Working Girl (4 page)

One of the girls catches me staring and shoots daggers with her eyes in my direction before leaning across the table and whispering in the other girl’s ear. They laugh again, and I know damn well that they’re talking about me. It’s a curse wherever I go—for some reason, bitches just love to talk shit about me. I swear I have “Daughter of a Whore” tattooed on my forehead or something. Chrissy tries to say that it’s because they’re all jealous of me, but I don’t buy it. I’m just a girl.

My struggles with peers has been with me from an early age. It started sometime in kindergarten or first grade, round about the time I missed the bus and Momma couldn’t be reached to come get me. My friend’s mom was a volunteer at the school and offered to give me a ride home. The principal gave her the address and I can remember seeing the look on her face.

Scared.

Once we got to the house, it was very apparent that I was growing up across from a brothel, and wouldn’t you know it, the very next day, everyone else stopped talking to Chrissy and me. I can only assume it was because their mothers instructed them to keep their distance. My heart broke every day that year, because I didn’t understand why no one wanted to be my friend. But the older I got, the worse it got, and the more I understood.

Shit came to a peak in high school though. Teenagers are ruthless, and it didn’t take me long to develop a disdain for that hellhole. Guys liked to try to bait us, acting like they were interested in us only to end up seeking sexual favors . . . usually paired with a twenty-dollar bill. We both dealt with the relentless teasing in our own way. Chrissy turned into a man-eater, and I totally withdrew.

I glance down at my cell phone and decide it’s time for me to start making my way across campus for my next class. Besides, I’m not particularly in the mood to continue getting looks and listen to snickering from the shit head twins. Even though it has been a few years, and despite my hopes that college would be different, apparently my past will keep following me around. Or maybe they’re just jealous. Who knows? I guess in the grand scheme of life it doesn’t really matter.

I’d managed to complete the assigned reading for Borefest 101 . . . aka Bookkeeping. Having had enough of the bullshit, I throw my books into my bag and quickly start walking through the stacks, not really paying attention to where I’m going, when I run smack dab into something hard.

Stumbling backward, I feel hands on my shoulders, holding me steady. “Shit,” I mumble. “Sorry.” Looking up I meet those unmistakable brown eyes that are burned into my memory. How? I’m still not entirely sure, because I thought I had my walls up pretty high.

He’s already smiling, and I fight the urge to reach up and run the pads of my fingers along the contours of his adorable dimples. “In a rush?” he laughs.

At the sound of his laughter paired with the deep gruffness of his voice, I feel my stomach flip over itself. It’s ridiculous, and I hate myself a little bit for it. “My next class is all the way across campus,” I reply quickly.

He looks puzzled for a moment, and I know he’s trying to place me. The thought has me feeling slightly deflated, because I already knew exactly who he was. “Hey, you’re in my Bookkeeping 101 class, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, hey, I’m coffee girl.”

“Coffee girl,” he snorts. “You’re funny. But do you have a real name?”

“Presley, and yes, before you ask, I
am
named after that famous Presley.” I bite my lip, hoping that he drops it there. Being named after Elvis isn’t exactly something that I like to discuss because it opens the door to discussing my mom, and that’s kind of a sore subject for me.

He sticks his hand out in front of me. “Elvis . . .”

Placing my hand in his, I give him a sideways look. “Yeah . . .” I lead, more than slightly confused.

“No, that’s my name,” he corrects.

“No shit!” I squeal, excited at the idea that our parents were obviously smoking the same brand of weed when we were born.

He grins devilishly, and I instantly know he’s full of shit. “No, it’s not.” He laughs. “I was just kidding. But the look on your face was priceless.”

Slightly pissed, I pull my hand away. His hands retreat to his pockets before he speaks again. “My name’s Emerson. My mom has a thing for poets.”

“I didn’t ask for your life story.”

“Well, you gave me yours.”

I blow out through my nose. “Hardly.” He did have a point. I’d told him more than I needed to about my name. Who cares that I was named after Elvis. But it had been like diarrhea of the mouth, and I wanted to take it back.

He shakes his head, and I impatiently tap my toes. “What dorm are you in?” he asks, attempting to make small talk.

Not used to actually having to interact with other people, especially the opposite sex, I nervously tuck my hair behind my ear. “I . . . um . . . actually, I live off campus.”

“Oh yeah.” It’s clear he’s feigning interest. “Whereabouts?”

My heart thunders in my chest. A sore topic for me, I never get used to answering it. “Ah, just downtown.”

It was the truth; I just left out the exact location. No one needs to know that I live in the slums.

“We should get together sometime and study.”

Puzzled, I look at him. He can’t be serious. “You don’t even know me.”

“It’s just studying.” He smiles and I fight melting into a puddle.

“Emerson!” We both turn to the voices shouting his name in time for me to notice a guy gesturing for him to walk toward them. I’m not ready for my time talking to him to be over yet, but at the same time I need some distance. I feel so conflicted.

He looks over his shoulder at the crowd calling to him. “Well, I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Presley. See you in class. And my offer stands—you, me, and some serious studying.”

I nervously pick at some skin on my fingers playing it off as disinterest. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

He puts his hand up to wave awkwardly and continues to steal glances over his shoulder at me while he walks towards his group of friends, a shit-eating grin on his face, those damn dimples screaming at me. Frozen in place, I watch Emerson and his friends walk away. They’re laughing, yucking it up big time, and I can’t help but feel a slight pang of jealousy deep in my stomach. In all two of my interactions with him, it’s apparent that Emerson has the world at his fingertips. He’s well dressed and even more well liked. Not only that, but it seems to come easy to him. That’s not something I’ll ever feel, no matter what happens. I’ll never have the chance to be carefree, without a worry in the world, because my past will always define me.

