One Simple Word

Colleges wanted me.

Colleges actually wanted me.

Depaul University wanted me.

Me, of all people. A bland nobody from a small town with shit taste in men. I make bad decisions and the one decision that could have changed my entire future……I threw it all away.

What sane person throws away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity like that?

Hi! I’m the insane idiot who practically got engaged right out of high school to a boyfriend I’d barely been dating, and two years later – BOOM! I was married.

Eight years. For eight fucking years, I was married to a man who controlled, manipulated, and abused me. I could answer all the questions why I stayed as long as I did, but my answers won’t be met with open and understanding ears. People already have their minds and judgments made up when it comes to me and my moronic lack of judgment. It’s easy to do when your hometown is essentially run and bullied by the very family you married into.

The Becketts.

I was Mrs. Beckett for eight terrifying years. It wasn’t all bad. Not at first, but I call those years the honeymoon phase with significant clues to what was to come.

My mom tried to warn me before I even said, ‘I do,’ and Claire, my best friend who is more like a sister, was there when I needed her the most. I know Claire, and it took everything in her to keep her opinions to herself when it came to my marriage to Robert Beckett. She risked her career one too many times for my safety. When I told her I had had enough and wanted out, she blew her way through the front door and got me. Even called in a favor to one of her law professors, who, in return, got me one of the best divorce attorneys in the state of Illinois.

I was finally able to break free, and I flew far, far away from Kinder, with the goal of keeping my past buried. If I don’t make any noise, Robert and the entire Beckett family will leave me alone.

I have no interest in going back home. Actually, I haven’t been home in almost two years. Even to visit. My mom and Uncle have come up here to see Claire and me. They always claim they don’t mind making the four-hour drive, but their reassurance doesn’t ease my guilt. I know I’ll need to pull on my big girl panties and find my way back home, but not yet. I still need a little more time to heal.

Two years is not enough time to heal eight years of wounds. I’m not even ready to jump back into the dating pool, and I’ve concluded that I’ll never be ready.

Have men expressed interest?

Absolutely.

Does it help that the men who’ve expressed interest are drunken men slipping a fiver between my G-string?

No. Granted, not all men who come into the lounge are sleazy. Some are attractive, but the men here know what they have to offer and tend to be cocky. Some of them like the whole woman dominating to an extent, and I’m not going to lie, dominating when needed has really helped boost my confidence.

Actually, stripping has helped boost my confidence. I am not the same woman I was two years ago but working at Green’s Lounge was also supposed to be a short-term gig until I could find something more solid. I guess I slipped into the allure that comes with creating my own schedule and the significant cash flows that can come in in a given night.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bringing in a grand every night, but the money is steady enough to keep up with this lifestyle and save up.

Walking down the dim-lit hall meant to set a glamorous, sensual mood to help entice men to shell out more money than their wallets can hold. I follow Sara, aka Cherrie, down the hall towards a VIP room where we’ve been requested. We’re known as the dynamic duo with a trick that will cause any dog with a bone to drop it and give it up.

And our top customer is Shawn Vincent. He typically comes to the club with one or two of his buddies and requests a VIP room when there is a party with him. Now, things are going to get a little awkward on my end. I’ve done one too many lap dances for him, and I have an interview at Walton Tech on Wednesday for a position that would be his personal assistant.

The likely hood of Shawn realizing that I’m Raven, my stage name, is very slim, considering I wear a deep red, burgundy wig. I don’t want anyone from the lounge to recognize me out on the street. So, I try to make my appearance as deceiving as possible with a full face of contour makeup, glitter, and a wig. I tried changing my eye color with colored contacts, but I couldn’t get the damn things in my eyes. There is also a gross factor because I don’t like the idea of anything near or in my eye. And a process that should have taken me thirty seconds took two hours of convincing myself I could do it.

Cherrie and Raven are Green’s Lounge’s top requested duo when it comes to VIP rooms, and as long as we keep making the club the big bucks, Sara and I can literally do whatever we want. Well…...whatever Sara wants because I’ve wanted less and less to do with the one-trick pony that is starting to turn into a side hustle. I do have rules, and I’m starting to feel like they’re being ignored and disregarded.

All for the money.

Spoiler! No amount of money is worth my self-dignity, but I’m starting to feel like I’m losing myself and soul here. And Don, the owner, has even taken notice. I once flew under his radar, and now I’m fully plastered in the center of his detector. According to Don, my ’free spirit’ is starting to affect my work.

