Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“But how can they know any of this? May barely speaks English. I assume that’s the case with some of the other servers.”
“Rouge has a genius IQ. She speaks multiple languages fluently, and if she doesn’t speak a certain language, I assume she hires an interpreter. She’s an excellent pianist and violinist, has an art gallery downtown, and runs multiple businesses outside of Aces. She even has a law degree.”
Alissa narrows her eyes. “A law degree?”
“Sure.” I laugh. “You have to know the law to skirt around it.”
I’m kidding—mostly—but Alissa doesn’t seem amused.
“Where does she find these people?”
“Foreign countries. She travels a few times a year.”
“How does she decide who to choose?”
I clear my throat. “Well, they have to be attractive. Healthy. In good shape.”
She scoffs. “So the uggos don’t make the cut?”
I run my hands through my hair. “I didn’t say it was fair. But Rouge is the one putting her money up. It’s not as if she’s running a charity. She also covers their medical expenses while they’re here, so anyone with a chronic condition probably won’t be chosen. She’s running a for-profit business.”
“And they have to be nice-looking, too.”
“She wants the waitstaff to look good, yeah.”
“So she can whore them out to the patrons?”
I shrug. “Like I said, it’s all consensual. They all know what they’re signing up for when they come.” I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “These people have their whole lives ahead of them. They can make something of themselves. And five years of service to the club is nothing in the grand scheme of things.”
27
ALISSA
I tent my fingers in front of my nose, close my eyes, and take a deep breath in.
I’m trying to make sense of what Maddox just told me.
Five years of service in exchange for housing, food, medical and immigration expenses.
It’s unclear if they get paid. But I did fill out a tip line when I closed out my tab this afternoon. There was a separate line for service and for bar staff. I’d ask one of the waitstaff if they’re allowed to keep their tips, but none of them will talk to me.
The world can be a cruel place. An unjust one.
I didn’t exactly grow up rich, but we were comfortable. There was always food on the table, always petrol in the car.
Mum was an absolute nightmare at times, but I had a roof over my head.
I look around at the waitstaff. The women in their skimpy bikinis, the men in the short shorts, united by the pattern of the card suit of whichever section they’re assigned. All the men have visible sixpacks, the women toned abs and arms. They’re gorgeous across the board—any of them could land a gig with a modeling agency after their time at the club has finished.
I’m sure a lot of them are smart, too. They could go to college, become lawyers, engineers, doctors. One of the people here could have the cure for cancer lying within their future, and it might never come to fruition if it weren’t for Rouge bringing them over to the States.
When May comes back from her suspension, I’ll make sure to give her a good tip. In cash. Make sure it goes to her and only her.
I look around at the club. How different it looks now from this afternoon. The colored lights illuminating each section, each one carefully positioned to hide the scratches on the floor, the watermarks on the tables that I noticed when I came in this afternoon. The way it looks now, you’d never notice the small faults lying in plain sight.
It looks clean…but it isn’t clean.
And damn, I know a bloody lot about clean and unclean.
The tiles are bloody.
My blood.
I fell to my knees and started sobbing the moment Mum left the kitchen. I fell on the shards of china and glass that littered the floor in the wake of her destruction. I’m wearing shorts, and my knees were fully exposed.
And now I’m bleeding. More mess to clean up.
I just hope Mum doesn’t see.
I can’t even feel the cuts in my knees, or the minor burns on my belly from when Mum threw the boiling water on the floor. I think I’m in shock. I brush as much of the glass off as I can and get to my feet, trudging over to the cleaning closet for a broom and dustpan. I find a couple of rags in the closet, which I wrap around my knees to stop the bleeding. Then I return to the kitchen and begin sweeping.
The pieces of china are big enough to sweep into the dustpan, but the glass is harder. I’ll have to vacuum once I’ve swept up as much as I can. I’ll have to mop, too, because of the still-hot water coating the tiles.