The motel room is stuffy, despite the air conditioning that I left running while I slept. I open my eyes. Daylight soaks the room in bright yellow, thanks to the flimsy curtains that cover the west-facing window. It’s July, and the heat of the day is intense.
Hot Foxies uses one of the cheapest motels in town to house their fly-in fly-out dancers, and cheap means crap. The whole complex faces west and south, and no one has thought to plant a single tree out front, save for one straggly palm tree. I suppose for the average guest waking up in the morning, the rooms would be cool. But me, I’m coated in a thick layer of sweat.
My eyes feel as though they’re glued together and I’m stiff all over. I grab my phone to check the time, and when I see it’s four o’clock I almost roll over and go bac
