Working Girl Read Online Free Page B

melting into a puddle.
    “Emerson!” We both turn to the voices shouting his name in time for me to notice a guy gesturing for him to walk toward them. I’m not ready for my time talking to him to be over yet, but at the same time I need some distance. I feel so conflicted.
    He looks over his shoulder at the crowd calling to him. “Well, I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Presley. See you in class. And my offer stands—you, me, and some serious studying.”
    I nervously pick at some skin on my fingers playing it off as disinterest. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
    He puts his hand up to wave awkwardly and continues to steal glances over his shoulder at me while he walks towards his group of friends, a shit-eating grin on his face, those damn dimples screaming at me. Frozen in place, I watch Emerson and his friends walk away. They’re laughing, yucking it up big time, and I can’t help but feel a slight pang of jealousy deep in my stomach. In all two of my interactions with him, it’s apparent that Emerson has the world at his fingertips. He’s well dressed and even more well liked. Not only that, but it seems to come easy to him. That’s not something I’ll ever feel, no matter what happens. I’ll never have the chance to be carefree, without a worry in the world, because my past will always define me.
    I can’t even let a guy talk to me because I always think the worst. The little voice in my head tells me that they’re only looking for one thing—that they can’t possibly actually be interested in me. But I guess that’s what happens when every guy you’ve ever come into contact with just wants you to jerk ’em off, or give them a blowjob.
    Hating myself, I reach in my bag and pull out my favorite book. Despite being late, I need to read over the lines that have soothed me time and time again. I thumb through the pages, opening up to the page that I have dog-eared for this very moment. The words of the happily ever after can always seem to make me smile, allowing me to escape my proverbial hell, if only for a brief period. These moments of self-doubt are becoming more frequent lately, and I understand why. My conscious is trying to rule me. It’s bossing me around, just like Big Earl does to all the girls in the brothel. Just like all those fuckers in high school.
    “You’re just a daughter of a whore, Presley.”
    No, I’m not. I refuse to travel down that path blazed by my damaged mother. I will not follow in her footsteps. No matter what, I will be my own person.
    Even if it kills me.

SITTING AT THE DESK, I watch as man after man comes in through the doors, allowing the girls to fool them into thinking that they actually like them. It’s the most disgusting part of my job; watching the girls work them. The men are either oblivious to it being their job, or they just don’t care. Either way, I hate watching the pathetic interactions. The girls laugh. Lightly touch the guys’ arms. It’s like flirting, only way more obvious—at least, to me. Then again, I watch it night after night, before they pair off and each of them head into the negotiating rooms, ultimately bartering for sex.
    In order to pass the time and distract myself from the horrible things going on around me, I like to make up stories about each of them. It’s better to think of them as fictional characters than their reality, because those stories are certainly far more depressing. Deep down, I know that most of these guys are just losers, cheating on their wives, who are at home taking care of the kids. No, I can’t think about that. I’d rather make up heroine stories that make me feel good. Life is depressing enough.
    I watch as Ruby leads an older Joe into the negotiating room. Closing my eyes, I imagine him to be an army veteran, just retired. Having been so busy with his career, he’s never managed to settle down. Unable to find the right woman, and his prime long gone, he resorts to a brothel to find company.
    Then comes