In other words, I’m not as compliant as I once was.

Maybe always being compliant isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. I’ve been flying with one wing tied behind my back, and maybe it’s now I finally cut the rope holding me back and fully spread my wings.

“Are you ready?” Sara dances with her question, shaking her ass as she stops outside of the door that will lead us into a room full of men. I watch her rearrange her boobs in her midnight fringe-draped chemise that doesn’t leave much to the imagination, with only a thong underneath it. My outfit matches hers because we always have to be dressed in unison; only my fringe chemise is a dark mulberry.

A little trick to keep the nipples from showing……there really isn’t one unless you wear these annoying matching pasties. But in VIP rooms, Don wants the pasties gone because if a man nabs a looky look, they’ll tip more.

The theory is one thousand percent correct. Thank God for the strict no touching the dancer policy and the fact that bouncers here are more eager than anything to throw someone out, especially Donny. He throws a patron out nightly.

“Not really,” I state, ensuring I’m at least partially covered before walking in. For the most part, I can keep my nipples hidden behind the small amount of closed material in this dress, but as soon as I spin or twirl around the pole, they’re bound to shift.

“Girl! There are like fifteen men in that room! The tips are going to be HUGE!”

I want to groan and roll my eyes all at once, but this place has cameras in every nook and cranny. If Don is watching the footage in real-time and catches my annoyance, you can believe he’ll send the dimwitted bouncer, Donny, to fetch me.

I force a smile to my lips, “With that many men, you know it will be.” I just pray she keeps the one trick pony that. A one-trick pony tonight with no extra attachments.

“Follow my lead.” I always do.

Sara hits a little button beside the door, and I hear our number go on. The bass thumps the walls like we’re about to enter a Rock N Roll concert, but I know the moment we step onto the joint stage, the music will be tolerable.

Sara throws the door open, struts her stuff onto the stage, and walks up to one of the poles. She wraps her hand around the silver cylinder, a sexual smile plastered across her face that screams, I know what you boys want. “You ready, boys!?”

The men in the room erupt into loud applause and high pitch whistles that could call a dog from two suburbs over. I position myself on the opposite side of the stage. My hand wraps around the pole, high above my head. And as soon as the chorus for Candy Shop hits, I hate this damn song. I pull myself up the pole, positioning myself to twirl back down with my body wrapped around the cool metal.

But my mind is racing and double-checking that I’ve done everything I was supposed to do before coming in here, like securing my burgundy color wig. I know I did. I checked the thing five times before leaving the dressing room. There is no way this thing is coming off to reveal my true hair because the last thing I need is to expose my past working history for Shawn tonight.

If at all possible, me stripping will remain an unknown credential that will never make my resume.

There is a group of men huddled around Sara’s side of the stage, with some sitting on the edge of their seats, and I have a group of men huddled around my end, including Shawn. Then there is a group of five to six men sitting on the long leather couch against the back wall. All of them interested in the show with their tumblers up to their lips. All but one.

One man with a muscular build, clean face, strong jawline, and dark ashen blonde hair that is styled in a tousled look. That or the man literally met up with his friends after having sex, but the way the blond strands are slicked back, I don’t believe anyone has touched the softness of his locks. If anything, the man looks like he has a stick up his ass and doesn’t want to be here.

Then there are his eyes. A deep and rich, bright blue that nearly has me forgetting my next move. Mr. Sourpuss doesn’t appear to be having a good time, minus the continual sling back of the amber liquid in his glass, but he refuses to take his eyes off me.

I’m trying to remain sensual and sexy simultaneously, but there is something about this man’s stare that is starting to throw me off my game. It’s like he’s purposely trying to get me to screw up or walk out of the room to find clothes to cover up.

I feel overly exposed, and the lack of clothes isn’t the only reason. My heart is pounding so hard that it’s drowning out the music, and I can barely hear the song to know my next cue, and my palms are all sweaty. At this point, I’m running off of muscle memory.

I fall into the splits, a trick I can do, as Sara twirls into a superhero pose and air walks herself down like she’s about to walk straight onto someone’s cock.

