is being stuffed into my bag.
I get it, that’s a terrible way of keeping my money but I can’t open up a bank account in my real name without setting off some alarms and opening a bank account with a fake ID is just… too risky. Too fucking risky for me right now so I keep that shit on me or locked up while I dance.
The more it grows the more terrified I get about having it on hand but it’s not so much at the moment that I have to immediately worry about it. I just need to keep an eye out for another solution.
My college classes start up again and I find myself set up at the Coldstone library to work during the day. The lady at the front desk is a nightmare, a total fucking bitch the second she lays her eyes on me, but I grit my teeth and put up with it.
My laptop is old and beat to hell so I price up getting a new one the second I connect to the library’s slow-ass wifi.
There’s no way I’m parting with that much cash.
No freaking way.
I guess that’s the real problem with being a stripper and knowing exactly what your time is worth, there’s no way I’m wasting a whole fucking dance on getting a new MacBook when this one will do for now.
So I set up on one of the desks with my headphones on to watch hours and hours of lectures, taking notes until I think my hands are going to fall off of my arms. The library is quiet enough, even when a small group of little old ladies set up a book club session in the meeting rooms, and I get everything I need done for the week in a single session. There’s assignments to start working on and I make a detailed plan to get that shit done tomorrow morning, and by the time I have to leave because it’s closing the tightness in my chest eases off a little.
I can do this.
I can work three or four nights a week, study during the day, sleep in my car, cut my food costs so I’m only eating when I feel like I’m going to pass the hell out, and I can pay cash for fucking everything.
A house, college, and a buffer so I never have to rely on anyone ever again. I can fucking do it.
My shift at The Boulevard doesn’t start for another four hours so I grab my shit and drive to the next town over to shop for some more outfits. Fuck, it feels wrong to even call them outfits. Thongs and bras and a shit ton of pasties. There’s a couple of sex shops with decent options and the girls there are nice enough. They stare at me a little when I go through every rack, the list of themes on my phone as I work through all of the choices until I find enough shit to get me through the next week.
The total is fucking heartbreaking.
I pay for it with my stacks of bills and the girl behind the counter grins at me. “Fuck girl, you must be raking it in! The other girls only buy half what you do.”
I blush and shrug. “I like having a big collection, I’m fussy like that.”
She grins at me and fills a bag up with the scraps of lace, tucking a sampler perfume in there with it. “Have fun girl! I wish I had the goods to make the same green!”
I duck my head with a grin. Fuck, it’s the first time someone has spoken to me about dancing without it being a fucking problem. I get into my car with a smile on my face for the first time in forever.
Maybe it’s not so fucking bad.
Three weeks into working at The Boulevard and I hit a wall.
I’m tired.
There’s never a time where I’m not exhausted now that I’m working until four in the morning every other day and I have to be out of the carpark by seven. There are places I can park during the day but there’s a lot more danger with that and none of those places will be dark like the carpark.
I drink a lot of energy drinks.
They’re cheap enough and now that I need to stay skinny I choose a sugar free one and call it breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I force myself to stay up to date with my college classes because