Chapter 3: Job hunt
The air in Baltimore was thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and damp concrete, the kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat like a bad memory. The neon glow of the Yellow Rose Strip Club pulsed through the grimy windows, casting jagged shadows across the cracked pavement. I adjust the hem of my way too-short skirt, the fabric barely covering the tops of my thighs. The outfit was cheap, tacky, and exactly what a small-town girl desperate for cash would wear. Perfect.
A group of black men loitered outside, their laughter thick with whiskey and bad intentions. One of them, a wiry black guy with a gold tooth, whistled as I walked past. "Hey, sugar, you lost?"
I didn’t slow down. "Not yet," I muttered, pushing through the heavy door.
The inside was a dim, sweaty maze of red velvet and sticky floors. The air smelled like stale beer and cheap perfume.
The bass from the speakers thumped against my ribs, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of my own heartbeat. The stage was a gaudy spectacle of neon and chrome, a woman gyrating on it with practiced indifference. The crowd was a blur of faces—men with too much money and too little self-control, their eyes tracking the dancers like predators.
I made my way to the bar, my heels clicking against the sticky floor. The bartender, a Black girl with light brown skin and a bikini covered in yellow roses, gave me a once-over before sliding a napkin in front of me. "What can I get you, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice smooth but guarded.
The bartender’s eyes flicked over me, assessing. She wasn’t just looking at my outfit—she was sizing me up, deciding whether I was a threat or just another lost girl in a bad situation.
I leaned against the bar, letting my shoulders relax just enough to look harmless. "I’m looking for a job," I said, keeping my voice light. "Heard you guys were hiring."
The bartender’s lips twitched, like she was fighting a smirk. "You don’t look like the usual type."
I shrugged. "College girl. Need the cash. Figured I’d give it a shot."
She studied me for a long second, then nodded toward a staircase leading to a second floor. "Upstairs. “ She says indicating that the conversation is over. I nodded and turned away, my heels clicking against the sticky floor as I made my way to the staircase. The bartender’s eyes followed me, sharp and assessing. I could feel the weight of her gaze on my back, a silent warning or maybe just curiosity. Either way, I didn’t look back.
The stairs creaked under my weight, the wood old and worn, the banister sticky with years of spilled drinks and careless hands. a black man was standing on top of the stairs I recognize that it’s wee-bey from the file. He was small , but broad shoulder his muscles straining against the fabric of his designer shirt. His eyes were cold, assessing, the kind of stare that could strip a woman bare without ever touching her. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with the detached interest of a man who had seen too much.
"Lost, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice smooth but edged with something dangerous.
I forced a smile, playing the part of the wide-eyed college girl. "Nope. Looking for a job."
Wee-Bey's lips twitched, just a fraction. "You don’t look like a dancer."
I shrugged, letting my shoulders relax.
Wee-Bey’s eyes flicked over me, slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up prey. He pushed off the wall
, unfolding his muscular frame with the lazy grace of a man who knew he could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. "You sure about that?" he asked, his voice low. "This ain't no daycare. We got rules here."
I met his gaze head-on, letting my blue eyes lock onto his dark ones. "I can handle rules," I said, keeping my voice light but steady. "I just need the job."
He studied me for a long moment, then jerked his chin toward a closed door at the end of the hall. "Boss man’s in there. You wanna dance, you gotta convince him."
I nodded and moved past him, feeling the weight of his stare on my back.
The hallway was narrow, the air thick with the scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. The door at the end was heavy, the wood dark and polished to a shine. I knocked twice, sharp and confident.
A deep voice rumbled from inside. "Come in."
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was large, the walls lined with dark wood paneling. A massive desk dominated the space, behind which sat a man who could only be Avon Barksdale. He was wiry but solid, his dark skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite. His eyes were hooded, calculating, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. He leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled in front of him, watching me with the same predatory stillness as a lion observing prey.
Beside him stood another man—taller,muscular , with a sharpness to his features that suggested intelligence rather than brute force. Stringer Bell. The right hand. The strategist. His gaze was colder, more assessing, like a man who saw the world in spreadsheets and profit margins.
He didn’t speak, just watched me with the same detached interest as a tax auditor reviewing a suspicious return.
