Their Girl Pt. 01

Until your back is up against a wall, you never know what you'll do to survive, and you never know if your desperate choice will destroy you, or be the key to your future.

I aged out of the foster system when I turned 18 in April, and was kicked out of my foster home immediately after high school graduation in June. I was desperate. It was November, and the worst of winter was coming. For the moment, I had a closet-sized room in a transitional women's shelter, arranged by the child services people when I was released from my final foster care home, but I had to be in the shelter by 8 p.m. each night when the doors locked. To make it worse, my six-month limit at the shelter was fast approaching. I had just less than a month to find permanent housing.

Problems? The only job I could find at the moment sometimes had me working until 9 pm two nights a week. On those nights I slept wherever I could. I was making friends at the coffee shop where I worked as a barista, and they'd let me couch surf, but I was on the verge of wearing out my welcome. I had a small savings for first, last and deposit for rent, but I didn't earn enough to qualify for "three times rent" requirement for many rentals, and the waiting list for low-income single housing was - long.

Which meant, in a month I'd be joining the other homeless in a tent under a highway somewhere. Life for a young woman on the streets was, well, my best bet would be to find a protector, probably some slimy guy who hadn't showered properly in months, in exchange for my virginity and ongoing "favors."

Ick, ick, ick. There had to be another way.

"Kyra, come out with us tonight. It's "80s night at Club Raine, and cover is half-price if you're in costume," Megan invited during a break between customers.

I looked down at my thrift-store clothes under my apron. Yep, 80s. My current grown-out strawberry blond pixie cut was there too, at that weird in-between stage where it looked like a wild layered 80s rocker hairstyle. I also wore an old concert tour t-shirt - they were plentiful on the thrift store racks and I didn't care if they ended up covered in spilled coffee.

It was already 7:45, and there was no way I was going to get to the shelter in time tonight. I didn't have work tomorrow, so maybe I could party the night away in a dry, warm club, and forget about my life for a night. It would be a new experience.

"I'll do it," I agreed.

Two hours later Megan, Jazz, Izzi, and I were standing in line at Club Raine. Jazz wore vintage acid-wash denim jeans and a jacket, and a crop top, which she said she stole out of her aunt's closet. Jazz was in a zebra print skater skirt and a black crop top over a neon yellow microfiber tank that might have been a leotard, while Izzi did the 80s prom thing, with a mid thigh-length satin neon-fuchsia strapless bubble dress. I rounded out the bunch with my old rocker t-shirt, jeans and about a half-dozen studded black belts Megan loaned me.

The line was insane, completely around the block, and the usual Seattle clouds were threatening to douse the gallons of hairspray worn by the night's club hopefuls. The main doors to the club were still closed, but the thumping of the bass rhythm from inside could already be felt more than heard.

"Is everyone here really going to get in? I eyed the line, and the huge bouncers who stood at the door. There was a VIP entrance at the other end of the building, and people were being escorted from fancy cars and through an equally well-guarded set of double doors.

"Hell, no," Jazz shook her head. "They have people who pick who gets in. You never know who it's going to be. Some nights they go for the supermodel types, or other nights it's all nerdy people, or the girl or guy next door. Everyone wants to be picked, and those who get in totally rave about the club later. I've gotten in three times in the last year."

Izzi giggled. "It's all in making sure you're with the theme of the night. They announce it on social media each morning. They also have gay nights, or lesbian nights, and even Daddy and other kink nights once or twice a month, so don't show up without checking what the theme is. You might get more than you expected. They've been doing this for three years now, and it's the hottest game in town. I heard they're opening similar clubs in Portland and San Francisco."

"Daddy nights?" I asked. "Like, the whole role playing sex games thing?"

Jazz laughed and wrinkled her nose. "Yep. I drove by, and all the women had pigtails with bows in their hair, and were dressed in babydoll dresses and stuff like that. Super creepy, if you ask me."

Having lost my own father, could see the appeal of having a "daddy" take care of you, but pretending to be a young girl was definitely not my thing.

Megan shrugged. "It's a good time, if you can get in. If not, we can always do a late movie."

