Chapter 1 - Elise
Elise
The Texas sun hammered down like it had a personal vendetta, searing every inch of skin it could find. My tiny house creaked and groaned behind my truck as I pulled into the camping ground. A dust cloud marked my grand entrance. I killed the engine and let out a breath.
“Welcome to your new home, Elise,” I muttered to myself, stepping out into the heat that hit me like a wall. The RV park was a collection of makeshift homes and travel-worn RVs. All baking under the same relentless sky.
I found a spot between a retro Winnebago and a monstrous fifth wheel that had seen better days. The ground was hard, packed dirt with patches of stubborn grass clinging to life. I set up shop, my home looking almost toy-like in comparison to its neighbors.
The first order of business was hooking up power and water. Sweat trickled down my back as I worked, cursing softly when the hose sprayed me in the face. It was then that an old-timer from two spots over wandered up, his face as creased as a road map.
“Need a hand there, missy?” he offered, tipping his hat back.
“I got it, thanks,” I said with a forced smile. “Just part of the charm of tiny house living.”
He chuckled, revealing a picket fence of teeth. “Well if you need anything, name’s Earl.”
“Thanks Earl… I keep that in mind…”
With Earl’s departure, I finished setting up camp and took a moment to admire my little corner of the world. My tiny house was more than just a shelter; it was my sanctuary on wheels. But sentimentality wasn’t going to pay for gas or my next meal. It was time to hunt down some cash flow.
The House of Texas Restaurant and Bar loomed before me like a temple dedicated to excess and oil money. Its neon sign flickered with the promise of cheap thrills and expensive mistakes. I could practically smell the mix of cologne and desperation from the parking lot.
I strode in like I owned the place—fake it till you make it, right? The interior was all dark wood and leather. Dimly lit except for the stage. Where some country singer wailed about lost love and pickup trucks.
A woman with teased hair big enough to have its own zip code approached me with a clipboard in hand.
“You here for the waitress gig?” she asked without preamble.
“That’s right,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
She looked me up and down as if trying to decide whether I’d melt under pressure or not. “Follow me.”
We weaved through tables filled with oil-stained suits and ties. Loosened just enough to say ‘I’m off duty but still important.’ She led me behind the bar where glasses clinked in harmony with laughter and shouted orders.
“This is where you’ll be working,” she said, motioning to the chaos around us. “Think you can handle it?”
I stretched my shoulders. “I’ve handled worse.”
She gave me an appraising look before nodding slowly. “Alright then, Elise—was it?”
“Name is Elise but everybody calls me Elsie!”
“You start tomorrow night. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back as she walked away.
Alone again in the crowd, I leaned against the bar and let out a breath. Tomorrow night couldn’t come fast enough; this story wasn’t going to investigate itself.
But that story hinged on Nicholas Strickler. The man who probably knew more about that damn oil spill. More than anyone else in this glittering den of debauchery. Nick Strickler, CEO by day, playboy by night, if rumors held any weight. His family’s company had their sticky fingerprints all over this disaster. But proving it was another story altogether.
I’d need to get close to him if I wanted answers. The kind that couldn’t be sugar-coated by PR teams or buried under legal jargon. And something told me getting close to Nick Strickler wouldn’t be too hard for someone who knows the game.
With one last look at the pandemonium that would soon be my nightly battleground. I turned around and marched out into the night. Ready for whatever this godforsaken place had in store for me.
My first night at House of Texas Restaurant and Bar, and I’m thrown to the wolves—or more precisely, to the sharks in suits. They sit there, all smug and slick, in one of those VIP rooms that reek of money and whiskey. It’s a small herd of them, but there’s one bull who stands out from the rest—Nicholas Strickler.
The moment I lay eyes on him, my gut twists. He’s got this air about him like he owns more than just oil fields—like he’s bought and sold souls on the side for fun. But he’s part of the reason I’m here. Slinging drinks in a bar when I should be out there. Holding bastards like him accountable for their environmental screw-ups.
