If nothing else comes of this, I want her to see that I’m not a waste of space. I don’t know if it’s retribution or redemption that I’m after. All I know is that either of them will prove her wrong about me, and that’s all I really care about.

I push the blanket Jonathan gave me when we got home last night to the side and sit up. Last I remember, he and Ginger were in his room, fighting. She was here waiting for him when we got home at sometime after three, and she was super pissed. Can’t say I blame her. They were screaming so loud when I finally turned off the light and went to . . . sofa, I can’t believe I actually fell asleep. But as I sit here trying to shake off my hangover and wake up, it becomes glaringly apparent Ginger didn’t make good on her threat to rip Jonathan’s dick off because, based on the rhythmic knocking of his headboard against the wall, he’s clearly using it at the moment.

I drag myself to the kitchen and start the coffee, then stand here staring at the pot until a full cup has dribbled into it. The heating plate hisses as I yank the pot out from under the drip and pour the contents into my mug. I’m holding it to my face and burning my mouth on the sweet nectar when Jonathan’s door clicks open.

I look up, and wish I hadn’t, because the only thing he’s wearing is his extensive ink, and the condom he’s in the process of peeling off as he crosses to the bathroom. And I’m suddenly feeling like I’ve made a huge mistake. Do I really want to live here with a guy I’m not dating, but I’ve already seen naked more times than his mother ever did?

Ginger stumbles out of the room behind him in one of his band T-shirts, her spiky white-blond hair looking how it always does—just fucked—and her black eyeliner smudged, giving her a distinct raccoon look.

“Hey, Red,” she croaks as she staggers into the kitchen. She makes a beeline for the coffeepot and pours a cup. I hold out my mug and she refills it, then I shuffle out to the sofa and curl into the corner, cradling my mug to my chest and breathing in the steam so no caffeine escapes.

Jonathan comes out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans that he probably left on the bathroom floor last night. “Kevin wants nine hundred,” he says as he drops onto the sofa next to me.

“A month?” I ask, my eyes bugging out of my head.

He nods.

“To sleep on his sofa?”

He nods again.

“But aren’t you paying nine hundred?”

“Yep.”

“So, if I’m paying nine hundred, and you’re paying nine hundred, what’s he paying?”

He shrugs.

I roll my eyes as Ginger comes out of the kitchen with her mug and a granola bar, sitting on my other side. “Jon says you got a gig at Benny’s.”

“Yeah, for now. Jonathan got me hooked up.”

She gives Jonathan a “what the fuck?” look. “You brought her to that flesh pit on purpose?”

He holds up his hands as if surrendering. “Hey, she needed a job. I got her one.”

I scrunch my face. “If Kevin’s going to charge me nine hundred a month to sleep on this sofa, I’ve got to sock away some cash.”

“Yeah, well . . . if it were me, I’d tell Kevin to go fuck himself,” she says. “And I can help you find a real job, if you want. One that doesn’t involve pandering to the lowest common denominator and endorsing the double standard.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I say. But then I remember the stack of cash in my bag. “You know . . . I think I’m going to stick with this for a while and see how it goes. But, thanks.”

“Whatever,” she says. “And, if Kevin’s seriously charging you nine hundred, you definitely need to find a new place to live. There are a hell of a lot better places than this for that kind of money,” she adds with a flick of her eyes at the apartment.

I burrow deeper into the sofa and sip my coffee. “Well, if you hear of any, let me know.”

“You got it,” she says, then leans in and presses her shoulder into mine. “But as long as you’re living here, can you do me a favor and remind Jonathan to keep his dick in his pants?”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”

“My dick was in my pants all night,” Jonathan protests, “until you took it out.”

I don’t mention the blonde at the bar because, technically, I don’t think he’s lying.

Ginger cuts him a look, then pushes up from the sofa. “I gotta get ready for work.” She takes her coffee and disappears behind Jonathan’s door.

“Speaking of work, when do you go back?” Jonathan asks.

“Tonight. Nora put me on center stage.”

Jonathan sits up a little straighter. “Are you shitting me?”

“Um . . . not as far as I know. Why?”

“You just need to watch your back. Center usually goes to the girls with seniority. There are a couple of them who are going to be pissed.”

