29 Jamie
I’m barely restraining the rage boiling under the surface as I stand in the parking lot of the cheap, cash-by-the-hour place Frankie’s been calling home. The sign flickers in the morning sun, paint peeling, windows cracked, people passed out in the lot like it’s normal.
My hands clench at my sides as I take it all in, trying to process the fact that this is where she’s been living.
Christian stands next to me, silent. We haven’t really talked since yesterday- not about everything that came out, and definitely not with her- but somehow it doesn’t feel awkward.
The three of us rode the hour here comfortably.
There’s no tension, no careful avoidance, no trying to figure out what to say.
Like we can just exist without tearing it open yet.
“Just give me a sec,” Frankie says, darting into the lobby.
Like there was a chance in hell we’d let her go in there alone.
The smell hits the second we step inside- stale smoke, ammonia, cheap air freshener sprayed over the top- and my chest tightens. This is where she’s been sleeping. She ran from me and ended up here, and the thought of it makes something ugly twist in my gut.
I want to burn the place down.
“You owe me, girl. For two weeks.”
The guy behind the counter looks exactly like the kind of person who runs a place like this.
“No- only one. I paid two weeks in advance, remember?” Frankie says, digging into her purse.
She doesn’t shrink. Doesn’t back down. She handles it like it’s nothing, like this is just another conversation, and all I can think about is how many times she’s had to do this alone- little battles like this, over and over again. I’m both impressed and furious.
Christian steps up beside her, his hand settling lightly at her lower back. She looks up at him, and the guy behind the counter does too.
Christian isn’t scary-not at first glance. He’s put together. Clean-cut, glasses, neat hair, clothes that might actually be tailored. He’s taller than both Ryan and me, broad in a way that should feel imposing, but he doesn’t use it to intimidate.
He doesn’t need to.
There’s something in the way he carries himself-precise, controlled-that makes people listen.
And something in his expression that makes them back down.
“Uh… yeah. You’re right. One week.”
Frankie pulls out a few hundred dollars and sets it on the counter- way too much for this place- and we follow her to her room.
She opens the door and hesitates, ducking her head slightly. “It’s- sorry. It’s not much…”
That’s an understatement.
There’s nothing here. No life. No personality. No sign that anyone actually lives in this space. Just a bed, a dresser, a microwave and a small table with two chairs. Not even a TV. The bed is made-because of course it is- but it doesn’t make the place feel any less empty.
She lingers in the doorway, arms crossed over herself, and I force my voice to stay steady when I ask, “How long have you lived here?”
“Uh… the whole time, pretty much. I’ve moved rooms a few times. It’s quieter on the top floor, closer to the office. I’ve been working my way up there.”
Working her way up.
Jesus.
She starts emptying the drawers and pulls out a bag.
I recognize it immediately- her school backpack-and the sight hits me like a punch to the gut. It looks wrong. Out of place. A remnant from another time that doesn’t belong here.
Then again…
Neither does she.
“Do you want any of the stuff in here?” Christian calls from the bathroom. “I’m strongly encouraging you to say no and just get new stuff.”
“Yes- I’ll come get it,” she says, grabbing a tote bag. Then, sharper, “Out.”
There’s barely enough room in that bathroom for one person, let alone two.
Christian steps out without a word, brushing past me.
“This is fucked,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” Christian says quietly.
That’s it. No lecture, no attempt to fix it- just agreement.
She comes back a minute later, tote bag over her shoulder, and grabs a small stack of notebooks from the table. I pick up the backpack.
“Okay. Ready,” she says, like we’re leaving a hotel room instead of the place she’s lived for years.
It’s infuriating. Disgraceful. Fucking devastating.
“That’s it?” Christian asks.
“Uh, yup. That’s everything. Just need to stop and get my paycheck,” she says, already heading out, completely unaware that we are both vibrating with anger.
~
We drive in silence to the strip club, a low, windowless building with neon signs buzzing even in daylight. When Christian escorts her inside, I hang back, needing a second to breathe.
I’ve never been a regular at places like this, and I don’t have anything against the women who work here- hell, I’ve got no right to judge how anyone makes their money- but the thought of Frankie spending her days inside this place makes something in my stomach turn.
I swallow it down and head in after them.
The place is dim, washed in colored lights and shadows. Music hums low through the room. One girl moves slowly around a pole on stage, performing for three men who look half-asleep.
I’m convinced the saddest place on earth is a strip club in the afternoon.
“Frankie!” a woman calls. “Oh, honey- I’m so glad to see you, sugar,” she says, setting down a tray and moving toward where Frankie and Christian stand.
She’s older- early forties, maybe- with something distinctly maternal about her. Within seconds, Frankie is surrounded by girls in various states of nudity. All things considered- the lighting, the music, the sheer amount of exposed skin- it’s hard to know where to look.
So I look away, scanning the room until my eyes land on the man behind the bar-mid-fifties, gray in his beard, polishing a glass while he watches everything.
I head over to him, figuring he’s the one holding her money.
“What do you want with Frankie?” he asks, nodding at her. The way he says it- like I’m the problem- puts me on edge immediately.
“We’re taking her out of here,” I say. “Away from this shithole.”
His nostrils flare as he sets the glass down slowly.
“Who are you? And where are you taking her? I’m not letting a couple of assholes walk in here and take her. She’s sweet. She’s young- ”
That’s all it takes.
I lean across the bar before I can stop myself. “I know how old she is. I know she was seventeen when you let her start working here. I don’t know what the fuck you think- ”
“I think,” he cuts in, leaning right back toward me, “that a lost kid needed help, and I offered it. I kept her fed. I gave her a place to work.”
He straightens, eyes locked on mine.
“Ask her. No one touched her. Not once. If anyone even said something sideways to her, they were gone. We take care of our own. And Frankie is one of ours.”
He reaches under the bar and sets a gun down on the counter, calm and deliberate.
Something in me stills.
This man would shoot me. For her. Which makes me like him.
I hold my hand out across the bar.
“Thank you. For taking care of her when we couldn’t.”
He studies me for a long second, then looks past me. I follow his gaze.
Frankie’s standing next to Christian, his hand resting easy at her lower back, her body leaning into his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s smiling, relaxed, chatting with a group of girls in sequined bikinis and six-inch heels.
It’s… a weird fucking scene.
He exhales drawing my gaze back to him, then finally takes my hand, his grip firm.
“She deserves more than this place,” he says. “Probably more than you can offer her, too.”
I just grunt in agreement and he reaches behind the bar, pulls out an envelope and hands it to me.
“Her pay.”
I take it, nodding once. “She does deserve more. And I’m gonna make damn sure she gets it.”
I knock my knuckles once against the bar and turn back to her.
A line has formed- girls waiting to hug her, to say goodbye- and it couldn’t be more clear, standing in a place of fantasy and illusions, how real and breathtakingly beautiful she is.