Chapter 2: Unpacking and a Warm Welcome
The door to her new room clicked shut, a solid sound that sealed away the smell of the bar, the memory of Malcolm’s hands, the wet kiss. Julia leaned against it, her duffel bag slipping from her shoulder to thump on the floor.
The room was small, sure, but surprisingly decent. Clean. A single window, its pane slightly cracked at the corner, let in a blade of late afternoon sun that cut across a plain wooden floor. There was a narrow bed with a faded but clean floral quilt, a simple wooden desk with a lamp, and a lopsided bookshelf holding a few forgotten paperbacks. The walls were bare except for a faint rectangular ghost where a poster had once been. It was anonymous, neutral. It was a sanctuary.
She crossed the room, the floorboards creaking softly under her sneakers, and set her bag on the bed. She unzipped it, the sound loud in the quiet. Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted out a stack of folded t-shirts. Beneath them, carefully wrapped in a soft cloth, was the framed photo from her corkboard back home: her at fifteen, face alight, wearing a borrowed sparkly racing leotard in a friend’s garage. She placed it on the desk, facing the bed.
A knock at the door.
Her heart jumped, a frantic bird against her ribs. Malcolm. The thought was pure ice. Had he changed his mind? Was the test not over?
“Yeah?” Her voice came out thin.
“It’s Daria.” The voice from the other side was warm, muffled by the wood. “You decent? Can I come in?”
The relief was a physical unwinding. “Yeah. Sure.”
The door opened and Daria slipped inside, closing it behind her with a quiet nudge of her hip. She held two cans of soda, condensation beading on the aluminum. She was out of uniform, wearing soft gray sweatpants and an oversized Charlotte Knights baseball tee, her red hair piled in a messy bun. She looked younger, softer. She grinned. “Thought you might need a housewarming beverage. It’s either this or well whiskey from downstairs.”
“This is perfect,” Julia said, accepting the cold can. She popped the tab, the fizzy sound comforting in its normality.
Daria settled herself cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame. She took a long sip from her can and let out a contented sigh. “So. This is your cell. Mine’s just down the hall, the one with the terrible Bob Marley poster that the last guy left. I keep it for irony.”
Julia sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her. “How long have you lived here?”
“About a year and a half.” Daria traced a pattern in the wood grain with her fingernail. “Came up from Charleston after a… let’s call it a strategic relationship disintegration. Had two hundred bucks and a suitcase. Saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign. Malcolm did the whole interview schtick.” She looked up, her gray-green eyes knowing. “Yeah, the same schtick. I passed, too.”
A flush crept up Julia’s neck. The memory of the office, of her own response, was a fresh bruise. She took a swig of soda to hide her face.
“Don’t,” Daria said gently, reading her. “Seriously. It’s a physiological thing. He’s gross, but he knows what he’s doing. It’s like a creepy superpower. The first time, I cried after. Then I got mad. Then I just… factored it in. Like a toll booth on a shitty highway.”
Talking came easy for Daria. It was a steady, effortless stream, punctuated by dry smiles and eloquent eye rolls. And somehow, sitting in this clean, sunlit room, it became easy for Julia to talk back. The tight knot in her chest began to loosen.
“What do you factor in?” Julia asked quietly. “The poker?”
Daria nodded. “The poker, the Tuesday night special. It’s the rent. He’s a predator, but he’s a predictable predator. He likes rules. He likes to win, but he likes the game more. You learn the rules, you can play.” She shrugged. “I’m saving up. Community college has a photography certificate program. Portraiture. I want to take pictures of people where they’re actually smiling, you know? Not just because a hand’s on their ass.”
A dream. It was like a key turning in a lock. Julia leaned forward. “I want to be a grid girl. For NASCAR, or maybe sports car races. The ones in the firesuits, holding the signs, smiling in the sun next to the cars.”
“Hell yeah,” Daria said, her smile genuine. “You’ve got the look for it. The wholesome-but-hot vibe they love. You’d crush it.”
“You think?”
“I know. I’ve got an eye.” Daria tapped her temple. “So, Julia. That’s your name? It’s very… proper.”
Julia swirled the soda in her can. “Yeah. But I don’t really use it. Not since I was a kid. I go by Koyotka.”
“Whoa. Okay. That’s not a proper name. What’s the story?”
A real smile touched Julia’s lips for the first time that day. “When I was like, six, I became obsessed with coyotes. We had a farm, and I’d hear them howling at night. I thought they were the coolest things—smart, adaptable, kind of beautiful but also kind of… fierce. My dad started calling me his little coyote. In my head, it was ‘Koyotka,’ with a ‘k,’ like it was Russian or something. Stupid, I guess.”
“It’s not stupid,” Daria said, her voice firm. “It’s badass. It’s you. Julia is the girl from the farm. Koyotka is the girl who’s gonna stand in the winner’s circle at Charlotte Motor Speedway.” She raised her soda can in a toast. “To Koyotka.”
Julia—Koyotka—felt something shift inside her, a settling. She clinked her can against Daria’s. “To photography school.”
They drank. The silence that followed was comfortable, filled with the hum of distant traffic and the settling of the old building.
“What’s the poker like?” Koyotka asked, the question hanging in the air between them.
Daria’s expression turned practical, a teacher prepping a student. “It’s five-card draw. Malcolm, his two regular buddies—Vince, who’s actually okay, just lonely, and Steve, who’s a prick—and us. Sometimes somebody else. Sometimes other waitresses. You lose a hand, you lose an item. ” she pauses "The game is rigged though".
"Rigged?"
Daria laughed "Yeah. Totally. We start in our pub top and panties. Nothing else. So it's loose to hands and out. That's basically just a mean to undress girls. And drinks, yes. Boys like their hands on us. I don't mind though"
"You don't?"
