Free SELFLESS by Lexie Ray Page A

took it that upstairs meant a lot more than simply being at the top of a set of stairs. Her voice was respectful, almost reverent, but there was an edge to it. Upstairs might have been a place, but I suspected it was also a practice, of sorts.
    When Cocoa opened the first door, my suspicions were confirmed. It was furnished too sumptuously to be a bedroom for anyone actually staying in the boarding house, velvet curtains obscuring the window, a big bed raised on a platform in the middle of a room, its coverings gleaming in the mood lighting.
    This was as good as an office for the type of business it hosted.
    “You sleep with the customers,” I said, my voice hushed.
    “Smart girl,” Cocoa said. “You’re correct. Upstairs business is part of business. We make the real money up here. Mama gets a cut, of course, but you can make some serious cash.”
    I pressed my lips together and kept my face carefully blank. Was this what I’d fallen into? Out of my home with my family, away from my abusive addict boyfriend and into a life of prostitution?
    If Mami and Papi of the airport red kisses could see me now. The thought was a bitter, confused one—they wouldn’t likely know who I was if they could see me now. They hadn’t seen me since I was very young—too young to form accurate memories of them.
    They’d wanted me to stay in New York to get my education, but instead, I’d dropped out of school to flee from my boyfriend and taken up residence in an apparent whorehouse. The thought of it was so ludicrous and desperate that I wanted to shout and scream and laugh and cry all at once.
    But I didn’t. I never made scenes. I was too shy.
    I pressed my lips together and looked at the fine comforter, tracing the lines of the duvet with my eyes.
    “Pumpkin?” Cocoa prompted gently. “Are you okay?”
    “Yes,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
    “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Cocoa said, her voice grave. “If you don’t want to have upstairs business, you don’t have to. You can make plenty of money downstairs, just not the kind you can upstairs.”
    “I’ll think about it,” I said, and turned around to go.
    “Just give it time, Pumpkin,” Cocoa said, following me out the door and shutting it behind us. “I know you’re coming from something bad. But give life a chance to get better for you.”
    My eyes had been open this entire time. I’d seen the way Mama’s girls dressed, the way they lived, and the way they worked. I observed. It was what I did.
    And I wasn’t sure that Mama’s nightclub was going to be the better thing my life was waiting for.
    We walked back downstairs and Cocoa knocked on the door to Mama’s office. Mama called for us to enter, so we did. It was a small, cluttered space, ledger books stacked to the ceiling. Mama sat behind a desk covered with papers, counting bills from a money box. She stopped when we entered and snapped the box closed.
    “Well, Pumpkin,” she said, looking up at me and beaming. “What do you think?”
    “It’s nice,” I said simply, an ambiguous answer that I learned could easily throw people off of your true thoughts.
    “Thank you, honey,” Mama said. “I’ve worked hard to have a place like this my whole life. I keep it up as best as I can.”
    “Mama, about the upstairs business,” Cocoa said, clasping her hands and leaning forward earnestly. “Pumpkin wants to take it slow before she gets into it. Give herself some time to think about it.”
    Mama’s brown eyes flicked back to me, calculating, shrewd.
    “I think that’s prudent,” she said. “Test the waters before you dive in. Give yourself a chance to get adjusted.”
    Mama’s eyes fell from my face to my neck, carefully noting the bruises around my throat. I resisted the urge to cover them standing as still as I could.
    “Let me ask you something,” Mama said. “Do those marks have anything to do with your decision?”
    I swallowed. I couldn’t talk