Chapter 3: First Night on the Floor
The uniform lay on the bed like a second skin, waiting. Koyotka stood before the mirror propped against the wall, her reflection pale and uncertain in the weak afternoon light. She took a breath, Daria’s words humming in her head like a low current.
She stepped into the black leather-look mini skirt, the material cool and surprisingly supple. It zipped up the side, hugging her hips, the asymmetrical hem dipping high on one thigh. The dramatic side slit gaped open, exposing a long, smooth stretch of her leg. She fastened the studded belt, letting the excess hang down, and clipped on the draped silver chains that jingled softly with her movement. The small server pouch settled against her hip, a utilitarian counterpoint to the sheer intent of the garment.Next, the top. The fitted black crop top was made of a thin, stretchy fabric. She pulled it on, her arms threading through the narrow straps.The knotted front tied between her breasts, a feeble, decorative barrier. But it was the neckline that made her breath catch. An extremely deep plunging V-neck slashed down her sternum, the opening so deep it ended just above the knot. It laid the inner curves of her breasts bare, the shadowed valley between them completely exposed. She shifted, and the fabric gapped, offering a clear view of the soft swell of each breast. She was barely covered.
She layered the open, sleeveless blue denim vest over it, the rock patches—Metallica, Mötley Crüe, a faded Skynyrd logo—doing nothing to conceal what was beneath. The necklaces followed, layered silver chains that fell into the deep V, drawing the eye downward.Studded wrist cuffs, rings on her fingers. Finally, the chunky black combat boots, laced tight up her calves, grounding the ethereal exposure of her skin with their heavy, rugged reality.She looked at herself.
The girl from the farm was gone.In her place was a shape, a composition of lines and curves and exposed flesh. The uniform didn’t just show skin; it curated it, framed it, offered it up. She saw the smooth plane of her stomach, the dramatic slash of thigh, the vulnerable sweep of her cleavage. She looked… potent.Deliberate.The power is in the permission. Daria’s mantra echoed.This was the first act of permission.She was permitting the world to look. She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders.The chains swayed.She looked sexy as hell.
She repeated the words until they felt less like a shield and more like a weapon. Then she turned from the mirror and went down to start her first shift.
The noise hit her first—a physical wall of sound.The bassline of “Back in Black” throbbed in the floorboards. The air was a haze of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, thick with the smell of fried food and spilled beer.Neon signs glowed red and blue, casting everyone in a garish, cinematic light.
Daria was a flash of auburn hair and effortless motion across the room, already delivering a tray of shots to a table of greasy-haired bikers. One of them slid a hand up the back of her thigh as she leaned over. Daria laughed, a sound that cut through the music, and patted his cheek before swiveling away.
“There she is!” Malcolm’s voice boomed from behind the bar. He was wiping a glass, his eyes crawling over her from boots to the deep V of her top.A slow, approving smirk spread across his face. “Now you look like you belong.Tony! Get her first table.”
Tony emerged from the shadows near the door, a mountain of quiet vigilance.He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Three at ten o’clock.Racing jackets. Be gentle, they’re puppies.”
Her first table was three men in their late forties, their jackets adorned with patches from local speedways. They fell silent as she approached, their eyes widening, conversations dying mid-sentence.
“Hi,” she said, forcing her voice to be bright, carving a smile onto her face. “Welcome to Dirty Bitches. What can I get you started with?”
The heaviest one, with a salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that didn’t leave her chest, spoke first. “Three Buds, darlin’.”
“You got it.” She turned to go, and his hand came out, not fast, but certain.It settled on her waist, just above the skirt’s waistband. His palm was warm, slightly rough through the thin fabric of her top.She froze. Every instinct screamed to jerk away.But beneath the fear, another instinct, newer and more cunning, stirred. She remembered the line.She remembered the power was in the permission.She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into the touch, just a fraction, turning her head to look back at him over her shoulder.Her movement pressed his hand more firmly against her. “I’ll be right back with those,” she said, her smile now feeling less like plastic and more like a tool.