"Nah, why would I? I love my body, I love men loving my body. And Malcolm has an excellent touch, as you know now".
Koyotka listened, her stomach tightening again.
“If you’re naked and you lose again, you’re in debt. That’s when you serve drinks. Or… other things. For the rest of the night. That’s the rule.” Daria’s eyes were steady. “The trick is to not be naked. Win a few hands early, take their stuff. They get self-conscious when they’re losing their jeans. It messes with their game. Malcolm hates losing his pants in the first hour.”
“And the… other thing? The blowjob you did?”
Daria didn’t flinch. “That’s my separate arrangement. Once a week. He knocks, I go to his room, I take care of it. Ten minutes. Sometimes more. Covers my cash portion. " she pauses with a dreamy smile "And he actually tastes good. Like very good" she laughed "I don’t recommend it for you, though. The poker’s enough. Keep your debts on the table, not on your knees.”
The advice was stark, brutal, and deeply caring. Koyotka understood. Daria was mapping the minefield for her.
“You’re smart,” Koyotka said.
“I’m pragmatic,” Daria corrected, standing up and stretching. “Like I said-- the crowd is great here. I meant it. I really like it the way it is".
"I really like it the way it is," Daria repeated, her voice softening into something confessional. She leaned her head back against the bedframe, studying the water stains on the ceiling as if they were constellations. "You think it's us serving them, right? Carrying their drinks, letting their paws wander. But it's not servitude. Not really. It's the opposite."
Koyotka watched her, the soda can cool and slick in her hand.
"It's power," Daria said, her gray-green eyes snapping back to Koyotka's, gleaming with conviction. "You walk into that room and you own the oxygen. Every guy tracked you from the door to the bar. Their want is a physical thing, a heat on your skin. And you decide what they get. A smile over your shoulder? A little hip check when you pass by? Letting a big, calloused hand settle on your waist while you pour a shot?" She grinned, sharp and alive. "You're conducting an orchestra of dumb, thirsty lust. And the thrill is in the giving in. Knowing you’re the one who permitted it."
She sat forward, energized by her own philosophy. "The line is everything, Koy. The line is what makes it art. They can touch, they can grope, they can get lost for a second. But the second a zipper goes down, or a hand tries to go under the skirt instead of on it, Tony is there. Tony is a wall. And Malcolm backs him. I've seen guys thrown out the back door onto the asphalt for pinching too hard. The rules are the cage, and we're the tigers inside. It's safe danger. It's incredible."
Koyotka listened, hypnotized. The revulsion she’d felt in Malcolm’s office began to morph, twist into something more complex. Daria’s words painted the shame into a badge of control. The memory of her own body’s response, that secret slickness, now felt less like a betrayal and more like a weapon she hadn't known she held.
"You make it sound... cool," Koyotka whispered.
"It is cool," Daria affirmed, nodding slowly. "And Malcolm… okay, he's a creep. A greasy, let's-be-honest, kinda sweaty creep." She shrugged, a graceful lift of her shoulders. "But he's a creep with rules. A caring creep. In his own fucked-up way, he loves his girls. We're his collection. He doesn't want us cracked or broken. He wants us shiny and functional. He protects the investment. That's care, right? Just… a weird kind."
She paused, her gaze drifting to the window. "And god, the man knows what he's doing with those hands. It's like he's got a diagram of every nerve ending. He can make your knees give out just by tracing your spine. And his mouth? Forget it." A faint, reminiscent blush colored her cheeks. "He can take you all the way, just like that. No intercourse, just… skill. It's clinical and genius at the same time. It's like being tuned like a guitar."
The room felt smaller, the air charged with the intimacy of the confession. Koyotka’s own skin remembered the precise pressure of his thumb on her nipple, the shocking warmth of his palm on her thigh. Her voice was barely audible. "And did you... you know. With Malcolm?"
Daria’s head tilted. "What?Fucked? You mean did I fuck him?"
She laughed, a bright, unfiltered sound that bounced off the bare walls.
"Yes," Koyotka whispered, a smile tugging at her own lips.
"Nope. Never." Daria popped the 'p' decisively. "Not saying I didn't think about it after, like, the third time he made me come without taking his pants off. The body gets curious. But no." She shuddered, though it was mixed with amusement. "But oh my god, his hands!"
"Yes!" The word burst from Koyotka, an impulsive agreement. "In the office, when he… I hated it. I was so scared. But I also… I liked it. The way he touched me. I didn't want to, but my body just… did. It shocked me."
"See?" Daria said, pointing a finger at her. "That's the proof. It's a skill. It's separate from the gross package it comes in." Her nose wrinkled in playful distaste. "But, oh boy, he looks gross!"
Koyotka laughed then, a real, releasing laugh that echoed Daria’s. The tension broke, leaving behind a strange, new solidarity.
"It’s a transaction," Daria said, standing up and brushing imaginary dust from her sweatpants. "We trade flashes of skin and the idea of us for cash and a roof. They get a story to tell in their truck later. We get leverage. You just have to remember which side of the transaction you’re really on."
She moved to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "Get some rest. Your first shift is tomorrow. The uniform’s in the closet. Try it on. Get used to the feeling of air on your stomach." She winked. "And welcome to the cage, Koyotka. It’s not so bad once you learn to swing on the bars."
The door closed, leaving Koyotka alone with the echo of the philosophy. She sat on the bed, the laughter still dying on her lips. She looked at her hands, then toward the small closet. The power was in the permission. The safety was in the line. The thought was a seductive, humming wire in her chest, rewiring her shame into a brittle, thrilling kind of pride. She stood and walked to the closet, her hand reaching for the knob.