Wake Up Call

CHAPTER 1

"This has got to change, Avery. There's got to be something more to life than this shit you live," I mumble to myself before heading back to my room and crawling back into my bed, in hopes that I can shut my eyes for just a few more minutes. Just a few minutes...

Running my fingers through my messy hair, I pull my fleece blanket over my lap and get ready to lay back down. My eyes trail over to the alarm clock on the small desk next to my bed and I panic at the thought that I slept later than I thought. "Oh shit!" I'm due at the club in less than an hour and I look a hot mess: a train wreck at its worst.

I throw the blanket off my bare legs and jump to my feet in a rush. Scrambling to the bathroom, I kick a pair of old jeans out of my way and turn on the steaming hot water. It sputters out in drips of umber, causing me to jump back and squirm as it slowly begins to come out clean. Fuckin' disgusting.

Stripping out of my black and gray T-shirt and kicking my panties aside, I step into the stained shower, close my eyes and quickly exhale. The steaming water hits my skin roughly, and rolls down my body as I tilt my head back and run my fingers through my hair.

I finish showering in a rush and step out before drying off and wrapping my hair into a messy bun in hopes it will make me look a bit more mature.

Not that it matters anyway - in my sordid line of business, they like the women to be young, loose and wild. Sometimes I pretend to pull that off. Other days, I hate myself too much to try, so I go for the "older - don't fuck with me - mature look".

I throw on a black mini skirt, silver tank top and a pair of stilettos before grabbing my cell phone and calling for a taxi. I'll be lucky to get there on time now, so I hope to hell that this cab comes quickly. Not a good way to keep my job. That's for damn sure. As much as I hate it, it's the only thing keeping me in this dump.

"1313 Remington Place. Make it quick, please," I say in a rush, not even giving the person on the other end the chance to speak. At this point, I have no time to waste.

When the gaudy, yellow taxi pulls up outside my apartment, I'm already outside waiting. Jumping inside, I slam the door shut behind me, a little harder than I meant to and tap the back of the driver's seat.

The driver looks back at me with beady eyes and grips the steering wheel, his gray hair falling over his aging face as he takes me in. "Ma'am?" he questions, with a small smile.

"Taste of Poison," I reply hastily. "Fast please. I'm running late. So late."

He swallows hard and eyes me from the rearview mirror, his expression uneasy, as I look at him impatiently and start to dig through my purse. "Yes, ma'am. If that's what you desire."

Sadly, I'm starting to get used to this reaction. That pitiful look I get whenever I mention that awful place. It's humiliating at times, but I bite my tongue, not wanting to explode on anyone tonight.

We pull up to Taste of Poison and I toss the man a twenty-dollar bill through his open window before he drives away in a cloud of swirling exhaust, as if just being outside this place creeps him the hell out. Well imagine working here, ass hat.

The neon sign flashes above me. 'Exotic Dancers' it reads in a flamboyant pink text that I have grown to hate with a passion. It makes my stomach churn, just looking at it. What I wouldn't do to never have to see that sign again.

I place my palm over my stomach and start to make my way toward the entrance of the building when I spot a man eyeing me, his drunken eyes gazing at me with lust. It makes me feel so dirty, and makes me angry at the fact that I can't just gauge his creepy little eyes out for undressing me in his mind.