As soon as our number ends, another four girls walk into the room. Ready to help keep the attention of all the men in the room. I know Shawn asked specifically for Cherrie and Raven, but there is no way we could split our attention between this many guys. Most of the time, the max is three to four. Not fifteen. I don’t think I’ve ever worked a room this large before. That, or Don, is officially losing his damn marbles.

Sara finds me in the sea of people I was entertaining. Taking my hand, she forces me to walk around the room with her. We give every man that stops us some kind of seductive flirtation that has men precumming in their boxer shorts. It’s all an act that I’m way too good at putting on.

But I guess it comes naturally.

“Hey, baby.” I have to keep my body from emitting a violent shiver from the man’s husky term of endearment. A term I HATE with a fucking passion. But Sara backtracks slightly, keeping my hand in hers as she beams at the man. A man who looks like he just stepped out of a catalog for wannabe hipsters. “If I give you both a grand, can we get a little taste?”

“Just a little taste?” Sara teases, dropping my hand as she traces the hard lines of the man’s defined pecs across his tee. “Give us three each, and we’ll give you the whole show.”

And here come the extra attachments.

I catch movement from the corner of my eye, and Mr. Stick-up-ass looks like the rod has been shoved further up. He’s on the verge of standing, and I have this immense fluttering in my core that if he gets to his feet, he’ll be over here wanting to get in on the extra perks that are my job.

My nerves are ablaze with his eyes roaming over my body, and I can’t help but shift, trying to ease the building pressure growing between my legs. We’re allowed to touch the customers above the waist, but physically consorting with patrons is forbidden to many variables that have left a few of the girls broken and quitting their jobs.

I finally manage to break Mr. Cantankerous’s intense stare, my eyes roaming down my scantily clad body, and I feel like a whore. Mr. Tight-wad is seriously making me feel like a whore in church.

What the fuck is wrong with me? He’s yet to say a word to me.

“I’ll give you four if you touch Raven’s tit.” Whoa! My attention is fully snapped back toward the conversation I was ignoring.

OVER THE LINE.

“Absolutely no,” I say with an annoyed laugh. I know I’m heard loud and clear when Mr. Sour stands.

“Five?” Just because you upped the price doesn’t mean I’m going to say yes. I’m standing firm against this; I don’t want this type of cop-a-feel.

“Hell, no.”

“Seven!”

“Deal!” Sara sings eagerly.

No deal!

My panic must be written all over my face because Mr. Tetchy is now making his way over. Probably to get front-row seats to the show. I’m about to protest and walk away, but I don’t get a chance as Sara pulls my back into her front and forces my head back before her lips lock onto mine. Her tongue pushes its way between my clamped, tight lips, and I have to physically refrain from biting the assaulting probe or her lip to get her to stop.

I’ve been here for almost two years, and this is the first time I’ve felt this exposed before. Sara has never done anything this extreme without my consent, and I don’t think I’ll be able to work with her or look at her the same way.

Instead of fighting against the violation, I try and force my body to relax, which isn’t happening with my panicking brain. I get the sense that Mr. Killjoy isn’t enjoying this scene at all.

Well, guess what, buddy? Neither am I. So, by all means, please end this and put me out of my misery. I feel Sara’s hand skimming over the top of my chest. Two of her fingers slip underneath the small amount of material providing me some sort of coverage, and rests against the top of my breast.

My comfort level is so past over the line. I want to violently push Sara away and tell her off right here and now in front of everyone. I want to pull a Claire and make a scene.

Sara should have never put me in this type of vulnerability. She knows my comfort level. The kiss was as far as I was willing to go. Not this whole cop-a-feel shit. Sara can keep the entire fourteen because I feel like a lady of the night.

Whistles, grunts, and lewd remarks for us to go further traps me into my internal panic. My heart feels like it’s about to explode from my chest. I can feel my hands violently shake, and I have to ball them up to keep them hidden from any onlookers. The men in this stupid room believe I’m enjoying this, and I’m not. I’m far from enjoying this.

Sara removes her fingers from under my camisole and grazes them over the top of my dress and against the tip of my nipple before giving my boob a firm, soft massage – a boner-dropping extra that was not asked for. And when she finally breaks from the act, I’m done.

I disengage from her and push out of her hold, and I try to weave myself out of the room to get as far as I possibly can from the situation before it plays out more and turns into a fucking porno.

