Twisted Loyalties (The Camorra Chronicles 1)

“You aren’t?” Her shoulders slumped, one of the thin spaghetti straps sliding off and allowing a glance at the strapless pink bra beneath her top. “Oh damn. I can’t do this alone tonight. Mel called in sick, and I…” She trailed off. “You could work here, you know?”

“That’s why I’m here,” I said, even though the fighting cage freaked me out. Beggars can’t be choosers, Leona.

“Perfect. Then come on. Let’s find Roger. I’m Cheryl, by the way.”

She gripped my forearm and pulled me along. “Is the payment so bad or why are you having trouble finding staff?” I asked as I hurried after her, my sandals smacking against the stone floor.

“Oh, it’s the fighting. Many girls are squeamish,” she said off-handedly but I had a feeling there was more she wasn’t telling me.

We walked through a black swing door behind the bar counter, along a narrow bare-walled corridor with more doors, and toward another massive wooden door at the end. She knocked.

“Come in,” said a deep voice. Cheryl opened the door to a large office that was foggy from cigarette smoke. Inside a middle-aged man, built like a bull, sat behind a desk. He flashed his teeth at Cheryl, his double chin becoming more prominent. Then his eyes settled on me.

“I got us a new waitress,” Cheryl said, the hint of flirtation in her voice. Really? Perhaps it was a boss thing.

“Roger,” the man introduced himself, squashing a burnt-down cigarette on the ketchup-smeared plate in front of him. “You can start working right away.”

I opened my mouth in surprise.

“That’s why you’re here right? Five dollars per hour plus everything you make from tips.”

“Okay?” I said uncertainly.

“Dressed like that you won’t earn much tips, girl.” He picked up his mobile and gestured us to go back out. “Get something that shows off your ass or tits. This isn’t a nunnery.”

When the door had closed, I gave Cheryl a questioning look. “Does it always go like that?”

She shrugged, but again I got the impression that she was keeping something from me. “He’s just really desperate right now. Tonight’s an important fight and he doesn’t want things to get messy because we’re low on staff.”

“Why does it matter how I’m dressed?” Worry overcame. “We don’t have to do anything with guests, right?”

She shook her head. “We don’t have to, no. But we have a few rich customers that mean good money. Especially if you give them some special attention.”

I shook my head. “No, no. That’s not going to happen.”

She nodded. “It’s up to you.” She led me back out. “You can leave your backpack here.” She pointed toward the ground behind the bar. Reluctantly I set it down. I couldn’t keep it on me when I worked. She rummaged in a small chamber to the left of the bar and appeared with a mop and a bucket. “You can start by cleaning the changing room. The first fighters will arrive in about two hours. Until then everything should be clean.”

I hesitated. She frowned. “What? Too good for cleaning?”

“No,” I said quickly. I wasn’t too good for anything. And I’d cleaned up every possible disgusting thing in my life. “It’s just I haven’t eaten anything since last night and I feel a bit faint.”

I hated to admit it. But the fridge was still empty and I was still out of money. And dad didn’t seem concerned about food at all. Either he ate out wherever he went at night or he lived on air alone. Pity crossed her face, making me regret my words. Pity had been something I had been submitted to too often. It had always made me feel small and worthless. With a mother who sold her body on the street, my teachers and the social workers had always been very forthcoming with their pity, but never with a way out of the mess. The guy from yesterday, when he’d bought me food, it hadn’t felt like an act of charity for some reason.

Cheryl set down the mop and bucket, and grabbed something from a fridge behind the bar. She put a coke down in front of me, then she turned and went back through the swing door. She showed up with a grilled cheese sandwich and fries, both cold. “They are from last night but the kitchen isn’t open yet.”

I didn’t care. I wolfed down everything within a few minutes and washed it down with the cold coke. “Thanks,” I said with a big smile.

She searched my face, then shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t ask, but how old are you?”

“I’m old enough to work here,” I said. I knew I needed to be twenty-one to work in a place like this, so I didn’t mention that I’d finished high school this year.

She looked doubtful. “Be careful, Chick,” she said simply and pushed the mop into my arms. I took it, picked up the bucket and headed for the door with the red neon sign reading changing room. I wedged it open with my elbow and slipped in.