The truth is, I’m not nearly as excited about going back tonight as I thought I’d be, and I know why. Dancing for Harrison got me hotter than I want to admit. There’s something about the way he watched me on stage—like I could actually feel his gaze—that was totally erotic. It’s depressing to think about going back there and not having him in the room for inspiration.

Ginger struts out of Jonathan’s bedroom, now fully dressed, and I do a double take. She’s in heels and a cropped black jacket over a green silk blouse and black pencil skirt. Her makeup is minimal and her hair is freshly gelled.

“Try not to fall dick first into anyone today, honey,” she says with a syrupy smile, and blows Jonathan a kiss before vanishing through the front door.

“Where does she work?” I ask Jonathan, staring after her.

“She’s a paralegal for the ACLU.” He flashes me that boyish grin. “Hot, huh?”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Jeez, Jonathan. Didn’t know you were into older women.”

“Yes you did. You’re older than me and I’m into you,” he says, nudging his elbow into mine.

“Only by a few months.”

He shrugs. “She’s hot. I don’t discriminate.”

I suck down the rest of my coffee and hand him my empty mug. “She knows you too well.”

He takes it and goes to the kitchen to pour me a refill. “She just thinks she knows me too well. She really doesn’t know shit, because I haven’t screwed anyone else in the month we’ve been official.”

I roll my eyes. “You know grinding against fake blondes in bars counts, right?”

“Why should that count? If I was jacking off in the shower, would that count?” he says, coming around the corner to the living room with a beer in one hand and my mug in the other.

I shrug. “If you were making sense, maybe I could answer that question.”

“It’s the same thing,” he says, handing me my cup and dropping into the sofa.

I roll my eyes. In order to argue with him, I’d have to untangle his twisted logic, and that’s just too hard this early in the afternoon.

We curl into the sofa and watch the Doctor Who marathon, reciting all the best lines, until it’s time for me to get ready for work. I’m surprised when he follows me out the front door.

“You don’t need to come tonight, you know. I’ll be fine.”

He grins. “I’m not going for you. Or,” he adds with a smirk, “I guess I am. I’m even going to stay sober tonight . . . at least until you’re done—just so I know I’m not imagining how hot you are up there.”

I roll my eyes but don’t fight him. I’d rather have the ride than take the BART.

When we walk in, Jonathan heads toward Pete in the DJ booth, and I head for the dressing room. I push through the door and find a black girl at the makeup table, and a brunette with legs up to her eyeballs, sitting on the sofa, slipping on a pair of red nylons.

“Hey,” the black one says, spinning the stool to face me. “You must be Newbie. We heard you were all that last night.”

“Yeah. Hi. Sam,” I say with a lame finger wave.

“I’m Izzy and that’s Brittany,” she says with a nod at the brunette.

Brittany looks up from straightening her nylons just long enough to glare at me.

Great.

“It’s usually more crowded in here,” Izzy says, waving at the room, “but Nora’s still short girls, so Brit and I are doing doubles.”

“Son of a bitch,” Brittany growls from the sofa. I look over and her red dagger of a thumbnail has poked through her nylon, running it all the way to her toes. “Fucking cheap things Nora buys,” she says, ripping it off.

Izzy turns back to the vanity table and finishes with her eyes. I drop my bag near the sofa and find all my stuff in the closet, folded into a box labeled with my name. As I tug off my shirt and start to change, I feel Brittany’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn around.

“Where did you dance before?” she asks, reaching past me into the lingerie closet.

“Um . . . I haven’t really done this before,” I answer, looking over my shoulder at her as I button my vest.

She rolls her eyes. “Figures. Nora doesn’t know her ass from first base.”

“Cut her some slack, Brit,” Izzy says from the vanity, teasing her hair into an Afro and spraying it in place. “She bailed Ben out last night.”

Brittany grabs a new nylon and gets in my face on her way back to the sofa. “You’re new,” she says, running a finger under the tuxedo collar of my vest. “The guys like fresh meat every once in a while. But they always come back to the best, so don’t get used to it.” She brushes past and drops onto the sofa again.

I put on my garter and shorts, then find a empty vanity chair and slip on my nylons. I really don’t want to piss anyone off. I wish Nora hadn’t given me center.