For about ten minutes we laughed and judged the costumes of others who stood in line with us. Some of the women wore 80s-style sexy short dresses, some clearly cheap costumes, others probably vintage. Many rocked the Cher, Madonna or Cyndi Lauper looks.

Just the people-watching was fun. "This is like Halloween, but better," I told my co-workers. Friends? Maybe.

Never mind I only had real Halloween costumes maybe three times in my life.

A ripple of exclamation moved through the line. Two huge black bouncers were walking the line, and occasionally stopped to pick out an individual, or a small group, and sent them toward the entrance. Once they got closer, I realized they were putting wristbands on each person they selected, of different colors. I wondered what the colors meant.

They reached our group, and I realized exactly how big the bouncers were. They were like almost-matched bookends, and had to be somewhere around six-six or six-seven. One had long, glossy box braids that hung heavily over his shoulders, and the other wore his hair short, in an almost military-tight cut. They both wore blazers over navy blue t-shirts with the club logo, ball caps with the logo, and dark wash jeans. The outfits did nothing to disguise their massive shoulders and arms, narrow waists, and long, powerful legs. I'd bet the shirts hid washboard abs.

I had no idea how they communicated. It was almost like they were psychic. They'd spot someone they liked, and one would hold the rope while the other indicated which hopefuls were selected, then they'd attach the wristbands.

Finally they came to our spot in line, and the one with the braids met my eyes. I never saw a signal, but the other guy lifted the rope, and braids guy took my hand to pull me under it. I turned around to the girls I arrived with. I didn't want to leave my friends behind. I was only there because they invited me.

After a moment's hesitation, the pair escorted a squealing Megan, Jazz and Izzi under the rope. A few moments later they all wore aqua-blue wristbands; mine was white, and made of a different material; thicker, and had a different kind of clasp, the kind you couldn't take off without destroying the wristband.

"We're in," Izzi nearly danced her way toward the entrance, and held up her wristband for the bouncer at the door, who waived her toward the cashier behind a window. Jazz and Megan followed. When the bouncer saw my white band, he motioned me through another door, which took me directly inside, skipping the cashier.

The girls joined me inside, where "Another One Bites the Dust" thumped through the sound system.

"Holy shit, you got in free. Now, what about you did they like so much you got white? I've never seen white before. Turn around!" Jazz instructed. I turned slowly for their inspection.

"What does white mean?" I asked.

"Special guest," a low, husky voice behind me answered. I turned, and it was one of the two bouncers from outside. "You're authentic. Real. We like that here," he said, then turned and walked into the growing crowd. I watched him disappear up a staircase, then turned back

"Well," Megan was wide-eyed at the brief exchange.

"Okay, so we're all in. Let's have some fun!" Izzi shut down our discussion, and we headed for the bar.

I quickly learned that I wasn't allowed to pay for my drinks. As soon as the bartender saw my wristband he waved away any payment or tip. My girls and I had a blast dancing to the 80s club mix. No one carded me, but for the most part I stuck to mocktails. I was a lightweight, so only one in three drinks was alcoholic.

One by one the girls paired off with guys and disappeared with guys, after telling us they were leaving, until Megan was the only one left. She was slow dancing with a guy dressed as the Footloose main character, or something like him, while I cooled off with a virgin margarita. I was sweaty and tired, but happier than I remembered being, maybe ever.

I had a job, I had friends, sort-of. All I needed was a place to lay my head. Maybe one of them would be interested in renting a place together? It was worth a thought. As if summoned, Megan was right beside me.

"Hey, Kyra, are you okay getting home by Uber? I mean, I invited you, but it's late, and the place closes in an hour. I have this invitation, and he's so damn cute," she made eyes at the young Kevin Bacon lookalike.

I rolled my eyes. "Go for it. I'll be fine." Nope, my co-workers had no clue I was homeless and "lived" in a shelter. I could take an Uber back to the shelter, but I'd end up sleeping in the porch. They had strict rules, and if we were gone for three nights without notification for being in the hospital or something, our stuff was put in storage and the room given to someone else. There was always someone else in need.

Megan hugged me. "You're awesome. I'm so glad you're working my shift. We're totally going to be besties. I'll see you at work on Sunday!"

She disappeared, her hand in literally in his back pocket, and his hand low on her ass. No mystery there, what the rest of her night was going to look like.

