A Dirty Double Crossing Kind of Love

Chapter 1

Latoya

The motel smells like stale cigarettes and broken dreams. The wallpaper’s peeling, the carpet’s sticky, and the heater rattles like it’s about to give out. But it’s what we’ve got. For now.

I’m lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, which has this weird brown stain that looks like someone tried to clean up a murder and just gave up halfway through. Zara’s over by the little sink, scrubbing her makeup brushes like her life depends on it.

“Girl, you’re gonna scrub a hole through that brush,” I mutter, not bothering to look over.

She doesn’t stop. “These cheap-ass Dollar Store brushes shed like a mangy dog. You want my eyeliner to look like it was drawn with a toddler’s crayon? Didn’t think so.”

I snort, rolling onto my side. “We’re strippers, Zara. Not makeup influencers. Nobody’s checking your eyeliner when your titties are out.”

“Speak for yourself,” she shoots back, glancing at me with a smirk. “Some of us are trying to create a brand.”

I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My body aches from last night—heels too high, assholes grabbing too hard, and the nonstop grind of trying to hustle tips from men who think throwing a twenty makes them gods.

“Brand or not, we’re still stuck in this shithole,” I say, waving a hand at the tiny room. “I’m sick of it, Zara. Sick of scraping by, sick of eating fucking ramen every night, sick of…” I trail off, my voice catching.

Zara stops scrubbing, leaning against the sink. “I know,” she says softly. “I’m sick of it too.”

She walks over and flops onto the bed next to me, her legs crossed under her. She’s still wearing her club lashes—long enough to swat flies with—and her hair’s tied up in this messy-ass bun that somehow still looks good on her.

“You ever think about going back home?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

I shake my head. “Back to what? Maryland ain’t got shit for me. My dad thinks I’m still job hunting, and my mom’s already told me I’m a disappointment. What’s there to go back to?”

“Better than this,” she mutters, glancing around the room.

“You don’t even have a home to go back to,” I snap, immediately regretting it when I see the hurt flash across her face.

“Thanks for the reminder,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Shit, Zara, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine,” she says, brushing me off. “We’re both in the same boat anyway.”

And she’s right. Neither of us has shit to show for our lives right now. I’ve got a degree in English that’s about as useful as a hole in my pocket, and Zara’s still trying to figure out what the hell she even wants to do. We came to New York with big dreams and empty wallets, and now we’re here, shaking ass for tips and sharing a single motel room.

“It won’t always be like this,” Zara says suddenly, her voice firm.

I raise an eyebrow. “You got a crystal ball I don’t know about?”

“No, but I’ve got determination,” she says, grinning. “And these double Ds.”

I laugh, the sound harsh and unexpected. “Yeah, well, I hope your boobs have a better five-year plan than I do.”

We sit in silence for a minute, the weight of everything settling over us. The kind of silence that makes you question every choice you’ve ever made.

Finally, Zara sighs, standing up and stretching. “Come on. Let’s get ready. Another night, another dollar.”

I watch her walk over to the tiny closet we share, pulling out a sequined dress that barely counts as clothing. She’s right. We’ve got work to do.

But as I stand and start rummaging through my stuff, I can’t help but wonder how much longer we can keep this up before it breaks us.