His fingers gave a slight, appreciative squeeze before she moved off. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat beneath the exposed skin of her chest. At the bar, Malcolm watched her, that same smirk on his face.He slid three bottles across the sticky wood. “Attagirl.”
The night became a blur of touches, a study in controlled invasion. A younger guy with sleeve tattoos let his hand trail down her arm as she set down his whiskey. An older pair, obviously regulars, engaged her in chatter about horsepower while one of them rested a proprietorial hand on the small of her back, his thumb stroking the bare skin just above her skirt. She learned to pivot her hips, to angle her body so a grope became a graze, to use the tray as a subtle barrier.She learned the economy of it: a tolerated hand on her ass meant a bigger tip. A flash of a smile into a hopeful face meant a second round ordered.
She saw Daria working the room like a maestro, her laughter a constant melody over the bass. Daria would perch on the edge of a booth, a man’s arm draped around her shoulders, her own hand casually resting on a leather-clad thigh. It was a dance, and Koyotka was learning the steps by stumbling through them.During a lull, she leaned against the service station, catching her breath. Daria appeared beside her, smelling of sweat and perfume.
“How’s the cage treating you?” Daria asked, gulping water from a plastic cup.
“I feel… used,” Koyotka admitted, the words raw.Daria wiped her mouth. “Are you?”
Koyotka thought of the hands, the looks, the feeling of being assessed like a cut of meat. Then she thought of the heavy man’s surprise when she’d leaned into his touch, of the five-dollar tip from the tattooed guy, of the way her own heartbeat had eventually slowed from a panic to a rhythm she could almost control. “I don’t know.”
“That’s the point,” Daria said, her voice low. “The minute you know for sure, you’ve lost.The not-knowing, the edge… that’s where the power lives. You’re not a piece of meat, Koy.You’re the matador. They’re just the bulls seeing red.” She bumped Koyotka’s hip with her own. “Table six needs another pitcher.Go be magnificent.”
The final hour was a weary haze. Her feet ached in the boots.Her smile felt permanently etched. A man at a corner booth, emboldened by whiskey, let his hand slip high on her thigh, his fingers brushing the edge of her underwear through the slit in her skirt. She snapped her legs together, trapping his wrist lightly, and gave him a sharp, chastising look that melted quickly into a playful smile. “Ah-ah,” she said softly.“The line.”
He blinked, startled, then chuckled and raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry, darlin’. Got carried away.”
She brought him his check, and he tipped her twenty percent.
She brought him his check, and he tipped her twenty percent. The air in the café had grown thicker, louder, the crowd shifting from after-work drinks to the dedicated night crowd. She realized there were three other waitresses moving through the throng, their uniforms identical to hers, but she was the new toy, the unfamiliar face drawing curious, hungry eyes.
A group of younger guys in crisp racing jackets waved her over, their faces flushed with early victory and cheaper beer."New girl! C'mere, we got a bet!"one shouted, his smile all teeth.
He slapped a fifty on the table."Put your leg up here.Right here.We all take a lick. That's the bet."Her stomach tightened.She glanced at the bill, then at their expectant faces. This was a line, but which one? Daria’s voice echoed: The power is in the permission. She looked at Malcolm behind the bar; he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes watchful.This was the game, the currency.
She hoisted herself onto the edge of their booth, the cold vinyl sticking to her thigh. She extended her leg, placing her boot on the table, the skirt’s slit falling open to reveal her bare skin from ankle to mid-thigh. Four heads bent down.The first touch of a tongue was a wet, shocking stripe up her calf. She gasped. Then another, and another, their hands gripping her ankle, her knee, their mouths and stubble tickling, a bizarre and intimate violation that drew nervous laughter from her own throat. They were puppies, playing a crude game. The fifty was in her fist, damp with her sweat.An older man at the bar, his own drink finished, stood up as she passed. He moved with a quiet certainty that stopped her. Without a word, he turned her and pulled her back against his chest, his big hands coming around to cover her breasts completely, squeezing through the thin fabric of her top. He held her there, pinned, for three long breaths, his thumbs brushing her nipples. "Welcome to town, honey," he grumbled into her ear, the smell of cigars and leather enveloping her. Then he released her, dropped a ten on her tray, and walked out.She stood frozen, the impression of his hands still warm on her skin. Another biker, middle-aged with a kind, crinkled face, gently tugged her sleeve."Hey.Seriously. I got fifty bucks says I can clean up a mess without usin' my hands." He pointed a thick finger at the bottle of Heinz ketchup on his table.