Avon’s voice cut through the silence, smooth as aged whiskey. "Who are you? And why the fuck you in my office?" Avon’s voice was low, dangerous. The kind of tone that made men disappear.
I kept my chin up, my blue eyes locked onto his dark ones. "Paulina," I said, letting my Ohio accent slip just a fraction. "Paulina Jankowska. I heard you were hiring."
Avon didn’t blink. His fingers tapped once against the desk, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
I smirked, rolling my shoulders back. The fabric of my top strained against my chest, the effect deliberate.
I let my gaze linger on Avon just a fraction too long before shifting to Stringer, letting my eyes flick down his body with practiced appreciation. Not too obvious, just enough to make them think I was playing the part of a naive college girl who didn’t know better.
Avon’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You look like trouble," he said, voice smooth as tar. "I just need the job. “
Stringer finally spoke, his voice colder than the air conditioning. "You ever danced before?"
I met his gaze dead on.
"No," I said, letting my voice drop just a hint. "But I learn fast."
Stringer's eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn't buying the innocent act. Not for a second. But Avon? He was different. His gaze had dropped to my legs, lingering on the way my skirt rode up when I shifted my weight. The air between us thickened, charged with something primal.
"You look like a small town girl," Avon said finally. "Not a stripper."
I shrugged, letting the movement make my top ride up just enough to reveal a hint of skin. "I need the money. Tuition ain't cheap."
Avon leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, narrowing his eyes . "What college are you in? " Avon asked , his voice smooth and low, like a man who knew how to ask questions that weren't questions at all.
"Baltimore Community College," I said, letting my shoulders relax just enough to look harmless. "Freshman year. I need the money for tuition."
Avon's eyes flicked to Stringer, who gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. The air in the room thickened, charged with something unspoken.
“Undress” Avon said coldly.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, just enough to make it look real. Then I reached behind my back and unzipped the cheap polyester dress, letting it slide off my shoulders and pool at my feet. The men’s eyes tracked the movement, their gazes heavy as lead. I stood there in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties, my skin prickling under their scrutiny.
Avon’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. “Everything ,” he clarified, his voice a low growl. “We don’t hire girls who can’t handle the heat.”
I held his gaze, my pulse steady despite the way my skin prickled under the weight of their stares. This wasn’t my first time being undressed in front of men who meant me harm. But it was the first time I’d let them think they had the upper hand.
Slowly, I reached behind my back and unclasped my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms before dropping it to the floor. The air conditioning kicked on, a sudden rush of cold air that made my nipples harden. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover myself.
Let them look. Let them think they had the power, as I dropped
my panties and stepped out of them, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor. The air conditioning hummed, the only sound in the room as Avon’s gaze raked over me, slow and deliberate. Stringer’s eyes were colder, calculating, like a man who had already decided my fate.
Avon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His fingers drummed against the polished wood, the rhythm steady, unhurried. "Turn around," he said, voice low.
I obeyed, pivoting on my bare feet, letting them see every inch of me. The floor was cold against my soles, the chill seeping into my bones.
I kept my back straight, my shoulders relaxed, as if I were nothing more than a mannequin on display. Avon's gaze burned into my skin like a brand, his scrutiny deliberate, unhurried. He wasn't just looking—he was dissecting, peeling back layers to see what lay beneath.
"Bend over," Stringer said, his voice a blade of ice.
I hesitated for half a second—just enough to make it believable—before bending at the waist, my hands resting on my thighs. The position left me exposed, vulnerable, but I kept my breathing steady, my pulse under control.
The floorboards creaked under my weight, the only sound in the room besides the low hum of the air conditioning. Avon's chair groaned as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes never left me, tracking every inch of my body with the precision of a hunter.
Stringer remained motionless, his expression unreadable, but I could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical force. The air between us was thick with tension, the kind that crackles before a storm.
"You're not what I expected," Avon finally said, his voice low and measured. "Most girls who come in here are either desperate or dumb.
You look like neither." Avon's voice was a slow drawl, like molasses dripping from a spoon.
I straightened slowly, keeping my face blank. "I'm just a girl trying to pay her way through school."
Stringer's lips twitched, just a fraction. "And you think stripping is the way?" "It's honest work. Better than some of the other options."
Avon chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the room. "She's got spunk. I like that." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers again.
