Free To Have (The Dumont Diaries) by Alessandra Torre Page A

Planning. That would be the title of the book of my life. I had a worry-free childhood that led to a diamond-studded high school career, which led to an I-don’t-care-about-grades college experience, which led to a useless graduation ceremony with a useless degree proudly framed and promptly stuck into a cardboard box in my parents garage. I celebrated my graduation in high style, entering the Real World with a wallet full of fresh credit cards and a new profile on Monster.com. I was ready to find a job and ready to live life as an adult.
    One year later, I came to the conclusion that no one wants to hire an event planner, especially one with no experience, a questionable GPA, and no references, no matter how cute her Betsey Johnson dress is, or how knowledgeable she is on the local party scene. My credit cards were maxed out, I was three weeks late on my rent, and I was desperate. I worked at Radio Shack for a few weeks, the job offer graciously offered by a drinking buddy, but the monthly income didn’t come close to covering my credit card minimum payments. So I drove twenty minutes outside of town and there I ended. At the front doors to the Crystal Palace, a strip club — err…sorry — Gentleman’s Club — located on the county line, as close to town as county legislation would allow, and the only option for local men. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t a palace, and it doubled my RadioShack income, but only barely. To make ends meet, I often have to perform services above and beyond my job description.
    Poor Planning. Or the title could just be — How I Became a Ho. Either way, it’d be a depressing ass book.

CHAPTER 2
    M y rent’s salvation walks through the front doors at 9 p.m. I am moving through tables, my eyes dancing over prospects, when a firm hand grips my elbow, hot pink nails digging into my skin. “Look alive, Candy. He’s here.”
    I glance back, carefully prying her talons out of my arm. “ Who’s here?” My irritable tone drops the moment I see who Jezebel is talking about. Him . The dark-haired stranger who, on three prior occasions, taken care of me. I’m not talking about tossing me a hundred dollar bill for a jerkoff in the VIP room. This guy is the biggest high-roller we have, and he seems to reserve his affections for me, a godsend, especially considering the current state of my bank account. Last time he was here, I left with almost three grand in cash, which isn’t to say I didn’t earn every penny.
    The first night he came in, I had been mid-dance when Rick’s hand gripped my shoulder. I glanced over, my eyes sharp, and my irritated look turned into a question. Rick never interrupts when we are with a client.
    He leaned over, catching the glazed eyes of my client. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Candy. Consider the first half of the dance to be on the house.” His hand pulled at my arm, not allowing me an option, and I stumbled off of the man, my heels catching as I hopped and skipped to keep up with him.
    “What the hell? Is everything okay?” I hissed at him, narrowly missing the sharp edge of a table as he drug me along.
    “We have a high roller, up in VIP. He saw you, wants you, up there.”
    “A high roller?” I fought the urge to laugh. The guy probably asked for sparkling water and Rick thought he was fancy. Our club was an establishment for truckers and minivan driving dads; anybody with any taste or money took their plane to Orlando or South Florida if they wanted girls.
    “Yes, this guy is loaded. He already ordered a bottle of champagne — you know that bottle of Dom we keep in the back? Plus, he has private security and came in a limo.” Rick was moving fast, his hand incessantly pushing on my lower back, his words practically panting with excitement.
    I allowed myself a small sliver of excitement. This guy did sound loaded. Maybe this night would be different. Maybe I would actually meet someone worth meeting, someone who didn’t try to haggle