Wreck Me (Nova #4)(60)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

There’s no way I’ll ever tell her about the night I almost died, how greatly it affected me, and how helping Tristan has started to settle that overpowering compulsion to do something greater in this life. “He’s just a friend.”

“So lame. And a lie.” She stands up on the counter, the top of her head grazing the shelf above. “Now get your ass up here and join me.”

“I don’t want to,” I mutter as the guy buying the shots hands me some cash.

Charissa puts her hands on her waist as she juts out her hip. “Avery, you promised Benny you’d do it one time every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night, and in return, he gave you a raise.”

She does it three times a night with the other two waitresses for entertainment purposes, but really, it drives the male population in like moths to a flame. The sales go through the roof. Me, I freaking hate it and refused to do it for a year until Benny offered me the raise. Then I shamefully caved.

“Fine.” I pout as I hand the guy his change then grudgingly climb onto the bar. God, I hope Tristan doesn’t judge me as much as I judge myself.

“Yeah, let’s get this show on the road.” Charissa does this lasso gesture with her hand and the music changes to a more upbeat, western song. “Who’s ready to party?”

I can’t even look in Tristan’s direction. I plaster a smile on my face and momentarily transform myself into someone else, someone who is okay with using their body for more money, someone who seems like my mother’s daughter.

It’s not like I’m a bad dancer. I’m decent. I can shake my ass and move to the rhythm as good as anyone else. I’m dressed way less skanky than the rest of the waitresses, and I refuse to hike up the bottom of my shirt no matter how many times Benny tells me to. Not only to keep my dignity, but because my scarred flesh isn’t going to turn anyone on. I do pull the elastic out of my hair and slip it around my wrist before shaking out my hair.

“Fuck yeah, baby!” some guy wearing a red beanie hollers at me from the crowd.

I blow him a kiss in response. Fucking creepy asshole.

Then I move my feet and wiggle my ass as the song rumbles and thumps. My boots mark up the countertop with each step. No one seems to mind or notice, though, all eyes locked on us, enthralled. The majority of the male population salivates and some of the females do too. Other women hate us. Some have envy in their eyes. I wish I could trade places with those women, let them walk in my shoes. They might not want to be me so much after that.

My embarrassment only grows when some guy yells at me, “Yeah, take it off!”

Welcome humiliation.

I’ve always despised doing it, but with someone I know watching me, I become painfully aware of just how ashamed I am.

Maybe it’s time to find a new job. If only it were that easy.

Three and a half painful minutes later, the song comes to an end. I immediately hop down behind the bar again and start collecting the tips off the counter, not allowing myself to look over at Tristan. After I’m done gathering all the money, I sink down behind the bar, knowing all orders are going to be put on hold while the rest of the waitresses finish dancing.

I cover my ears as the music continues, remembering a time when I was six and my mother first started prostituting herself out. She’d taken me to a neglected motel and left me to hold Jax outside of the door in the cold while she went inside. Music similar to the song playing right now had been turned up to muffle the noises from inside the room, but the outside wasn’t any better. I could remember being confused, terrified, and freezing, yet all I could do was cover my ears and cradle Jax in my arms.

“You okay?” Tristan drops down on the floor beside me, stretching out his legs in front of him.

My shoulders jolt from his sudden appearance, and my hands drop from my ears to my chest. “Jesus, you’re on a roll tonight with the whole startling the shit out of me thing,” I say, unable to meet his eyes, but I can feel his gaze on me, begging me to look at him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to this time. I just came back here to see if everything was okay.”

I slump back against the cubbies behind me. “Yeah, just taking a quick break.” I have to talk loudly over the music. “People never order when they’re doing…” I point at Charissa then lower my hand to my lap. “Well, you know.”

“Why were you covering your ears, though? You’re not a fan of music? Because I thought you played the guitar.”

“I do… but wait. How did you know that?”

“You mentioned something about it to Nova three months ago.”

“And you remembered all this time?” I force a light tone, angling my head forward so my hair curtains my face and blocks my expression from him. “I’m kind of flattered.”

“I remember a lot from that night,” he replies. From out of the corner of my eye, I notice his gaze travel to my shoulder. “Like how you have that tattoo on your back. I never did get to see all of it.”

“And you never will see it.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Of the scars, both visible and hidden in the inked words. “It’s private.”

“So you’re never planning on showing it to anyone? Ever?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. The idea of letting someone see the ink surrounded by scars created by a tragedy that I caused, is terrifying. “If I really trusted the person, maybe.”

He drums his fingers on his knee to the beat of the song. “So trust, huh? That’s how it’s done. Dammit, I was hoping it could be bought with brownie points.”

I focus on my reflection in the stainless steel cooler across from us. I have no idea why he isn’t bringing up the dancing for money thing, but I’m extremely grateful he’s not.

“Brownie points can be earned because of trust.”

“Dually noted. Although, can I just say that you haven’t given me one in a few days. I’m running behind to hit a hundred before I leave here.”

“I guess you’ll have to step up your A game, then.” The most awkward chuckle escapes my lips.

“Guess I will.” He pauses, and I feel the temperature shift as he scoots closer to me. “Avery, would you please look at me?”

“I don’t want to,” I whisper, jutting out my lip, sulking like my five-year-old son. “I don’t want to see it.”

“See what?”

“You know what. That look on your face.”