July 2002. Six months earlier ...

Grinding on a fat, old man's lap for money wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I left home, but neither was twenty-six thousand dollars per year in school loans. Fuck my life.

I swirl my hips slowly, grinding my ass against the erection hiding in his slacks. Arching back to lie on his shoulder, I run my hands over my breasts, caressing them slowly for his viewing pleasure. As I tug on a nipple and softly moan, his fingers twitch against the arm of the chair. You want to touch me so bad right now, I think as I grin. I'd make a lot more money if he could, but I'm not complaining. He just paid me two hundred dollars to give him blue balls.

The light shines in the corner signaling his time is up. I take my time as I stand, sure to poke out my ass when I turn to face him. "You're time's all up, sweet thing." The clients like my southern twang, whether it's forced or not. I may not be a Georgia peach, but these assholes don't know that.

He readjusts himself and stands. "Erm ... thanks."

"Anytime, cutie." I give him a wink to send him on his way.

When the door closes behind him, I let out an exasperated breath. This job is fucking awful. It isn't the dancing I hate, it's that I feel like a half-naked zombie going through the motions, waiting for a bit of cash to get thrown my way. I hope working at the brothel will be a bit more entertaining. At least it will pay better.

I place my top back on and retie it. The bass from the main room rumbles through the floor. Peeking through the window, I find it isn't as busy as I'd like it to be for a Thursday night. That means I'll have to put in some effort. Ugh.

I'm already exhausted, far too tired to try to find another idiot willing to blow his money on a private dance, but I don't have a choice. Laziness doesn't pay my bills, men named Bill that like my tits do.

Walking out of the room and down the short hall, the loud music overtakes me once again. There goes my skirt, droppin' to my feet, Tweet sings. What a fucking stripper song.

The lights move in time with the music, giving the dark room a sultry, red tint as it illuminates my possible targets. It only takes me a moment before I spot him.

Late twenties, flawless, olive skin, dark stubble and buzz cut hair -- all wrapped up in a perfectly tailored Armani suit. He sits alone, sipping his glass of bourbon, looking at his cell phone rather than the half-naked women all around him. His body language radiates a "don't fucking talk to me" attitude; his strong, broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows leaning onto his table so to not invite the girls to come by.

Unluckily for him, a buff, Dominican in an expensive suit screams "pro baseball player." No matter what he does, every girl this club is going to try him.

I smirk as Cheshire approaches him, right on cue. She's a bad bitch and practically runs this place, but even her charm can't work on him. She flips her auburn hair and leans towards him, subtly wiggling her exposed breasts within his view. He barely gives her the courtesy of eye contact when he rejects her.

She looks miffed, but we get so much worse in here. She leaves his table, walking over in my direction. When she's within earshot she raises an eyebrow and says, "Don't waste your time. That one's a real prick."

I smile. Little does she know.

She presses a quick kiss to my cheek before walking off. It sucks that she's so nice. I'd really like to hate her for being prettier than me. And for thinking that "we should hang out sometime" meant I actually wanted to hang out and not fuck her. But mainly the pretty thing.

I make my way over and lean into his view. "Hey, Remy."

His plump lips spread into a wide smile, displaying his perfectly straight teeth. His body relaxes as he leans back. "Hey, hon," he says with the familiar, faint rasp in his deep voice.

"I didn't think you'd ever come visit me at work." I drape my arm over his shoulders and sit on his lap, pretending to flirt so my manager won't yell at me for not making him money. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He pins his smile to hide his enjoyment. "The usual. Still trying to convince you to come work for me instead."

I try to keep from rolling my eyes but fail. He's such a stubborn ass. "I'm not going to let you be my dom. You're my brother, it's weird."

He nearly spits out his drink. "Jesus Christ, Mags! Maybe don't refer to me as your 'brother' in a sentence like that."

I laugh at his misfortune. He narrows his hazel eyes at me but he can't hide his smirk.

We're not related in the slightest, but even if I hadn't lived with his family and fucked his step-brother for three years, I'd still consider him family. I drape my arm around his neck and rest my chin on his shoulder. "We're a weird level of close, Remy. Working together will only make it worse," I explain, but that's only a half-truth. He's always done so much for me. Bringing me here was yet another thing for which I was indebted to him. Though this isn't the job he intended for me, being an escort for his side business wasn't what I had in mind either.

"I think it would be great," he insists. His hazel eyes shimmer in the dim lighting. "Come work another party at my place at least. I'll introduce you to some of the rich pricks I work with, and you can decide if you'd be willing to fuck any of them for lots of money."

