"A handsome young guy with curly black hair came in and immediately offered me $500 for an hour…"
It's midnight. I'm already three hours into my nine-hour shift, and it's only just starting to pick up; we won't get busiest until about two a.m., when the bars let out and miners with pockets full of fifties and hundreds decide to splurge on a couple of girls. The phones are starting to go off, but most of the girls are sitting in rich-looking leather chairs, their legs neatly crossed at the ankles, slouching over cell phones or, in one case, a novel. Some of them stare into space. Most of them disappear every ten minutes to go smoke out back. There are only supposed to be two girls smoking at one time, or the floor looks too empty: house rules.
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