He didn't wait for an answer. He unscrewed the cap and squirted a thick, cold line of red into the deep valley of her cleavage.It dripped, sticky, onto her stomach. "Go on," he said, his eyes holding hers, not cruel, but absolutely serious.
She leaned over the table, bracing her hands on its sticky surface. He buried his face in her chest, his tongue rough and warm as it lapped up the condiment from between her breasts, his nose nudging against her.It was methodical, strangely courteous. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, placed the fifty in her server pouch, and went back to his beer as if nothing had happened.The jukebox blared a pounding Crue anthem. A ring of leather-clad men from a local charter formed a loose circle, chanting. They pulled her into the center. Hands were everywhere—on her waist, her ass, the backs of her thighs, cupping her face, sliding over the exposed skin of her stomach and back.She stopped thinking. She let her head fall back, her hips find the beat, a slow, grinding roll. She was the center of a storm of touch, and for a moment, the philosophy became physical truth: she was conducting it.She owned the chaos.
The dance ended with her on her knees, the crowd roaring.The chapter leader, a giant with a silver beard, stepped forward. He guided her head gently until her cheek rested against the rough denis of his crotch, the hard pressure beneath unmistakable. He just held her there, his hand cradling the back of her head, a possessive, silent claim for the room to see. Then he helped her up, tucked a folded bill into her vest, and turned away.Throughout it all, she watched Daria. Daria was a masterclass. She’d let a man spin her into a passionate, open-mouthed kiss against the pool table, her hand dipping boldly to palm the bulge in his jeans. She laughed as another squeezed her breast, then whispered something that made him blush and nod vigorously. She traded touches like currency, always smiling, her enjoyment not just performative but visceral, authentic. She seemed to vibrate with a knowledge Koyotka was only beginning to grasp."Ladies!" A voice, gravelly and familiar, cut through. An older biker with a eagle tattoo covering a bald scalp gestured from a large corner booth.He was a regular, a fixture."Double feature.Now."
Daria flashed Koyotka a brilliant, complicit grin."C'mon. Time for your first duet."They slid onto the man's lap, one on each thigh. He was solid, warm. His arms encircled them both, his big hands immediately settling, one on Daria's inner thigh, high up, the other kneading Koyotka's ass through the faux leather.He smelled of motor oil and whiskey. He turned his head and buried his face in Daria's neck, licking and sucking the skin there. Daria arched into it with a soft sigh, her fingers threading into his hair.Then he turned to Koyotka. His eyes were dark, appraising. He leaned in, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear before lapping a broad, wet stripe up the side of her neck. His other hand came up and fondled her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple through the fabric. It was so direct, so carnal.Her breath hitched.Daria watched her, smiling, encouraging. So tried Julia. Koyotka forced herself to relax into the man's bulk, to lean her head against his shoulder, offering her neck for more. A strange, shaky warmth began to pool in her belly, untangling from the knot of fear.It wasn't pleasure, not exactly. It was something else—the thrill of the transaction, of being wanted this much, of surviving it. Of maybe, just maybe, starting to like the power it gave her. The man groaned low in his throat, his hands tightening on them both, and the night swallowed them whole.
The man groaned low in his throat, his hands tightening on them both, and the night swallowed them whole.
He pulled a folded hundred-dollar bill from his jacket and tucked it into the neckline of Koyotka’s top, letting it slide down between her breasts. Then he stood, nodded once like a business transaction was complete, and walked out into the smoky din without a backward glance.
Then, as if a spell broke, Daria smoothly extracted herself and pulled Koyotka up by the wrist.“C’mon.Fun’s over. Break time.” Her voice was a practical murmur as she weaved through the crowd, leading Koyotka toward a slightly darker alcove near the restrooms.
