It was incredible that this was the first time in my thirty-nine years that I was feeling it. I’d had a life. A father who loved me. A career. Savings. God. That felt like ages ago rather than six short months.
I had almost $2,000 squirreled away. My paycheck was supposed to cover the rest.
What was I going to do between now and tomorrow to come up with more than $3,000 in less than twenty-four hours?
Maybe I could throw myself on Front Desk Deena’s mercy and beg for more time?
On cue, my cell phone rang. It was the nursing home’s office calling. Panic tickled at my throat.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Morales.” Deena’s wicked witch of New Jersey voice turned my blood to ice. “I was just calling to see if I needed to instruct the nursing staff to start packing your father’s possessions today.” She sounded downright cheerful.
“That won’t be necessary.” I choked out the words.
“Well, isn’t that good news?” she said, her tone making it clear that she didn’t believe me. “If it’s more convenient for you, I’d be happy to accept your check today.”
I gulped. “Tomorrow is good.” I needed every second between now and then.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at nine sharp,” Deena said. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I heard her cackle just before she hung up.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Reeling, blinded by unshed tears, I started to move.
I cut the corner short and bounced off a hard, vested chest like a pinball. But he didn’t catch me. It was the other man next to him that steadied me.
“Ally, right? Are you okay?” he asked. Christian James. Designer. Dimples. I bet he wouldn’t reject me if I handed over my panties. My brain was a roller coaster of confusion and then fear. I’d failed. Dad was going to lose his bed because of me.
“Fine,” I lied, the word coming out like I was being strangled. Choking on my own failure. My neck felt hot and itchy.
“Ally, what’s wrong?” Dominic was wrestling me out of Christian’s gentle grip.
I couldn’t catch my breath. Label’s classy walls were closing in on me. Dominic’s blue, concerned eyes.
I wrenched free from him. “Nothing,” I wheezed. He reached for me again, and I shook my head before fleeing for the door to the stairs.
Afraid he’d follow me, I went up instead of down at a run. By the time I hit the roof and burst through the door into the biting cold, I was on fumes. Mentally, emotionally, physically. This was it. Rock bottom. If rock bottom happened on top of a skyscraper in Midtown in February.
I dragged in an icy breath and let it out in a silvery cloud. Again and again until the tightness in my chest started to loosen.
“Panic attack. Not heart attack,” I whispered to myself as I plastered myself against the wall and waited for it to pass.
There was no room for panic. No time to lament. I needed a solution. I needed help.
I gave it another minute, hoping for divine inspiration from the goddess of skyscraper meltdowns. When none came, I did the next best thing. I dragged my phone out and dialed Faith.
My best friend’s face popped up on my screen, an eye mask sitting crookedly on her forehead.
“’Sup?” she rasped. Her natural jet-black hair was platinum blonde with subtle streaks of violet shoved up into a lopsided knot.
“Late night?” I wheezed.
“I own forty percent of a strip club. What do you think?”
Ladies and Gentlemen was an equal-opportunity Miami-themed strip club with men, women, and a troupe of talented drag queens.
It was fabulous and even classy in a debauched, naked kind of way.
“Tonight’s amateur night, right?”
She sat up in bed, bobbling the phone. I stared up at her ceiling for a few seconds and caught an accidental nip slip out of her hot pink negligee because of course my best friend slept in lingerie.
“Are you coming?” she shrieked, picking the phone back up.
“How much did you say I can make?” I asked. Faith had been trying to convince me to come in on amateur night since I came back home.
“All participants get $100 plus two free drinks. Then the top three contenders split the prize money. You, with your ass-shaking abilities, are a shoo-in for first place, even without me as a judge. That’s gonna be $2,500 easy. Plus tips.”
She had me at free drinks. And $2,500.
I wanted to cry. And all I had to do was shake my ass. Oh, yeah, and show a club full of