Every single eye is locked on me; I can feel it. I can’t breathe. Don will be furious once he learns I left a VIP room early, but my sanity is about to bounce against the walls with me screaming.

“Baby, how can I get some of that action?” I’m yanked back by a brutal force against my bicep. My body tenses out of habit, and I have to fight off the urge to peel the fingers from my skin. I’m already breaking the rules by leaving the room early. I can only imagine what Don would do if I physically took a customer down to the ground crying.

I force a sultry, sweet smile, hoping that my eyes are glaring for the man to let me go. “You can start by letting me go.”

“If I do, you’ll run right out of this room and to your boss.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have touched the dancer.” I slowly peel the man’s fingers off my skin. The longer the contact, the more my skin crawls.

“Give me a number, and it’s yours. All you have to do is what I ask.”

He can’t be serious. I’m not a fucking prostitute.

“Goodbye, Brad.” A gruff and possessive voice erupts from behind us. And Mr. Fussbucket is the last person I want to come to my aid. Fucking hell, he’s probably hoping that he can scare off this Brad guy to get me all to himself.

“Back off! I saw her first.” Brad slurs, almost throwing his drink at Mr. Grumpy. “Plus, I’ve paid her for her time.” If he’s chipping in on that fourteen grand, he’s shit out of luck because the only time he’s paid for is Sara’s.

“Seems like she’s declined your offer.” He states firmly and manages to wedge himself between Brad and me. “Suggest you moved on.

“Or what? You ain’t gonna do shit to me. You only want her for yourself to fuck later.”

Bile rises into my throat, and I’m done being objectified like I’m not even standing here. I’m done with the toxic masculinity in the room fueled by Sara’s need to cash in on our sexuality.

I manage to duke out of the room with the two men distracted and arguing. If the fighting becomes heated, it will become physical, and Donny will be a happy man throwing out a room of fifteen.

Tonight has been a total waste of my time.

Pulling my long black hair up into a ponytail, I discreetly empty out my dressing area and makeup vanity into my duffle bag. If I can knab this job on Wednesday, I won’t be returning. Fuck it; after tonight, I’m not coming back, regardless. Sara and Don can go fuck themselves. I’ll go wait tables or something.

I have enough of a cash cushion to last me almost two years anyways. So, it’s not like I’m pressed for money.

“Ashleigh!” Don’s demeaning and degrading voice causes some dancers around me to jump and scatter like rats. I, on the other hand, quickly zip up my bag and sling it across my body. “I’ve been informed that you left a VIP room early.”

Wonder which of the girls ratted me out.

Turning, Don is immediately towering over me. I catch Donny standing guard at the door to stop me if I somehow manage to duck under Don’s threatening form.

Don is a tall, robust man who looks like he was plucked from a mafia movie and is the mob boss. He values his dancers’ safety, but don’t mistake that for a caring nature because he’ll go off the handle if you violate any of the rules. And lately, I haven’t been adhering to the club’s rules.

For example, rules were broken inside the VIP room tonight. Don knows what Sara did, and he knows Brad put a hand on me, but none of that matters because I am the one who left and cost the club money. I’m sure Don didn’t lose any money after the little stunt Sara pulled. Don will collect a percentage on the fourteen grand that is all Sara’s now. I want no take of it.

“I was uncomfortable. I was grabbed, and Sara crossed the line.”

“You were requested by a high-paying customer,” Don grits out. “You could have cost me money.”

“And Cherrie was also requested. She’s still in the room with four other girls. I’m sure I’m not even missed.” The only one who actively, possibly noticed me leaving would be Mr. Sour-Patch. “I felt unsafe, so I left.”

I watch Don’s face turn red and bunch up like a pumpkin shriveling past its prime. I know I didn’t cost Don or the club any money. He’s pissed I’m standing my ground.

“You’re done for the night.” Clearly, his hearing aids aren’t on. I had no intention of going back out on the floor. “All tips and income from tonight are mine. Think of it as payment for breaching…...”

“You can’t do that!” I blurt out. “What I earned tonight is mine.”

Don towers over me, and my panic level rises, forcing me to back down. I see flashes of Robert behind Don’s eyes, and while I know Don has never raised a hand against one of the girls, I can’t help but flinch. “Get the fuck out of my club! When you come back next, I suggest you get your entitled ass in check, or I’ll make sure you never work in another club in the city.”

