Page 30 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
I look at her. “Doing what?”
She flicks ash into the alley like the question is boring. “Club shift. Nothing dramatic. You stand around, look pretty, smile at men with too much cash, make them order bottles. You get tips.”
I should say no.
Every reasonable part of me knows I should say no. I’ve already worked nine hours, my feet hurt, and my hair smells like oil. The last thing I should do is walk into a club full of strangers when I’m trying not to be found.
But then I think of the money hidden under my mattress. How little there is. How quickly it disappears.
“How much?” I ask.
Marina’s mouth tilts slightly, like she expected that. “Depends how pretty you are.”
I almost laugh. “That’s the one thing I know how to be.”
She looks me over, not unkindly. “Then come after closing.”
That’s how, three hours later, I end up in the back room of a club called Venera, standing under a flickering light while a woman named Oksana throws a black dress at me and tells me to change.
The dress is not really a dress. It’s tight black fabric with straps too thin to be useful and a hem that barely reaches the tops of my thighs. The material clings to my body in a way that makes me want to keep pulling at it, but every time I tug it down, the neckline moves lower.
“I can’t wear this,” I say.
Oksana looks me up and down while chewing gum. “Then you can’t work.”
Beside me, Marina is already changing into something red, rolling her eyes as she steps into heels. “Just put it on. No one’s asking you to marry it.”
That makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t expect.
Marina notices immediately. “Sorry,” she says, quieter.
“It’s fine.”
It isn’t, but I change anyway.
There are two other girls in the room. Nika, who has short black hair and silver glitter across her eyelids, and Polina, who looks younger than me but moves with the tired confidence of someone who has already seen too much. They both glance at me with mild curiosity, then return to fixing their makeup.
No one asks who I am. No one asks why I’m here.
That’s becoming one of my favorite things about poor places.
Marina steps behind me and zips the dress up. “Listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“You smile. You laugh when they say something stupid. You get them to buy drinks and bottles, but you don’t drink anything they hand you unless you see it poured.”
“I know that.”
“You don’t know anything,” she says flatly. “You’re rich-girl pretty. They’ll notice.”
“I’m not rich.”
“Right,” she says drily.
I look away.
She catches my chin and turns my face back. “Be friendly, but not friendly enough. Make them feel interesting, not entitled. If a man touches you, move away like it was an accident. If he keeps doing it, come find me.”
