CHAPTER 3

“Fuck, Emily,” Sophia laughed low and rough, yanking me into a hard hug that mashed her boobs right up against mine.

“You look like you’re about to slit throats with them murder eyes, girl.

We told your ass that the world out here don’t give two fucks about ‘innocent’ when your papers scream attempted murder.”

I shoved a hand through my hair, still wet and sticky from the panic-sweat of getting curved at another bullshit interview.

“I didn’t think every fucking door would slam that hard in my face,” I muttered, voice low and bitter. “Maybe I just have to jump into whatever y’all are running. It’s not like my pussy hasn’t been seen, touched, or used before.”

The words came out filthy and raw, but damn if they didn’t feel like freedom too—sharp, dirty liberation sliding off my tongue.

Emma flicked her lighter, sparked her cigarette, and grinned wide like she just hit the jackpot.

“Get your fine ass in the car, bitch. We’re celebrating the right way tonight and no half-stepping”

Sophia leaned back against the hood, arms crossed, eyes cool and knowing.

“Decency don’t pay shit no more. That fairy-tale bullshit died in the ’90s.

You want real filthy money? You gotta get your hands dirty, your knees scraped, and your legs spread. Simple as that.”

I climbed into the backseat, legs still shaky from getting curved all damn day.

Sophia drove out fast, one hand loose on the wheel like she owned the road, the other tapping the beat of that nasty, low bass thumping through the speakers.

Emma twisted around from the passenger seat, blowing perfect smoke rings right at my face, grinning like trouble.

“Where the hell are we headed?” I asked, voice still rough from all the polite bullshit I’d swallowed earlier.

“Home first, girl,” Sophia said, eyes flicking to the rearview, catching mine. “Go wash that job-hunt stink and desperation off you. Then we’ll sit down and talk real business.

I’ll break it all the way down to how the pussy-and-cash machine really runs.

No fairy tales, no soft shit. Just how you turn this body into money that bites back.”

Ten minutes later we rolled back into their crib.

The second the door clicked shut, that thick-ass cloud hit me—weed smoke heavy, mixed with leftover perfume, stale pussy, and that unmistakable dried-cum stink hanging in the air like a signature.

Sophia jerked her chin down the hallway, smirking.

“My bedroom got the best shower, girl. Go wash that free-world desperation and failure sweat off your skin. Scrub hard because you still smell like rejection.”

Emma kicked her heels flying across the room, then dropped onto the couch hard, thighs spread wide open like she didn’t give a single fuck.

No panties in sight under that tiny skirt, just smooth skin and a flash of everything.

She leaned back, eyes lazy and mean.

“Strip and shower, bitch. You reek like sweat and broken dreams right now. Ain’t nobody paying for that vibe.”

I froze in the doorway, hand still on the frame.

They both busted out laughing low, dirty cackles that echoed off the walls.

“Emily,” Emma drawled slowly, dragging my name like she was tasting it, “you about to spread those legs wide and shake your boobs for strangers every damn night.

Get used to being naked the second somebody says strip.

This ain’t no shy-girl game no more.

Welcome to the hustle, baby.”

I shrugged off the blouse, popped the bra hook, and let my heavy boobs spill out free. Nipples already hard as bullets from the cold AC blast and the straight-up realness hanging thick in the room.

That thin scar slashed across my ribs caught the light. A prison gift from some hoe who tried to kill me over a single pack of smokes. Bitch learned quick.

I wiggled out of the jeans and panties, let them drop in a heap at my feet. My pussy felt wide open, lips puffy and slick from all the nerves and flashbacks of rough hands gripping too hard.

Sophia let out a slow, dirty whistle as I strutted past her toward the bathroom.

“Goddamn, girl. Ten years locked up turned those boobs into straight weapons. We’re about to stack paper off those nipples alone. These shits could make a grown man cry and empty his wallet.”

The shower hit different—water pounding my shoulders like it was washing away the bullshit.

Steam curled around me like sneaky hands.

I soaped up my boobs, thumbs sliding over those stiff peaks till they tingled.

Then I slipped a hand between my thighs, cleaning the day off, but that deep, hungry ache in my belly stayed put. It was throbbing, ready.

I stepped out, towel hanging loose around my hips.

Emma tossed me a tiny black singlet dress thin as hell, my nipples already poking through the fabric.

I dropped the towel, no hesitation, and pulled it on.

No bra. No panties. Just skin, curves, and bad intentions.

We crashed in the living room with cold beers.

Legs spread wide, no fucks given, air thick with smoke and that heavy promise of money, power, and whatever came after.

“Here’s the raw fucking deal,” Sophia said, her voice dropping low and cold. “Normal jobs? Forget it. Your rap sheet screams attempted murder, and that piece-of-shit Evan John is still crying on every screen like some innocent victim.

No one’s hiring a bitch who supposedly tried to murder her famous stepdad.

So it’s either the R.M Club or nothing.

The owner of the R.M Club is a ghost. No one ever sees his face. Vicky Gavin runs the whole game.

Weekdays you’re off the hook. But weekends? Days free. Nights? You’re in the club. Boobs out, ass shaking, stripping down to nothing.

Lap dances where you grind your wet pussy on their hard cocks through their pants until they’re leaking pre-cum and begging to bust.

You feel every thick vein pulsing against your slit while they grip your ass hard and groan like wild animals.

That’s the play.

Take the money or keep starving, your call.”