Don backs away, and I immediately run for the door. Donny steps aside and follows closely behind me with long strides as I bolt down the back hall and find myself exiting the club through the back door with Donny following behind me.

Stepping down the steps, I nearly double over with my fingers gripping my knees until I feel my nails cutting into my skin. Lightening spiders across the sky, followed by a low rumble of thunder. I jump with the vibration of the ground, wishing that when my feet hit the ground again, they will transport me to the water or a beach.

Tonight has been too much. When I get home, I’m taking one of my anxiety pills and crawling into bed, and sleeping until my reset button is reset.

“What are you thinking lately?” Donny barks out. “Don will have your ass if you don’t straighten up.”

“I don’t care,” I say on an exhale because he can go away.

“Ash……” I feel Donny’s hand against my shoulder, and my body instinctively tenses with my shoulder, trying to rid Donny’s touch from my skin. Donny’s touch reminds me of Robert’s in the way it makes my skin crawl.

Donny has expressed interest a few times, and I turn him down each time. But that doesn’t stop him from trying to touch my arm, my hair, anything in reach Donny has tried to touch.

I’m jerked slightly backward with a loud, dull thud coming from behind me. I spin and see Mr. Dominating is towering over Donny, delivering two solid blows along Donny’s jaw. I watch the man draw back his fist again, the muscles along his back tensing like he’s going to punch until Donny can’t stand straight.

I’ve never had a man fight and defend me like this. Let alone someone who doesn’t even know me. I’m a stranger, and I can tell by the way he’s staggering; he’s not exactly sober.

I snap out of my surprised, horrid trance and run up to…. Wonder Boy. Because, boy, is he making me wonder. I’m unsure how many sides of this man I can see in one night, and I don’t even have his name. He looks familiar. So familiar, but I’m chalking it up to seeing him around the lounge before. I’ve probably given him a lap dance or two and don’t remember his face.

Taking hold of the man’s fist, his entire body shifts and relaxes as he stumbles back with me. I could have easily allowed him to continue to punch Donny until Donny is black and blue, but if I did that, cops would be called, and the situation would be a dramatic situation that I wouldn’t be able to help, and Wonder Boy would be hauled off to jail.

“Don’t touch her,” Wonder Boy spits. “Or the next time, I won’t stop.” Wonder Boy positions me behind him like I need the extra protection from the nightclub’s bodyguard down on the ground.

Donny scrambles up, wiping away the blood from his lip, “Ha. Buddy, I hate to tell you this, but I’m not the only one she’s allowed to touch her.” Wonder Boy lunges toward Donny, and I dig my heels into the ground, trying to stop him. “Aww, so cute. Raven, you have an admirer. Blow him, and he’ll give you enough money you could afford a car.”

“Fuck off, Donny!” Scratch that; I’m going to throw another swing right between Donny’s eyes. Fucker knows to only use stage names when we’re in costume. I’m clearly not. But Wonder Boy is steaming hot, and I’m not sure he’s going to wake and wonder how he busted up his hand more than anything. “Come on.”

“He touched you,” the man slurs. “You didn’t want to be touched. He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Wonder Boy seems to be picking up on all my cues tonight.

“It’s fine. Umm…...we can’t go back into the lounge. Do you have your phone? Can you call Shawn?” I ask as I catch him from stumbling forward and face-planting into the gravel ground below.

Oh, man. Wonder Boy is drunker than I thought. I drape his arm over my shoulders, taking on his weight as I somehow manage to walk us toward the back of the building and prop him up against it. I watch his body sway before he finally forces himself to stop and try to focus on me – like he’s trying to figure me out.

Fishing in my duffle bag, I pull out my water bottle and hand it to him. He eyes the water bottle like it will bite him. “It’s water. Drink it.”

“Why?”

Thrusting the metal canister into his hands, “Because you’re drunk and can barely stand. How the hell did you charge Donny without falling over?”

Wonder Boy shrugs as he chugs the water and hands the bottle back to me. “Shawn is drunk. I’ll get home.” He slurs as his body starts to sway again, and he slides down the wall.

Yea, you’re going to get home alright.

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I pull up a car service app to call someone to come and get him to take him home. One problem – okay, two problems. I have no clue who Wonder Boy is or where he lives.

“Umm……sir…...sir!?” I squat down, shaking his shoulder to wake him. “Hey, I need to know where you live. I’m trying to call you a car.”