I balance the tray on my hand as I walk in, all eyes on me. They appraise me like I’m a new car model, not a person. And Nick? He’s got this smirk that could curdle milk.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I say with practiced charm, setting down drinks with a steady hand. “What can I get you?”
Nick leans back in his chair, eyeing me like I’m the special on tonight’s menu. “How about your name, darling?”
I bristle at ‘darling’ but plaster on a smile. “Name is Elise but everybody calls me Elsie,” I answered.
“Elsie,” he repeats, rolling my name around his mouth like it’s a fine bourbon. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady. But I think I prefer Elise.”
Cringe. That line’s older than the fossils his company pumps out of the ground.
“I’m Nick,” he says unnecessarily because everyone in Texas knows who Nick Strickler is.
“Pleasure,” I lie through my teeth.
His gray eyes trail over me; it’s predatory, calculating. He’s not used to being denied anything—I can tell. But he doesn’t know Elise Turner doesn’t play that game.
“What brings a girl like you to a place like this?” he asks, and it’s not innocent curiosity—it’s him laying down bait.
“Just paying the bills,” I say flatly, shifting my weight to one hip.
Nick chuckles—a low sound that has nothing warm about it. “I can think of better ways for you to do that.”
His buddies snicker and elbow each other like we’re in some high school locker room instead of a high-end bar. My skin crawls with revulsion but my face remains an impassive mask.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say dryly. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
But Nick isn’t done with me yet; guys like him never are until they get what they want—or get told off.
“Hey Elise,” he calls as I start to walk away. “You sure you don’t want to sit down? Join us for a drink?”
The insinuation is clear as day and twice as filthy. My back stiffens; it’s been a long time since someone made my blood boil quite like this guy does without even trying.
“I’m working,” I say coldly without turning around.
There’s a beat of silence before Nick speaks again. His voice edged with amusement—and something else that sets my teeth on edge.
“Come on now, don’t be like that,” he says. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”
I whirl around then because damn it all. If I’m going to let this over-privileged oil tycoon think he can sweet-talk me into submission.
“Listen here, Nick.” My voice is low but sharp enough to cut glass. “Your idea of ‘friendly’ is nothing but slimy at best.”
His buddies are silent now; even they seem to sense that their leader has met his match.
Nick’s expression hardens for a fraction of a second before that infuriating smirk is back in place.
“You’ve got spirit,” he says approvingly as if I’m some wild horse he’s considering breaking in. “I like that.”
“Well don’t,” I shoot back with all the venom I can muster. “Because it doesn’t mean squat to you.”
His eyes flash—a brief glint of something dangerous. But then he leans back once more and waves his hand dismissively.
“All right then, Elise.” The way he says my name feels like an insult now. “Just drinks for us tonight.”
I nod curtly and turn away from them again, feeling their eyes bore into my back as I make my escape from the VIP room.
Outside the sanctuary of that dim-lit den of vipers. My heart pounds against my ribs like it wants out. Like it can’t stand being in the same building as Nick Strickler and his cronies any more than I can. But this is just round one. And if there’s one thing Elise Turner knows how to do, it’s fight until the bitter end. Even if she has to serve whiskey sours with a side of fake smiles along the way.
The rest of the night passed slowly. In a blur of orders and empty pleasantries exchanged with customers who see me as part waitress. Part entertainment. But through it all, Nick’s gray eyes haunt me. Taunting me from across the room where he holds court like some damn king on his throne made of dirty money and lies.
It isn’t until they leave. Nick tossing a hundred-dollar bill onto the table like it’s nothing—that I let myself breathe again fully. The money felt tainted. But I take it anyway because principles will not put gas in my truck or food on my plate no matter how much I wish it did.
As I wiped down tables long after they’d gone. And the last stragglers stumble out into the night air thick with regret and cigarette smoke. Something settles heavily in my chest. An amalgamation of anger and determination with an aftertaste of disgust. Because tomorrow night I would do it all over again. And who knows what round two will bring when it comes to Nicholas Strickler.
