckin’ kids here, alone,” he spits out through gritted teeth. His words are a statement, not a question.
My head clouds with fear, guilt, remorse, and panic. Gone is the carefree, slightly cocky, dimpled cowboy from last week at the Stop and Shop. Suddenly he’s taller than I remember, and so intimidating. When he takes a step closer, I swallow hard, trepidation rooting me to the spot.
“In this seedy-ass motel,” he continues, taking another step closer.
“Full of drunks, and crackheads, and fuckin’…
whores.” I don’t miss the way he looks at me as he says that last part, accusingly, and shame causes my shoulders to shrink even more.
I don’t know this man, but the way he’s looking at me, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever felt so small.
“Are… they okay?” I ask around a sob, glancing at the door again.
“I’m gonna give you one chance to tell me what the fuck is goin’ on,” he hisses. He ignores my question and closes the distance between us entirely so that he’s right there, all up in my personal space, so close I can feel his hot breath skating against my skin.
I wince instinctively, cowering away from the hand I’m so sure is about to collide with my face.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I beg, squeezing my eyes closed tight.
“Hurt you?”
I snap my head up then, taken aback by the blatant bewilderment laced in his tone, his eyes suddenly wide, face fraught with concern as he looks down at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“I-I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he says and, although I’ve heard those words more than a few times in my life, the genuine guilt and confusion in his eyes tells me he’s not lying.
I flinch again when his big hands grab me by my shoulders, firm yet gentle.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says again, his voice almost pleading.
“I-I just need to know what the hell is goin’ on so that I can…
I don’t know… fuckin’ help, or some shit.
Jesus Christ. I ain’t gonna hurt you, I swear. I would never.”
“I needed money,” I finally manage to choke out through my tears, my words small and pitiful. “We were down to our last fifty bucks, and I-I tried to get a job in town but, no one—” Wiping my nose with the back of my trembling hand, I shake my head.
I wrap my arms around myself, my whole body shuddering from my sobs and the cool night air whipping against my heated skin. With another sniffle I avert my gaze, looking down and shaking my head again.
“I have nothing. All I want is to keep my kids safe and… God, I can’t even do that right.” When the already overwhelming emotion gets the better of me, I bury my face in my hands and break down, crying so damn hard, each sob feels like it rips a piece of me away.
Suddenly, and so unexpectedly, strong arms come around me, holding me tight and stopping me from withering into a heap right here on the gravel.
“Shh,” he hushes, holding me close. “You’re okay.” Words whisper into my hair. “Your kids are fine. They sleepin’.”
I don’t know why, but that only makes me cry even harder, relief flooding through my body as my tears soak through his T-shirt.
He doesn’t budge. Still holding me in a way I haven’t ever been held before, unrelenting and almost bone-crushingly tight, like he somehow knows this is exactly what I need right now.
It’s not until after I see Tommy and Billie asleep, cuddled up next to one another in the same twin bed that my anxiety eases enough for me to finally catch a breath.
With a soft kiss to each of their cheeks, I linger a moment to breathe them in while trying so hard not to wake them before slipping into the bathroom to wash my tear-stained face.
I change out of my uniform and into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and tiptoe out of the motel room, closing the door with a soft click.
I try to avoid Cole’s intense gaze as he tracks my every move, taking a seat in the cold metal chair next to him and pulling my knees up to my chest, hugging them tight.