Dahlia’s ‘office’ was actually her live-in apartment. It was spacious, with two bedrooms—a master bedroom and an actual office, or, better put, a surveillance room—plus a nice kitchen and a wide-open living room. I hadn’t been there in a while; I couldn’t stand to see everything in boxes. And now, the walls were empty, only leaving behind thin nails in the wall against the stark whiteness.
“Dare I ask?” Dahlia said.
“She drank my tangerine juice,” I explained.
Dahlia’s brows furrowed. “You can order more.” That was true, but it was the principal of the matter.
“She hasn’t stopped messing with me, not since we were kids. And I—”
“She is your coworker now,” Dahlia interrupted. “You need to stop thinking of her like she’s your enemy. You’re both adults now.”
“But—”
“I understand that you have your differing opinions, but Kendall is an asset to this business, like you are. And if you want this business to do well, you need to put your shared past aside and learn to work together.”
I sucked in a breath. She was right. Dahlia was absolutely right. But that didn’t make it any easier.
“I know,” I said in a quiet voice. “You’re right.”
“What’s going on, anyway?”
I had known Dahlia since I was seventeen, over a decade ago now. When I met her, I had been homeless for a while. Living on the streets, turning enough tricks to get a warm meal. Any of that was better than going back to my foster parents’ house or to the group home, and once I figured out that I could be mean and some of the men would pay me more for it, I didn’t think twice about turning tricks.
But when I found the Dahlia District? I begged Dahlia to let me stay. A few men who claimed they wanted the brutal treatment took advantage of me, getting off on beating up a young domme. It was better to do it indoors, where there were people there to protect you. Dahlia had told me I was too young, to come back when I was eighteen.
Two weeks later, I showed up again with a black eye and a swollen lip. Lied that I was eighteen. Told her that I would do whatever she wanted: clean toilets, make coffee, scrub floors; I didn’t care. All I wanted was a place to stay. Dahlia had paused for a moment, then let me inside. And so the Dahlia District became my first real home, where I felt safe. Where I wasn’t afraid.
“I met with Price last night,” I said. Dahlia tilted her chin. “At that stupid nightclub.”
“Roland Price?”
“He’s a dick. A walking dick with a bottle in one hand and his dick in the other.”
“A dick with a dick,” Dahlia chuckled. “You can put a dick to good use, you know.”
I cringed. “Hell fucking no.”
“Darling, you know, he’s not that bad.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a gentleman, isn’t he?” She waited for my response, but I wasn’t going to give any. She continued, “I’ve had offers throughout the years, but his offer stood out to me. And trust me, darling. It could have been worse.”
Like that made it any better. In the end, he was a man, and I didn’t trust men. Not even the ones I liked.
“I don’t trust him,” I said. “Plain and simple. You sold your baby to a bubble-headed prick.”
“And this is all because he has a cock?” Dahlia asked. It certainly was a large part of it. I would have given a new female owner the benefit of the doubt, but with Roland Price, who was all male? Completely, inexhaustibly male? No way in hell. He had been given the benefit of the doubt his entire life, but not by me.
“You didn’t sell to Cormac Stone when he wanted co-ownership. Why not find a billionaire woman?” I asked. “Men don’t know how our business works. And he’s going to bulldoze it anyway. He doesn’t see the beauty in what you’ve created.”
“Not many people do,” Dahlia said. “But he’s going to do away with the debts. Eventually, anyway.”
My heart leaped. That was good, but it wasn’t enough. “Which is good, sure,” I said, “But—”
“I approached a few women about the sale, but none of them were interested,” Dahlia said. “Turns out that very few women see sex work as a reliable business.” She checked her nails, then straightened. “Then Price made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
I couldn’t stand to see her grin like that. Like she was on his side.
“He was partying, Dahlia. Partying, when he should have been managing.”
“He’s the owner and CEO of Vanish Nightclubs and Price Development. He can do whatever he wants.”
“But he’s going to ruin everything,” I whined.
Maybe it wasn’t about the Dahlia District at all, but about giving up this life that I had made for myself for the last fifteen years. My friends were gone. Now Dahlia, the closest thing I had to an actual mother figure, was leaving too. What did I have left, if not my home?
“Listen very closely,” Dahlia said. She leaned toward me. “You need to give it time. If you truly love this business and you want to keep it as a safe space for sex workers, then you need Price on your side.” I groaned, and Dahlia put a finger to her lips. “You need to make yourself invaluable to him, like you did with me. Show him how amazing you are, how much you believe in this club’s potential. He’s young, younger than me, anyway. I take it he’ll be more willing to listen to your ideas than I ever was.”
That was an interesting point. While Dahlia listened and adhered to many of my ideas, she never once budged when it came to the servers’ freedom. And this man, this new owner, was already willing to let that go. Some changes could be good; I understood that. I could admit that he might have some positive effects on the place.
But another generic nightclub wasn’t what we needed.
And yet, if there was no choice but to give in to the new owner, to accept that things had to change, then maybe I could make it more bearable by being a part of every decision. Giving my input. Making myself invaluable, like Dahlia had said.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Fine.”
“That’s my girl,” Dahlia said.
There was a knock on the door; the movers had arrived. They took most of the furniture, while I helped Dahlia move the smaller boxes, filled with creams, lotions, and powders from her bathroom to the backseat of her sports car. There was barely enough room to fit it all, so once it was full, she gestured for the movers to take care of the rest.
Dahlia put a few strands of white hair behind her ear, her neck a bundle of tanned cords. My biological mother had chosen to get high over me while I was in elementary school. Even my foster mother hadn’t exactly been there for me. But when Dahlia had taken me in, she had seen potential in me, just like I saw the potential in the Dahlia District. It was hard to see her go.