They returned to the floor.The noise was a welcome blanket. Koyotka moved on autopilot, delivering drinks, collecting empty bottles, her mind a numb hive. Then she saw them: a young couple, maybe her age, tucked into a small booth. The girl was pretty, with nervous eyes and a forced smile. Her boyfriend, lanky and awkward, stared into his drink.
Koyotka heard the girl’s voice, pitched high with frustration and cheap wine.“You’re too scared, that’s all. You won’t even look at them.”
She meant the waitresses.Koyotka understood instantly. The girl, feeling plain and powerless in this den of overt sexuality, was pushing her boyfriend into a performance.
Before the boy could respond, the girl slid from the booth.She grabbed his hands and pulled him out. With a surprising strength, she pushed him back down onto the bench, then sat straddling his lap, facing him.She took his face in her hands and pushed it firmly into her own modest chest.
“See?” the girl chirped, her eyes finding Koyotka’s across the room. They were defiant, pleading for validation. She hitched her own skirt up, guiding the boy’s limp hands to her ass.“It’s just fun. Everybody does it here.”
Koyotka looked away, but the image stuck. The girl’s performative dominance, the boy’s embarrassed stiffness.It was a cheap, sad mirror of everything happening around them. And yet, a hot, prickling satisfaction rose in Koyotka’s throat. That girl wanted to be like her.Wanted the fearlessness, the currency of touch. In that moment, Koyotka wasn’t the scared farm girl anymore.She was the example. She was the standard.The realization was a shot of something dark and potent.She felt drunk on it. The rest of the evening blurred into a series of deliberate movements. She grappled with a laughing regular behind the jukebox, letting him kiss her throat. She whispered promises of extra attention to a table of mechanics, her hand resting on a bicep. They promised her love, they promised her money.It was all the same language.Finally, the lights came up, brutally bright. The last patrons grumbled their way out.Tony locked the front door with a heavy thud.
In the sudden, ringing quiet, the waitresses gathered at the bar, a flock of weary birds in ripped fishnets and smudged eyeliner. Malcolm stood behind the counter with a ledger and a cash box.One by one, they dumped their server pouches out. Wadded bills, damp with condensation, spilled across the sticky wood.Malcolm counted with swift, efficient fingers. “Jessica, two-eighty.Lacey, three-ten. Mara, four hundred even.” He slid half of each pile back to its owner, sweeping the rest into the box.He came to Daria. Her pile was thick.“Seven hundred twenty,” he announced, a note of pride in his voice. He counted out three hundred sixty and pushed it toward her.Then Koyotka. She emptied her pouch.The bills spilled out, a chaotic mound. The hundreds from Richard and the tall man sat on top like crowns.Malcolm’s eyebrows rose.He began to count, his lips moving silently.
“Six hundred forty,” he said, louder than he’d spoken for anyone else. He met her eyes, a slow smile spreading across his greasy face. He counted out three hundred twenty in crisp bills and placed them before her.It was more money than she’d ever held.
“My girls,” Malcolm said, his voice husky.He leaned over the bar. He grabbed Daria’s face first, kissing her hard on the mouth, his tongue visibly probing. One hand groped her breast, squeezing roughly. Daria moaned, a low, authentic sound of satisfaction, melting into his grip.He released her and turned to Koyotka. His hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in. His kiss was less invasive than in the office, a claiming rather than a test. His other hand slid down her body, over her ass, pulling her tight against the bar’s edge. He licked a stripe from her collarbone up to her ear.She shuddered, a complex wave of revulsion and electric surrender crashing through her. A moan escaped her lips, too.It wasn’t faked.
He moved down the line, kissing, groping, licking each girl.They all moaned. They leaned into his hands.In the harsh after-hours light, it was a ritual.A transaction completed. A ownership reaffirmed.Koyotka clutched her stack of cash. Her skin burned where he’d touched her.Her body still hummed from the night’s thousand contacts. She looked at Daria, who was already stacking her bills with a tired, contented smile. She looked at the other girls, comparing her thick wad to their thinner piles. A fierce, ugly pride tightened in her chest.She had survived.More than survived. She had banked.