He reaches for my hand, removes it from his shoulder, and stares at it curiously. I’m waiting for him to let go, but at the same time, this fiery blaze is something I want to bask in for a lifetime. I’ve never felt this connection before. It’s new, and I love it. Too bad it’s from a man who seems to enjoy the grumpy aspect of life, and I’m not remotely ready to start dating either. Nor do I want to start with this man.

“Your……touch….” He drops my hand and shakes his head, along with his words. I watch him slowly get to his feet, sliding up the wall and reaching for his back pocket. Wonder Boy pulls out his wallet before stumbling towards me with a card, only he doesn’t catch himself until he falls onto my boob. My body explodes like a firecracker, and I have to refrain from leaning into the drunken man’s touch.

Wonder Boy quickly withdraws his hand, the card falling to the ground, and I quickly pick it up, flipping it in my hand until I see TESLA across the sleek black card. Fucking hell! Wonder Boy likes to drive in style.

“I drove,” he slurs.

“Yea, I see that. But you can’t drive home.”

“You can.” I watch him take an unsteady step forward, forcing me to drape his arm over my shoulders again. I allow him to haphazardly guide us to a pristine black Tesla that looks like it’s just been freshly driven off the lot. Stopping at the passenger door……there are no fucking door handles. Well……there are door handles, but they’re flushed with the doors. How in the hell are you supposed to get into the car?

I randomly push, what should be a door handle, and I’m surprised when it opens. And so is Wonder Boy. I don’t know the ins and outs of a Tesla, and I’m honestly not sure how the door unlocked when I did nothing with the little card the man gave me. Hell, this is probably a gift card or some shit and does absolutely nothing.

I get Wonder Boy into the passenger seat and lean across him to put his seatbelt on. I feel him bend forward slightly, his nose nuzzling into the long strand of my ponytail as he inhales a deep breath, smelling me in. I turn my head, somewhat curious by the bold move lighting up my female hormones like a damn Christmas tree.

His eyes are glazed over with his drunkenness, but there is so much clarity behind his blues. But what’s distracting is the way he’s licking his lips. I want to taste those lips. Know what his drink of choice was tonight, and I want to know what it feels like to have his tongue caressing every inch of my body. I know the idea of tonsil hockey is juvenile, but I want to play it with him.

Wonder Boy crashes back into his seat on an extreme puff of air with his eyes close. A small smile adorns his peaceful face like he’s basking in a happy memory that only he will know, but he looks so regal and beautiful.

“Hmm,” he finally hums. “You smell like the tropics and the beach.”

I shake my head on a laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone tell me that I remind them of a beach before. It’s a compliment I’ll take for sure, though. “You gonna take me, Wonder Boy?”

“Beautiful, I’ll take you wherever your heart desires.”

Beautiful.

Beautiful.

I can’t tell you the last time a man called me beautiful and meant it. I know Wonder Boy is drunk and not thinking clearly, but I also know drunk men. All alcohol is is nothing more than liquid courage giving men the audacity to do and say things they wouldn’t usually.

Beautiful.

But this is all the alcohol talking. Wonder Boy would not have any interest in me otherwise.

“Wonder Boy, where do you live?” I have to resist pushing back a strand of hair that’s fallen from his messy, sleek combover.

Wonder Boy mumbles something incoherent before his head melts against the headrest of his seat. Making sure he’s contained and not going to slump forward or slam his head into the window, I shut the passenger’s door and jog around to the driver’s side. I throw my bag into the back seat before falling behind the steering wheel.

The large center screen is on with a picture of his car along with several other options. Wait……you can watch television on this thing? Is this a car or a home entertainment center? Hold on…….is that a karaoke app?

What the hell am I driving? If this thing starts talking to me, I’m out. Wonder Boy will have to sleep his drunkenness off until he’s sober enough to drive.

I gently shake Wonder Boy, waiting for him to stir, but the only thing to escape from him is a deep, rattling snore. Well, that’s helpful.

Reaching for the glove compartment, I riffle through the papers until I come across the registration holding this man’s address and name.

I’ll finally be able to put a name to Wonder Boy.

Sitting back in the driver’s seat, I flip the long rectangular piece of paper over, my mouth falling into my lap.

Fuck me. I knew Wonder Boy looked familiar, and it had nothing to do with lap dances.