“Got any experience girl?
Or you just gonna shake that ass like a lost puppy?” Avon’s voice was a slow, deliberate rasp, like gravel under a boot. He didn’t wait for my answer. His eyes flicked to Stringer, who gave a barely perceptible nod. The air in the room thickened, charged with something unspoken.
I met Avon’s gaze head-on, my pulse steady despite the way my skin prickled under their scrutiny. “I learn fast,” I said, letting my voice drop just a hint. “And I don’t quit.”
Avon’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Confidence.
That’s what I like,” Avon said, his voice smooth as aged bourbon. “If you wanna work for us then you must follow our rules” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “You dance for us, you do what we say, when we say it. No questions. No hesitation.” He leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking under his weight. “You understand?”
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. “I understand.”
Stringer’s fingers tapped against the wall a ,slow, deliberate rhythm. “We protect our girls everywhere so everywhere you fucking go someone will escort you . You don’t go anywhere without one of us. “ Stringer said, his voice cold and final.
“Isn’t that a
bit excessive?” I asked, forcing a nervous laugh. “I mean, I’m just a stripper. Not exactly high-risk.”
Avon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not just a stripper. You’re ours now. That means you’re under our protection. This is the hood, our clients aren’t exactly choirboys. But you’ll get a high percentage off whatever you make. You’ll have to give us a small cut.
Let’s say 30% of your earnings. That’s standard for new girls. After a year, if you prove yourself, we’ll renegotiate.” Avon’s voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it—a warning beneath the silk.
I forced a smile, nodding like this was all perfectly reasonable. “Sounds fair.”
I kept my voice light, casual, like this was just another job interview. The truth was, my pulse had kicked up a notch. Thirty percent was steep, but it wasn’t the take that bothered me. It was the way Avon said *ours*. Like I was already property.
Stringer’s fingers kept tapping a slow rhythm against the wall. “You’ll start tomorrow night. We’ll assign you a regular to work the floor. You’ll learn the ropes, see how things run.” His eyes flicked.
“Can you open the door and call for Wee-bey? “ Avon says to me while I’m still naked . I nod and walk over to the door and open it. Wee-bey is standing right outside. He looks at me and smiles. I walk back to the desk and stand in front of Avon and Stringer. Avon’s looks at Wee-bey.
“Send one of the young soldiers tomorrow to Baltimore college to escort her from school, give him shopping money for outfits , and make sure he sticks to her like glue. She’s ours now. We don’t let our property wander alone.” Avon’s voice was calm, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable.
I kept my face neutral, but my stomach twisted. *Property.* That word again it sat heavy in my gut. I’d played the part of the naive college girl, but now I was in too deep already?
“I’ll send Pooch he’s been working hard and deserves a little fun.”
Wee-Bey said with a smirk
I forced a nod, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. The air in the room was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and something darker—something that smelled like power and violence. Avon’s eyes never left me, tracking my every movement like a predator sizing up prey. Stringer’s fingers tapping against the wall, a steady rhythm that set my teeth on edge.
“You’ll be working the floor tomorrow night,” Stringer said, his voice as smooth as oil. “Get them drinks, We’ll see how you handle yourself with the customers.” He added . I nodded, turning to grab my clothes from the floor. The fabric felt cheap and flimsy in my hands as I stepped back into the dress. The zipper snagged on the fabric, a small rebellion against the humiliation of the moment. I smoothed the skirt down, forcing my hands to be steady.
The bartender’s eyes flicked up as I approached, her expression unreadable. She slid two glasses across the bar without a word, the ice clinking against the crystal. I picked them up, the cold seeping into my palms.
"Thanks," I muttered, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. The bartender just nodded, her gaze flicking to the stairs where Wee-Bey still lingered, arms crossed like a silent sentinel.
The glasses were heavy in my hands, the weight of them pressing into my fingers like a physical reminder of what I’d just agreed to. Thirty percent. A bodyguard. A leash. This wasn’t just a job—it was a cage, gilded but unmistakable.
I turned, my heels clicking against the sticky floor as I made my way out of the club.
The night air hit me like a slap, thick with the scent of exhaust and damp pavement. My skin still prickled from their stares, the ghost of Avon's gaze lingering like a brand.