Which meant I had to figure out what to do with myself until the shelter doors opened at 7 a.m. for the communal breakfast. Sleeping in a doorway wasn't exactly safe for a woman on the streets. I had been considering a 24 hour fitness club membership, just to have a place to shower and be warm, if my 6-month limit ended, but I doubted they sold memberships in the middle of the night. I had enough left from my last paycheck to cover a month's membership.

I sat at the bar and ordered one more drink - a virgin mojito. While I sat nursing it in the still busy but no longer hopping nightclub, a worker carried a box out of a back room -- and the back door didn't quite close.

Yes, I've slept in restaurant bathrooms, a grocery store back room, and a . A nightclub storeroom would probably have cardboard, I could make a decent nest to sleep in, off the ground.

I waited until after last call. The bartender disappeared, and the bouncers started rounding up the . A few were rowdy, drunk, and resisted. I used the distraction to slip through the unlocked door, and made sure it latched behind me. If it was properly latched, it was unlikely anyone would check. Hopefully no one needed cleaning supplies!

The room proved to be much larger than I expected, and clean. As I expected, there was a pile of cardboard boxes, neatly collapsed and folded, in a corner by alarmed doors I guessed led to an alley.

I moved several of them into a back corner of one of the aisles of shelves, and settled in for an uncomfortable, but dry and safe, night.

***

I settled in to watch the security cameras in the office. I didn't often get to play bouncer outside the doors anymore, and the night was a welcome change to my usual routine. The 80s theme was a success, as were most of our theme nights. Every Thursday, we ran some kind of theme night, and our new manager was brilliant in choosing them. I enjoyed watching those nights, because Seattlites could be wild, and came up with some really incredible costumes or outfits.

And then there were those for whom the theme was more than a costume. Like that girl. I switched the feed to the bar, where she sat alone. She arrived with three others, whom I was initially utterly uninterested in, they were common, bland, and blended into the background, but she seemed unwilling to leave them. I wanted her inside tonight. I didn't know why, but she drew me in.

"What happened to Rocker Girl's friends," I asked Marq, who spent much of the night on the floor. He loved that shit.

"They left, with men, of course. They've been here before, for a good time and hookups. They seemed to have decent taste, though," Marq called from the next room.

I grunted. I didn't have a lot of respect for girls who would abandon their friend at a nightclub without at least making sure she had a safe ride home.

"Chill, Jordan. I saw them check in with her before she left. It seemed like her choice to stay," Marq assured me.

Marq knew me so well. I watched her, and realized I had a half-chub going. I liked the way she was shaped. She was tall, I bet she was nearly five-ten, and very slim with silky-looking pale strawberry blond hair and sky-blue eyes with a golden sunburst in the middle, radiating out from her pupils. Stunning.

She didn't have much going for her in the boobs area, perky, but nothing special, but she had a fine ass. Skinny though. She needed more meat on her bones. A guy wanted something to hold on to, especially in the hips. With a little extra food, she's be perfect.

So, now I had more than a half-chub going, and I rearranged myself.

Jordan chuckled. "See something you like?" He bent down for a kiss, and as our lips met, his hand found the large bulge in my jeans, and I groaned, my cock hardening, painful in the tight jeans I made the mistake of wearing tonight.

"She's damn fine. No teasing," I bated his hand away. "Think she'll be back?"

I checked the video feed again, my cock growing painfully hard. Last call was past, and it was time for the place to shut down for the night cleaning crew to come through. She was still at the bar.

Or maybe she wasn't.

"What's she doing," Marq asked as she slid from her stool. She moved confidently, not like she was sneaking, but as if she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

"Whatever she's doing, she's done it before," I said. Was she a thief? If so, she knew how not to be noticed. "Sneaking" people trying to be sly, and tended to get the attention of our bouncers or other employees, there was a body language people learned to recognize, even just catching it out the corner of their eye. Marq and I knew it well, thanks to years of working security for nightclubs after our budding NFL careers ended in painful flames.

Yeah, we played football. In college we were the starting left and right defensive tackles for our Pac-12 team. From freshman year until we graduated, we were roommates, and within the first two months we both discovered quickly we were both bi - and hot for each other. We weren't a perfect match, sexually, but we fell in love and made it work.

