Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
I just moved with him as fast as I could.
He used the hand he did not have on me to pound on the door twice, bellowed, “Man coming in!” and as he was hesitating the two seconds he always gave it so the girls could get situated before he went in, I spoke.
“I’m good, Mo. Safe. Sound. Healthy. Right here. With you. You’ve got me. Yeah?”
He looked down at me and allowed me to see some of the harshness bleed out of his face.
Not all of it, but some of it.
I’d take it.
Then he pushed us into the dressing room.
Strippers poured out as we went in, and once in, Mo let me go and shut the door behind the last girl.
I finally tied my belt on my robe.
“Shit,” he said.
I looked up at him then turned my attention to where his was and saw Carla wearing her robe, platforms off, sitting at her makeup station, holding a bag of ice to her ankle.
I rushed her way. “Ohmigod, girl! What happened?”
“Tripped coming off the stage for your set,” she muttered, eyes cast down to her ankle resting on her knee, her face pinched.
“Did you tell Smithie?” I asked.
She shook her head and finally looked up at me. “I’m just gonna ice it for a bit longer and then get back out there.”
Yeah.
She had to get back out there.
She had two kids from two different baby daddies, both pieces of shit, the dads, not the kids (her boys were great).
So she had three mouths to feed, her mom, who was a bitch, her dad, who was a drunk, her brother, who thought they were all wastes of space, especially his stripper sister who had two baby daddies (in other words, she had a brother who was a dick).
She also had a killer bod she knew how to move.
This meant she was on a stage, dancing in a thong, when the last thing she wanted to do was go home after doing that to her two young boys and then look them in the eye over Cheerios the next morning.
It wasn’t like I didn’t get Mo’s point about stripping. I did.
And Carla was Mo’s point.
Smithie paid well, but tips were essential for all these girls (including me) to up our quality of life (for some of us, significantly), and if we had dependents, give them some modicum of a quality of life.
These thoughts on my mind, I started in shock when Mo hunkered down beside me and said quietly, “Lift the ice. Let me see.”
I was shocked because he didn’t often engage with the girls.
After our last two days together, I understood this was not about him disapproving of them. It was about him being not such a talkative dude. But also, he was there to look out for me, not make friends with them. And last, he was in our space and therefore he wanted to make it as safe for the girls as he could when he couldn’t exit said space, so he didn’t call attention to himself (an impossible task for a guy like Mo, but you had to hand it to him, he tried).
I stared at his bald head fighting the desire to run my hands over it as he took a look at her ankle.
Then I stared at his large, long-fingered, veined hand as he gently prodded it.
Okay, he could drag me around with little effort.
And clearly he could go gentle.
I did not need to learn that about him when he was off-limits.
Shit.
His head tipped back to look at her face when he asked, “Scale of one to ten, ten highest, what’s the pain?”
He was still gently prodding her ankle.
She answered, “Three.”
I turned my gaze to her face and saw the pinch tighten into a wince with each prod.
Mo straightened, muttering, “Ice back on.”
Carla put the ice back on.
Mo then looked down at me and I knew by his expression he didn’t miss the winces that did not say she was at a pain level of three.
He confirmed this by saying, “Most urgent cares closed, she needs to get to the emergency room.”
“No!” Carla cried, and Mo and I turned back to her. “No. It’s gonna be fine.”
“It’s probably not broken but it’s a bad sprain,” Mo told her.
“If it’s sprained, I’ll be off the stage for a week,” she returned anxiously.
At that, I crouched down to her. “Carla, you can’t dance with a sprained ankle.”
“The ice will work,” she told me. “I just need to give it more time.”
“You need to see to it and give it time to heal if it needs that so it doesn’t get worse,” I pointed out.
“It’ll be okay.”
“Just check it out.”
She shook her head with agitation. “I can’t go to the emergency room. This isn’t urgent. I’ll be waiting forever. And I have to be home to let my neighbor go. I pay through the nose for her to come over and stay late to watch the boys. She gets pissy when I’m even later.”