I run my free hand under his lapel, coaxing it back and forth over his muscular chest. "You're making it so hard to say no," I say sarcastically.

He chuckles. "Well, I guess you could always stay at this ..." he scans the room full of half-naked women and drunken men with his eyes, "classy establishment." He doesn't know I accepted a job at the brothel. He also doesn't know why I need the extra money. It needs to stay that way.

A breath escapes slowly from my pursed lips as I ponder a different way to decline his offer. From the corner of my eye, I spot a man coming closer. I look in his direction and find the stage manager with his eyebrows raised. "Moxie, you're up next," he says in his gruff way. He's all of five-foot-six, but he does anything he can to seem scary from beneath that extra-small, black t-shirt. I hate him.

"Yeah, thanks," I tell him. He gives Remy a suspicious glance and leaves.

Remy cocks an eyebrow when I look back at him. "Moxie?"

I purse my lips at him. "Fuck off. I thought it was cute."

"Yeah, sure. Super cute," he smiles laughingly. "It's a name full of ... moxie."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Was Candy already taken?" he teases. "What about Roxanne?"

I shake my head, unable to hide my smile. "You're such an asshole."

"That I am." He grins at me as he takes another sip. When he sets down the glass, he smiles laughingly. His eyes trace over my face. I never know what he thinks when he appraises me like that. "Consider the party, Mags," he says. "You deserve better than this."

A laugh nearly escapes me. I hold his face in my hands and press a kiss to his lips. I pat his cheek when I pull away and say, "We both know I don't."

He frowns at me as I stand and walk away.

♡♡♡

After my dance, I sit in the dressing room with Jessie blabbing on and on about her break up as I count my money. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven ... "He's just such an ass, you know?" she says to me. "Like, I shouldn't have to tell him what I want him to do all the time, he should be able to figure it out."

Nope, try the complete opposite, bitch. "Uh-huh."

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty ... When I applied to college, no one told me school would be the easy part. It's the debt that's hard. My parent's income was too high to qualify for financial aid, which is honestly hilarious. I was born with money, I had a fucking trust fund -- but financial statements don't show what my parents did. They don't show what was really stolen from me.

Out of all the things I've lost, my body will always be mine. That means it's mine to use in whichever way I see fit. Sure, I fuck a lot of random people and pretend it's therapy, but that's because I want to. What Remy doesn't get is that I don't have a problem fucking for money, it's that I'd have a problem doing it for him.

I need to be able to make a life for myself, by myself, and right now school is my best way to do that. I know Remy can take care of me with his high-end real estate money, but that's not what I want. I have been dependent on people my whole life, and if I've learned anything in my twenty years, it's that everyone is waiting for an opportunity to fuck you.

People either fuck you, fuck you over, or fuck you up. That's just how it is.

He may be the only human in the world that I trust, but the closer he is to my finances, the closer he is to finding out about my dirty little secret. I'm not going to let him have a reason to leave me too.

"And he was with that bitch again last week," Jessie whines. I completely forgot she was talking. Relationship drama is low on the list of bullshit I let occupy my mind. "I told him if I saw them together again I was gone." She trims her tampon string and pulls her thong back up. "So, I think we're over for sure this time." She's said this at least twice.

"Oh yeah?" I ask as if I have been listening or care.

"Yeah, he can't expect me to fuck him and not get mad when he fucks someone else. He said he loved me last week, so that means he should want to --"

"Shit!" I accidentally interrupt her. My counting stopped at 257. My entire pile of money consisted of ones and fives. What cheap-ass bastards did they bring in tonight?

"Bad night?" Jessie asks with about as much interest as I showed her.

"Bad week." My rent is due next weekend, and I'm behind by more than half. Funny how this keeps happening. "Fuck!" I glance over at her and find her looking quite unamused. "Oh, and uh ... sorry about your boyfriend, girlie. That's ..." I try to think of a word. "Oof!"

Jessie looks at me blankly then walks away without another word. I'm not completely sure what I did wrong, but I'm also not sure if I care.

I grab my phone from the vanity and text Remy.

Me: when is ur

next party?

Remy: This weekend

Me: what do u

want me 2 do?

Remy: Dildo show?

Me: r u asking

or telling?

Remy: Asking?

I snort with my laughter.

Me: How much?

Remy: How much

do you need hon?

As much as I wish I didn't need him, he's the best big brother I was never born with. He already saved me twice. He should never have to save me again, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't try.

Me: I'm in

_____

A/N: I did not ask how old you were in 2002. Please stop exposing yourselves.

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