Ellie's been living a double life for months now.

During the day, she works her job as the corner store's cashier, in her ripped jeans and flannels, sporting that bored face and dead eyes as if they're part of the uniform.

But at night, she wears chunky glitter on her face, the skimpiest, barely there clothing pieces she could find, and struts around the club she works at, 'Cayenne'. She doesn't stand out much, she's not the curviest, not the best at interacting with the clients, but being skinny and shy does get you some grace from the wrinkly, old fucks who think giving you ten bucks is appreciating the beauty of a woman.

It's not that she hates the job, it pays her bills and keeps her cat fed. All Ellie wants is to succeed, to follow her dreams, and being poor won't make that happen. So, she found a friend of a friend who got her this job.

Things were getting pricier though, and at some point, she thought it was better to simply give up on everything and accept that this was all there was out there for her.

Until you showed up. Suited up in your work clothes, oversized, hair messy, you had that elegant kind of tiredness on your face, looking like you'd just come from your corporate job, barking orders at your subordinates and drinking expensive coffee in a stupid mug all day. Soon as you stepped under the neon lights, every girl there wanted a piece of you.

But your eyes landed on her, awkward as hell standing beside a table and holding a bottle of vodka to her chest, which she was probably supposed to be serving, not hogging. That was the one, for sure.

You took her with you into a room, she gave you a private dance and a drink, you paid her triple the money. She liked you, the more a single client pays, the less clients she has to see. She hoped you'd come back.

And you did. Every single Thursday and Sunday, you were there, looking at her with both hunger and some sort of a admiration. Maybe you liked how she couldn't form a coherent sentence if she was looking in your eyes, only away, but as time passed, she got sharper, smiled more, even made you laugh. Such a sweet girl, she was.

Tonight, though, she's sour when she looks at you, bottom lip jutting out as you close the door behind yourself to your reserved room. "You're late. I thought you weren't coming."

She's wearing ripped jean shorts, brown wash, that show half of her butt, a white tank top that is basically transparent, and her hair's up today, but not out of her face (it's never out of her face). As always, a distraction.