CHAPTER 2 ELARA'SPOV
1260 Words
Three days had passed since they took everything.
Three days of sleeping on benches, in train stations, anywhere I could find that was relatively safe. Three days of trying to figure out how to survive with exactly forty-three dollars to my name.
I'd called every friend I had. Most didn't answer. The ones who did made excuses.
The bar where I now worked was called The Velvet Room, a dive in lower Manhattan that smelled like stale beer and broken dreams. The owner had hired me on the spot when I walked in desperate and begging. Cash only. No questions asked. Tips were mine to keep.
It was my fourth night, and I'd already learned the rules. Smile even when you don't want to. Laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Ignore wandering hands unless they go too far. And pray the tips are good enough to afford a motel room instead of another night on the street.
I wiped down the bar, my body aching from exhaustion. I hadn't eaten today. Couldn't afford to. Every dollar needed to go toward finding a place to sleep.
"Hey, sweetheart!"
I looked up. A middle-aged man in a wrinkled suit waved his empty glass at me.
"Another whiskey," he slurred.
"And make it a double."
I forced a smile and poured his drink. When I set it down, he pressed a five-dollar bill into my hand, his fingers lingering longer than necessary.
"Thank you," I said, pulling my hand away and tucking the money into my pocket.
Five dollars. Only five dollars.
At this rate, I'd be lucky to make fifty by the end of the night. Not enough for a decent motel. Maybe enough for a bed at a homeless shelter if they had space.
I kept working, serving drinks, clearing glasses, smiling until my face hurt.
Around midnight, a man sat down at the bar. I noticed him immediately because he stood out. Tall, maybe six-foot-two, with dark hair styled perfectly and wearing an expensive suit that didn't belong in a place like this.
He was handsome in an obvious way. Square jaw, broad shoulders, the kind of looks that probably got him anything he wanted.
"What can I get you?" I asked, approaching him.
He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "Whiskey."
I poured his drink and set it in front of him. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving my face.
"You're new here," he said.
"Yeah, I started a few days ago."
"What's your name?"
"Elara."
"Elara." He said it slowly, like he was tasting it.
"Beautiful name for a beautiful girl."
I'd heard variations of that line a hundred times already. I gave him my practiced smile.
"Thank you."
"You don't belong in a place like this," he continued.
"A girl like you should be somewhere better."
"Well, this is where I am." I moved to walk away, but he called me back.
"Wait. Let me buy you a drink."
"I'm working."
"Just one. Come on. You look like you could use it."
He wasn't wrong. I could definitely use a drink. But I couldn't afford to lose this job by drinking on shift.
"I can't," I said.
"But thank you."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the bar.
"You know, you have an incredible body. Has anyone ever told you that?"
My smile became more forced.
"I should get back to work."
"I'm serious. You have the body of a dancer. A performer. You ever think about dancing?"
"Not really my thing."
"I run a club," he said, pulling out a business card and sliding it across the bar. "Just across the street. High-end entertainment. Very classy. We're always looking for talented girls."
I glanced at the card. The Sapphire Lounge. Even I knew what that meant.
"You're recruiting strippers," I said flatly.
He laughed.
"Exotic dancers. Performers. And they make very good money. Much better than you're making here."
"I'm not interested."
"Don't be so quick to refuse. You could make five hundred, maybe a thousand a night. More if you're good."
Five hundred dollars. A thousand. The numbers made my heart race. That was more than I made in a week at all three of my old jobs combined.
But I knew what came with that money. I'd heard stories. Girls who started dancing and ended up doing much more for much less.
"I said I'm not interested," I repeated firmly.
The man's smile didn't fade, but something changed in his eyes. Something harder.
"Think about it," he said, finishing his drink.
"A girl like you, in your situation. You can't afford to be picky."
My blood ran cold.
"What do you know about my situation?"
"I know desperation when I see it. I know you're new to this bar. New to this neighborhood. You got that look about you. Like you're running from something."
He wasn't entirely wrong, and that scared me.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice harder now.
"And I'm not interested in your offer."
"Your loss." He stood up, pulling out his wallet. He dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the bar.
"Keep the change."
Fifty dollars. For one drink.
I stared at the money, my fingers itching to take it. That was more than I'd made all night.
"I don't need charity," I said.
"It's not charity. It's a tip. For excellent service." His eyes traveled down my body slowly, deliberately.
"And a preview of what you could be making if you were smart."
He turned to leave, but then stopped and looked back.
"You know, you really do have the perfect body for dancing. Curves in all the right places. Great legs. Men would pay a lot of money to watch you move."
My skin crawled.
"Goodbye."
But he didn't leave. Instead, he moved around the bar, coming toward me.
I stepped back.
"Sir, you need to stay on that side."
"Relax. I just want to talk."
"We already talked. I'm not interested."
He kept coming, backing me against the wall of bottles behind the bar.
"You're making a mistake," he said, his voice lower now.
"A girl in your position can't afford to turn down opportunities."
"I don't care what position I'm in. I'm not dancing at your club."
"Why not? You too good for it? You think you're better than those girls?"
"I didn't say that. I just said it's not for me."
He was too close now. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, expensive and overwhelming.
"Let me help you understand something," he said, and suddenly his hand was on my waist.
I froze.
"Don't touch me."
"You've got exactly the kind of body we're looking for." His hand slid higher, over my ribs, and then his fingers brushed against my boobs.
I reacted without thinking.
I shoved him hard, using all my strength. He stumbled backward, surprised.
Then my hand flew across his face in a slap that echoed through the entire bar.
The sound was like a gunshot.
Everything stopped.
The music seemed to fade. Conversations died. Every single person in the bar turned to stare at us.
The man pressed his hand to his cheek, his eyes wide with shock. A red mark was already forming where I'd hit him.
For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
We just stared at each other, my hand still raised, his face still registering disbelief that I'd actually hit him.
Then his expression changed. The shock melted away, replaced by something dark and dangerous.
"You just made a very big mistake," he said quietly.
- Writer