I was a top-100 rated draft prospect, but in our senior year, second to the last game, I suffered a full hamstring pull and reconstruction. I still walked with a slight limp.

Marq - briefly famous as Marques Witherspoon - was drafted by the Ravens, and lasted five regular games as a rookie starter before another player landed on him in a pile and broke his neck. Two vertebrae were cracked, and while his spinal cord was spared and he healed without surgery, doctors and coaches said another bad hit could paralyze him for life. So, he retired from football at the age of 22.

With our planned careers dead, we became bouncers and "security specialists," aka bodyguards. What else is there to do when you're a hair short of six-seven, and 290 pounds, and look like you eat nails for breakfast?

And now, at age 28 we were here; a committed bi couple who felt incomplete -- and had a sneak thief heading into the usually secure storeroom where we kept some of the top-shelf stuff.

"Fuck," Marq swore, and ran his hand through his long braids. By that time the bouncers on the floor had swept the bathrooms and VIP rooms, and were distracted by the last of the dance-floor warriors. I watched the door, and Marq watched the monitors as the club emptied. The floor bouncers barred the doors, then made a beeline for the back rooms. They'd be gone in ten minutes.

"You go. I'll stick to the cameras and let you know if she comes out. Wear your earpiece." I told him.

I watched the door, which stayed sealed, until Marq arrived.

"Is she still in there," Marq asked though the club's bluetooth security network.

"The alley doors haven't been opened. She's in there," I told him.

He disappeared inside.

***

The storeroom was huge - almost a warehouse. Technically, the entire club was a warehouse, or rather, a refurbished brick warehouse close to Pioneer Square. For decades the old neighborhood, located a few blocks from the Seattle sports stadiums, was hidden behind the Alaskan Viaduct and covered in graffiti. Once the double-decker raised highway was torn down, it had become the hottest neighborhood in Seattle.

Club Raine was built to preserve the old building's shell, and the interior designer took the whole industrial look to new levels. This storeroom could have come from a time when it was used for shipping goods on steamers. It had twelve tall aisles of storage, with rolling ladders to reach the upper shelves.

I didn't bother to walk quietly. She'd been in here for nearly 20 minutes - enough time to collect a nice little collection of things to sell - or drink. I noticed that, while she appeared to be drinking all night, the bartender reported they were mostly mocktails. A good thief made him, or herself look drunk, but stayed sober until his or her chance arrived.

Our little rocker was a very good thief.

I reached the seventh aisle when I noticed some cardboard sticking out from the end shelves. That was out of place. The stock people were good about keeping the cardboard neatly stacked in the recycle pile.

"Aisle seven, something's not right," I whispered, knowing the earpiece's microphone would pick it up.

Jordan acknowledged with confirmation the doors were still closed. "Check it out," he added.

This time I really was careful to stay quiet. I took off my shoes. Stocking feet on a concrete floor made almost no sound at all, even at my size. I reached the end, to find a stack of cardboard - messy. Then I realized the top box was arched. I pulled it clear - to reveal a sleepy, startled little strawberry blond underneath. She backed into the corner of the shelves, shaking.

"I'm so sorry. I'll go. Please, don't call the police. I just needed a place to sleep," she babbled, clearly terrified.

I had no fucking clue what to do. It was a first for me.

"Who are you, and why are you sleeping back here," I asked, simultaneously trying not to scare her more, but also attempting to keep up my guard, in case it was some kind of trick.

"My name's Kyra Weber," she scrambled to get an ID from her purse and threw it at me. "I had nowhere to go tonight. The shelter was closed for the night and my friends left, so I couldn't couch surf tonight. I was going to be gone in the morning, I promise."

"Is she serious," Jordan asked in disbelief. "That gorgeous thing lives in a shelter?"

"What shelter?" I asked suspiciously. The address on her ID was a nice neighborhood near Queen Anne. It was not your usual homeless shelter location.

"Lily's Hope," she answered.

"Jordan, what's the address for Lily's Hope shelter?" I knew he would find it online in seconds, and he didn't disappoint. The address matched the one on the ID.

I eyed the girl, who still cowered under the shelves.