“Hey, Yvette.”

She jerked around. Brandi stood in the doorway

“Got a special request. Table twelve.” She held it out. “He sent a note.”

Marcus. Time to send him a message.

“Tell him to go fuck himself.”

Brandi made a sound of surprise. “But-”

“You heard me.”

For a long moment, the other woman was silent. She still held out the note. “What if he complains to Tonya? She won’t like this, Yvette.”

“Know what? She can go fu-” Yvette bit the words off and yanked the piece of paper from Brandi’s hand. She fumbled around the cluttered vanity top for a pen and came up with a red lip liner instead.

Smiling to herself, she scrawled Go Fuck Yourself! in red across the note.

“Here-” she shoved it at Brandi “-there’s my answer.”

“You’re sure?” She nodded and the waitress backed toward the door. There she stopped. “Do you know him or something?”

“Or something.” Yvette took a deep drag on the smoke. “Give him that. Now.”

The waitress looked like she wanted to say more, to question her or argue, but simply left the dressing room.

Yvette waited for the fireworks to begin. Tonya ripping her a new one while she lectured about what was and wasn’t acceptable. Marcus finding his way back here and slapping her around. Or another note delivered by Brandi, this one with a warning.

They didn’t come. And when she went out for her last dance of the evening, she saw that Marcus had left.

Take that, chicken shit. Weasel.

The end of the night finally came and she clocked out. Tips had sucked, though she wasn’t surprised. Most nights she enjoyed the game, was an active participant in it, but tonight she had simply been going through the motions.

And who was turned on by that?

She called “Good night” to her colleagues at the bar having a last drink, and let herself out the back door of the locked club.

Yvette walked home nearly every night, though she lived on the other side of the Quarter. She took the busiest route, often stopping at the Dungeon, a place open from midnight to 6:00 a.m. Sometimes one of the other girls accompanied her; once in a while she caught a lift home.

Truth was, living and working in the French Quarter eliminated the need for a car. Everything she needed was within walking distance.

She peeked out into the deserted alley. The door would automatically lock behind her, so before she shut it, she always checked the alley. With the exception of a few places, most notably Rampart Street near Armstrong Park, the Quarter was safe. At least for those who followed the basic rules of safety, like keeping to well-lit or busy streets.

This portion of the alley did not meet that criteria; however, twenty feet forward and a right turn did. The worst she’d encountered was the street person who occasionally made himself a home in a cardboard box near the Dumpster.

Antisocial and focused on their own survival, most of the homeless kept to themselves. This one broke the mold. One night he had trailed her home, hissing at her and making lewd comments. Finally she had thrown an empty beer bottle at him and he had taken off.

That was the thing about the Quarter. There wasn’t a kind of freak that wasn’t represented: men who dressed as women, women who dressed as men, horny bums, Goths, vamps, retards and all manner of delusional schizoids, most of them harmless.

She stepped into the alley. The door snapped shut behind her, the light dying with it.

“Hello, Yvette. I was waiting for you.”

Marcus. She stopped and turned, searching the darkness. He stepped out of the shadows near the alley opening, blocking her exit.

“Have a good night?”

She hid her fear and tilted up her chin. “What do you care?”

He crossed to her. She saw that his eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. He stroked her cheek. “Don’t ever do that to me again. You won’t like what happens.”

She knocked his hand away, furious. “Go back to your frigid country-club wife. Let her get you off!”

He leaned closer, voice low and deliberate. “Don’t push me, Yvette. I own you.”

Fear warred with fury. And pride. Nobody owned her. Her life, her terms.

She stiffened. “I want my money, Marcus. I want my five hundred bucks!”

He slid his left hand into her hair. The other went to her throat. “Is that what it’s all about for you? The money?” He curled his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back. “Is it, sweetheart?”

Her eyes watered. It felt as if he was going to tear her hair out by the roots. If she struggled, he would. She didn’t doubt that for a second.

“You promised,” she whispered.

“You’ll get it when I say. And until then, you’ll do whatever I say. Got that?”

She said she did and he released her. She stumbled backward, hand going to her stinging scalp.

Bastard! She couldn’t let him get away with it. She wouldn’t.

“Maybe I should pay a little visit to the cops?” she shouted after him. “For that matter, your wife, too. I’m sure she’d be really interested in our little arrange-”

He was on her so quickly, she didn’t have time to protect herself. The force of his body propelled her backward, against the damp brick wall. His hands went to her throat.

“Try it, bitch, and I’ll cut out your heart.”

He deepened the pressure. Yvette brought her hands to his, struggling to breathe. Dots of light danced before her eyes. Panicked, she wondered if he was going to kill her.

The door to the club opened; light spilled into the darkness. “Yvette? Are you there?”

Brandi! Thank God!

Unable to call out, she struggled against Marcus’s grip. He released her and stepped back. “See you later, sweetheart,” he said, then turned and walked away.

Yvette sank to her knees, sputtering and gasping for air.

A moment later Brandi was kneeling beside her, arm around her shoulders. “My God, are you okay?”

Yvette struggled to speak. She realized she was trembling. Her teeth began to chatter.

Brandi rubbed her back. “Was that the guy from tonight? The one you wouldn’t dance for?”

Yvette nodded. “I thought he…was going…to kill me.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

Brandi started to stand; Yvette caught her arm, stopping her. “Don’t,” she croaked. “It’ll only make things…worse.”

“How can it be worse? He tried to kill you!”

“Just help me up. I’m okay.”

Brandi hesitated a moment, then did as she asked. Unsteady on her feet, she took a deep, calming breath, acknowledging she was happy to be alive.

She sent a small smile to Brandi. “Thanks. If you hadn’t…”

She let the thought trail off. Brandi jumped in quickly. “How about I give you a ride home?”

“I don’t live that far. I can-”

“Walk? Get real. What if that creep is waiting for you?”

She had a point. And the truth was, at this moment she felt neither steady nor brave.

She and Brandi walked to the lot where Brandi had parked her car, a battered SUV. They climbed in and Yvette sagged back against the seat, exhausted.

“Where to?”

She gave directions, then closed her eyes. What had she been thinking? Challenging Marcus that way? Threatening him with the cops? Threatening to go to his wife?

“Right turn?”

She cracked open her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

Several directions later, Brandi pulled the vehicle to a stop. “Here we are,” she said.

Yvette grabbed the door handle, then hesitated, suddenly not wanting to be alone. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.

“Anytime. If you change your mind about the cops-”

“I won’t.” Yvette opened the vehicle door, climbed halfway out, then glanced back. “I really appreciate…you know.”

“No problem.” Brandi smiled. “I’ll watch to make sure you get in.”

Yvette hesitated again, thinking of her dark, empty apartment.