I can’t even let a guy talk to me because I always think the worst. The little voice in my head tells me that they’re only looking for one thing—that they can’t possibly actually be interested in me. But I guess that’s what happens when every guy you’ve ever come into contact with just wants you to jerk ’em off, or give them a blowjob.

Hating myself, I reach in my bag and pull out my favorite book. Despite being late, I need to read over the lines that have soothed me time and time again. I thumb through the pages, opening up to the page that I have dog-eared for this very moment. The words of the happily ever after can always seem to make me smile, allowing me to escape my proverbial hell, if only for a brief period. These moments of self-doubt are becoming more frequent lately, and I understand why. My conscious is trying to rule me. It’s bossing me around, just like Big Earl does to all the girls in the brothel. Just like all those fuckers in high school.

“You’re just a daughter of a whore, Presley.”

No, I’m not. I refuse to travel down that path blazed by my damaged mother. I will not follow in her footsteps. No matter what, I will be my own person.

Even if it kills me.

SITTING AT THE DESK,
I watch as man after man comes in through the doors, allowing the girls to fool them into thinking that they actually like them. It’s the most disgusting part of my job; watching the girls work them. The men are either oblivious to it being their job, or they just don’t care. Either way, I hate watching the pathetic interactions. The girls laugh. Lightly touch the guys’ arms. It’s like flirting, only way more obvious—at least, to me. Then again, I watch it night after night, before they pair off and each of them head into the negotiating rooms, ultimately bartering for sex.

In order to pass the time and distract myself from the horrible things going on around me, I like to make up stories about each of them. It’s better to think of them as fictional characters than their reality, because those stories are certainly far more depressing. Deep down, I know that most of these guys are just losers, cheating on their wives, who are at home taking care of the kids. No, I can’t think about that. I’d rather make up heroine stories that make me feel good. Life is depressing enough.

I watch as Ruby leads an older Joe into the negotiating room. Closing my eyes, I imagine him to be an army veteran, just retired. Having been so busy with his career, he’s never managed to settle down. Unable to find the right woman, and his prime long gone, he resorts to a brothel to find company.

Then comes Chrissy, her cute looking Joe in tow. She winks as she leads him into the other room. Since she’s my best friend, I have to make up an alternate universe for her to be living in, so I imagine she’s celebrating her engagement. We’ve been partying all evening, and once we decide to part ways, she gives me a wink good-night, letting me know that she’s happy.

But then reality sneaks back in. No matter how good of a storyteller I am, I know the truth. Chrissy isn’t happy. She may be a great actress, but she’s miserable as fuck, I know that. I’ve heard her cry at night. Sure, she has the occasional good day, but what about the nights where she has to suck off some guy old enough to be her father? What about the night when one of the guys decides to blacken up her eye? Those are the nights that I hate this life. The nights that only affirm that this isn’t the life for me, for us . . . or anyone for that matter.

Saturdays are always hellaciously busy. Running party after party, I’m not able to sit down until close to one a.m. When my rear-end hits the chair and I’m finally able to take a breath, the noises start to make themselves heard. The house is filled with moans, and putrid skin slapping.

My skin crawls with pure and utter disgust. With my heart racing and the bile churning in my stomach, I can’t grab my headphones fast enough. Placing the earbuds in, I click my iPod, bringing it to life and letting the music take me away, closing my eyes, focusing on the beat, letting it transport me someplace else. Just like a good book does.

Just as I feel my muscles relax, I see his face. There, without any warning, is Emerson, standing in front of me with that damn smile and those fuckin’ dimples.

Shocked as to why I’m seeing him, I gasp, opening my eyes and removing my earbuds just as quickly. Chrissy leans against the doorframe, a shit-eating grin across her face. “Good dream?” she asks, plopping down in the chair next to me.

“No, you just scared me.”

“Bullshit.” Chrissy opens my drawer, scouring it for something to drink.

I slam it shut. “You cleaned house the other night. Remember?”

“Get some more.”

One of the girls I don’t know is hovering at the window. I stand and start toward, continuing to talk at Chrissy. “You make better money than me, and you’re the one who drinks the shit. Buy it yourself.”

“Whoa, someone’s got their panties in a twist.” Chrissy laughs and lights up a smoke. “What’s his name?”

I glare at her, only half listening to the girl telling me what she needs for paperwork. After asking her to repeat herself, twice, I take my time gathering the necessary things, mainly because I want to avoid Chrissy. It pisses me off that she’s able to get such a good read on me. Hell, she probably knows my feelings better than I do. Still stewing in silence, I type up the girl’s shit and give it to her before turning back to Chrissy. “Fuck you,” I bite out.

She giggles, knowing that she’s gotten under my skin. She has a way of doing that, and I both hate and love her for it—now being one of the times I hate her for it. After running the transaction, I sit back down, pretending not to notice Chrissy waggling her eyebrows at me. “So are you going to tell me about him?” she asks. “You meet some fancy college boy already?”

Shaking my head, I sigh. “It’s no one. Just some guy in my bookkeeping class. I was thinking about him, when clearly I shouldn’t be.”