3
Valencia hadn’t gone inside just for a meal. In fact, she hadn’t just eaten and left. She’d stayed.
The establishment she’d entered was apparently the most elite spot in Miami, owned by an underground millionaire. It was where more legitimate businessmen came to do their more illegal activities and business deals.
The man’s name was Sly, and Valencia constantly heard that name float around like a mythical legend. He owned a dance club, a restaurant and the more exclusive gentleman’s club where only multimillionaires with an exclusive membership could be welcomed. All three places were in the buildings which flanked the alley in which she’d slept that night. It explained why the place was called Sly’s backstreet and why no one was allowed there unless they wanted their ankles sliced.
Valencia had really thought she would have something to eat and then be on her way, but she hadn’t expected the warmth with which she would be received.
Once Karma had taken her inside, she’d snuck her up to where the girls lived and, at the sight of Valencia’s bruised body, gasps and squeaks of horror had filled the place.
Together, the women had conspired to keep her there and hide her from their manager while she got better.
She didn’t speak much and hadn’t told them what had happened to her, but they were okay with it. Valencia was scared that getting people involved would alert the authorities, which would then somehow lead to her parents finding out where she was. She would do anything not to have them find her, and the women seemed to understand that.
They gave her clothes to wear and let her sleep in the narrow space between Karma and Nikita’s beds each night. They discussed their clients and shared stories of their escapades with the wealthy men of the exclusive Club Riviere.
Tucked in her quiet corner between the beds with her knees against her chest, Valencia listened attentively, both fascinated and horrified by their world.
Some nights, they sat in silence because a girl had been killed by one of the rich monsters who paid for their services, or another of the staff members had gotten hurt, or some other miserable event had befallen them.
Other nights—better nights—the women played dress up and played music, which they sang aloud to. These were good nights, when Valencia knew they’d made good money and hadn’t been harassed by any assholes.
“You too, girl!” one of the women said one night, tugging Valencia to the mirror where they began putting different wigs on her. “A girl should play dress up! It’s fun!”
Karma sat on her bed, smiling as she watched Valencia shyly accept being treated like a mannequin.
“The black one,” she suggested. “The black one would suit her.”
A long, black wig was immediately plopped onto her head, covering all her blond hair and giving her a completely new appearance. Valencia stared wide-eyed at herself, stunned at the transformation with nothing but a wig.
“That is one pretty girl,” another of the older women said, shaking her head. “A face card that will probably never decline, even when she’s old.”
“Make-up!” the wig girl, Vendetta, shouted.
The women tossed items of clothing that they wanted Valencia to try on. Vendetta fussed around her, doing her make-up as she tried and discarded different clothes.
When she was done, she wore a long, fitted black skirt with a slit up to her knee and a silky gold top that had enough layers to hide her bony shoulders.
“Oh, my gosh!” squealed Vendetta as she brushed the wig and leaned back to look at her handiwork. “You look gorgeous, girlie!”
“She looks rich,” another woman said.
A rush of emotion flowed through Valencia at those words, and she looked at the woman in awe. Her? She, Valencia Raine, looked rich? She looked in the mirror, admiring her reflection. It was like she was staring at another person. No, this wasn’t Valencia Raine. Someone else. Someone better than all the filth Valencia Raine was born in.
Someone she would give anything to become.
“She looks like a Maddison,” said Vendetta with narrowed eyes.
“Nah, more like a Ruby. The pretty lipstick does that.”
“Kendall.”
The women looked at Karma. “What?”
“She looks like a Kendall,” repeated Karma, smiling at Valencia in the mirror. “Like a Kendall… McCarthy? A posh, rich girl with a calm and composed personality.”
Vendetta gasped. “Oh, my gosh. Totally! She looks like she has manners!”
Darla, one of the only women in her thirties, looked calmly up from her book. “Bitch, she does have manners. More manners than you, for damn sure.”
Vendetta glared. “I meant fancy manners. Are you dumb?”
Before the girls could get into another one of their unnecessary arguments, the door burst open.
It was too late to grab Valencia, too late to hide her. Everyone froze, and, standing in the centre of the crowded room, Valencia was the centre of attention as a tall, muscular man walked in.
His gaze zeroed in on her, and he looked up and down at her. “What’s this? A new girl for the club?”
The women scrambled together, startled by the entrance.
Karma grabbed Valencia, pulling her closer as she stared at her boss. “S… Sly…”
She didn’t have anywhere else to go. Karma promised to protect her from doing more than serving at the exclusive club, and Valencia found herself without choice. Besides, where else could she go where she would be treated as kindly as these women had treated her?
Valencia had been hugged for the first time in her life by a group of society-shunned women. Protected, fed, cared for. Who else could she trust out on the cold, cruel streets?
So, she’d told Karma the truth. She was sixteen. Together, she and Karma had lied to the manager of Club Riveira. She was an eighteen-year-old girl who wanted a job as a waitress. The manager had told Sly what they’d said, and both of them had been called down to his office.
When the two had come up the stairs from Sly’s dark office, their hearts had been pounding in both fear and relief.
Valencia was hired.
Karma had made her promise not to tell anyone her real age, or she’d be in danger. So, with every VIP room she served and every patron she ran into, Valencia practised the confidence of a fearless eighteen-year-old despite her trembling sixteen-year-old heart.
After a week of practice with the women who were still getting used to hearing her speak, she was able to meet the men’s gazes, smile and avoid flinching away when they reached for her.
She’d thought she’d been doing a flawless job at cosplaying a charming club waitress, but apparently not.
Someone had seen through her entire façade.
And now there was a million dollars on the table, an offer for her dignity.