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hundred a night. That’s what made me come in here one day and ask for the job even though I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
    Eyeing each of these fancy cars makes me wonder if I’d made a mistake, second-guessing the decision I’d made. I slow down to take in all of the models. Acura, BMW, Mercedes, Lexus. My God. They’re gorgeous.
    A loud honking sound blares out behind me, causing me to jump and I instantly look into the rearview mirror at a set of blinding white headlights. Pulling over quickly, I park my rusty Honda into a corner spot and let the cherry red convertible Corvette that was waiting impatiently pass.
    It swings wide into one of the first spots and shuts off the blasting music as the engine is cut. She’s busy talking on her cell phone animatedly as I cautiously gather my things and walk toward the employee entrance. As I pass her brand new car, I can’t help but notice the vanity license plate that says CANDYCANE.
    One look at the buxom woman sitting behind the wheel smoking her cigarette and I understand completely where the moniker comes from. She has gorgeous red flowing hair that matches the paint of her car.
    “You lost, darlin? This lot’s for employees only.” There’s a biting edge to her words. She gets out and follows me, leaving her expensive car behind.
    Her tight red dress barely manages to hold her in, and the sky-high clear plastic heels she wears don’t balance well on the gravel we walk through, so her already swaying hips accentuate themselves.
    “I know,” I reply. “Dawson told me to park here.”
    Her eyes light up at the mention of his name. “Did he, now?”
    I smile my lips tightly, trying to read her. As soon as we reach the large metal door, it swings open, with a leather-vested man that I recognize standing guard.
    “Ladies,” he greets us and steps aside allowing us room to pass.
    “Hey, Esè. Busy out there tonight?” Candy takes her lipstick-stained cigarette from her painted lips and tosses it onto the ground to smash with her Lucite heel.
    Her perfectly toned and tanned leg is on full display and the young kid can’t help but stare. “Uh--uh, yeah. Full house. Hey, Angel.”
    He greets me but his eyes don’t leave her thigh as the skintight dress nearly rides high enough for him to see her goods.
    I nod. “Molly. My name’s really Molly.”
    He doesn’t hear me as he’s practically drooling over the Jessica Rabbit doppelganger next to me.
    “Well, which is it, hon? Angel or Molly? We got enough girls in there to remember names of, we don’t need one that has two.”
    “Molly. I have no idea why Dawson calls me Angel,” I explain.
    That catches her attention. “Oh … I see. Dawson gave you a nickname, hmm?” She shares a conspiratory look with Esè.
    I turn to her, not at all liking the implication at all. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Sure, she’s taller than me, no thanks to her stripper heels, and has bigger boobs than me, but I can take her if I need to. All I’d have to do is push her over and she’d fall off her four-inch platforms.
    She laughs. “Nothing, darlin’. You should ask him what his nickname for me is.”
    I don’t know why, but I feel a lump form in the base of my throat. I hate the little name Dawson’s given me, but I somehow suddenly feel protective of it.
    I look her in the eye, trying to read her. She’s being passively-aggressive, and not straight out bitchy. I don’t get her.
    “Although,” she adds as she steps aside to pass me. “He only calls me it when he’s fucking me.”
    Esè clears his throat chuckling to himself as she stalks off into the building toward the dressing room.
    A tight vice squeezes my lungs as I process her claim. He fucks her. She fucks him. Of course she does. Look at her body, at her car. That’s the type of chick that someone like Dawson would bang, not me. I have no idea why I was even worried about signals getting crossed between the two of us, worried about