Four Seconds to Lose

account, or rent an apartment, or register for college. Or travel. Without a legitimate card with a name and my face on it, I won’t be able to start fresh and lead a good, normal life. People don’t realize how vital something like a piece of ID is.

If Cain doesn’t hire me, I guess I’ll have to go back to Sin City with my tail between my legs. Just the memory of that hairy, sweaty guy with his pants around his thighs makes my legs clamp shut.

“Here you go, my darling!” Ginger croons, handing me a glass of something. I drain it in one large gulp. “You did great out there!”

“I’m not so sure,” I mutter, pleading with her pretty eyes—heavily lined with smoky blue kohl tonight—to convince me otherwise. “China didn’t seem to think so.”

Ginger’s face scrunches up. “Ignore her. She’s just giving you the gears. She’s a bitch and she doesn’t like new competition.”

I heave a reluctant sigh. Okay, hearing that helps a bit. Ginger’s always doing and saying things to try and make me feel better. I wonder if that means she’s a real friend. I don’t really know. I’ve only ever had superficial friends and casual acquaintances. The ones where people talked to me because I’m pretty and rich. I’ve never had a best friend before, one I could truly talk to about anything. Sam preferred it that way. I guess it all worked out for the best, as there was no one to miss me when I left Long Island. “Do you think Cain will give me the job?”

She shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” Leaning in, she strikes Nate in his rib cage. “Where’s boss man?”

“Out.”

She rolls her eyes. “For . . .”

“For the night.”

“Thanks for elaborating, Nate.” With an exasperated sigh, she offers me a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get an answer tomorrow and I’m sure it will be a positive one.” With a wink, she adds, “You’ll be working the bar with me.”

“Hey.” Ben squeezes in between us, throwing a heavy, muscular arm over each of our shoulders. “You bring her in, Ginger?”

She looks at him warily. “Yeah. Why?”

A curious smile passes over his face. “How do you two know each other?”

He buckles when Ginger’s fist rams into his side. “We’re friends, Ben,” she snarls as she stalks back toward the bar. Ben’s mischievous grin follows her, not disguising his brief appreciation of her ass, quite visible in a tight red dress.

Turning that broad smile back to peer down at me, his arm still around my shoulder, Ben murmurs, “So, Charlie . . .”

This guy is piece of work. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s a player, but that easygoing boyish charm of his somehow makes it kind of cute. And dimples. Deep dimples that pull a temporary shroud over my worry and make me feel like all is right in the world. I wonder if he’s always this flirtatious.

I’m not overly experienced in the flirting department. As abnormal as my life is, my relationship experience probably matches that of the average high school girl. Except where other high school girls were busy crying over unanswered texts and catfighting with empty threats, I just moved on, more focused on theater.

So maybe I’m not average in any regard.

Given my naturally reserved demeanor and how I was raised, I’m usually the one to listen rather than speak. I’ve never pursued a guy. I had a couple of boyfriends in high school. We went out in groups a lot. The times that I was alone with a guy, there wasn’t much need for flirting—or talking, in general.

I lost my virginity to Ryan Fleming—the lead in the high school play—during my junior year. We weren’t even dating when it happened, but we had known each other for months and I knew he liked me. A lot of guys in high school seemed to like me. Ryan said it was because I was “mysterious” and “not annoying.” A lot of girls in high school hated me and I think it’s because of the attention I got from boys. And because I was marked a “snob” on account of my reserve.

Ryan was the first and only guy that I felt anything for. He was sweet and understanding. Very well- mannered. I knew he was a future Ivy Leaguer. We had been dating for two months when he asked me to his senior prom. I happily accepted, already mapping out in my mind how we might make a long-distance relationship work the following year.

Ryan never came to pick me up that night, though. He didn’t answer his phone or my texts to him, either. When I called his house, his mother seemed surprised that I was expecting him. She stammered a little, confused, finally admitting that she thought we had broken up.

I sat on that spiral staircase of our foyer for hours, my shoulders hunched, my mind confused, my heart in dejected pieces.

When Sam arrived home, his face was a mask of calm. He gave nothing away—certainly no worry, no sympathy. Taking a seat next to me, he explained how this was for the best, how I was young and I shouldn’t be tying myself down. I said nothing, simply looking up at him. And then he trained narrowed gray eyes on me as he said, in an even tone, that he wasn’t pleased with the idea of me getting serious with anyone. That he kept his end of the deal by giving me everything I could ever want, by protecting me, by not leaving me alone in this world.

I’ve always had a visceral need to please Sam.

I heard through the grapevine that Ryan did end up at his prom, arriving solo, and leaving with my childhood nemesis, Becky Taylor. When I saw him in the hallway on Monday, he walked past me as if he didn’t even know me, but I couldn’t help notice that his back was rigid, his pace was quick, and his face was a shade of pale I wasn’t used to seeing on him. As if he were terrified by the sight of me.

There was a flicker of a thought back then—that Sam could be involved with this strange twist in Ryan’s behavior—but I quickly dismissed it. I mean, Sam would never allow me to be hurt so much.

Now, though, I can’t help but wonder if Sam was the reason I sat on those steps in a violet dress until midnight, my phone in my hands, miserable.

It took me a while to get over Ryan, but I did, and there were other boys. All short-lived, all fumbling-in- the-dark notches in my senior-year belt. All guys that I dumped the second I felt any hint of emotion. And after what happened with Sal, I haven’t had much interest in anyone.

Now this attractive blond man is ogling me like he wants to teach me all that a teenage boy can’t, and then some.

“Ben! Back off.” Nate’s booming voice pulls Ben’s attention away from my face with a small scowl.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters, sliding his arm off me. But he shoots a wink at me immediately after. Nate doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy listening to something in his earpiece. Something funny, apparently, because a broad smile splits that intimidating face in two. “Hey, Ginger! Your ‘client’ is here.”

I look back in time to see Ginger’s face twist with displeasure. She slams back a shot of something and then slaps a rag down onto the counter as she comes out from behind the bar. Marching past Ben, who’s doubled over with laughter, she points her fingers at the two amused bouncers and says, “You just remember this sacrifice when you’re sucking back a cold Heineken later tonight.” With a pause and a wink, she adds, “Maybe next time you guys can take one for the team.”

That cuts Ben’s laughter off cold. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head fervently. “I only play for one team, and King Kong and that fucking third leg of his are not allowed to join in my game.”

“Feeling inadequate?” Nate responds with a grin and a slap over Ben’s shoulder before his tone once again turns serious. “You better follow her back there for this.”

Casting a lazy salute in my direction, Ben trails Ginger as she grabs her brown-haired dancer friend by the elbow and heads toward the V.I.P. rooms.

There’s no need for me to get comfortable here, not knowing if I’ll be allowed back, so I decide to go home. I prefer being alone, anyway. I take a long, scalding-hot shower so that perhaps I can rid myself of this vile feeling before I get up on that stage and strip again tomorrow.

And the next night.

And the next night.

I hope.