Out on the sidewalk, she shoved the medication in her bag, struggling not to tear up. Not going to be buying groceries this week. By the time she reached the Peacock, her blood hummed with angry electricity. In her head, she had created a script for the phone conversation she would have with her insurance company. There would be crying and pleading, but not from her. She was going to put the fear of God into those greedy bastards.

She leaned against the cement back wall of the club, tugged off her Adidas, and put on the high heels she had in her backpack. Then she sucked in her breath in order to bend over and tighten the heel straps, the button on her black skinny jeans gouging into her stomach.

A wolf whistle rang out from behind her. “Nice ass, mami,” shouted a city worker. His partner added, “And those titties is bangin’!”

Angel straightened up. She decided there was no reason to stay calm. “You talk to your blow-up doll with that mouth?” she yelled at the orange-vested men. “Assholes!”

Oh, that felt gooood.

They hooted, and would have said more, if the side door to the Peacock hadn’t popped open. The bouncer blocked out the light from the inside. “These guys bothering you?”

“No, I’m good, big man, thanks.”

He offered the two morons a death stare and moved aside so she could enter. “Maybe not so good, Angel. You’re late. Frank isn’t happy.”

She hurried down the hallway, fluorescent panels flickering overhead, her heels clicking on the concrete floor. Flinging open the office door, she was intent on clocking in.

She almost didn’t see the skinny, pumping ass of her boss, or the hostess bent over the desk in front of him.

“You’re! So! Big!” The woman’s voice was disturbingly high-pitched and childlike. “Harder!” she squealed. Each thrust shoved her and the big metal desk across the floor.

“Yeah, yeah, like that,” Frank said, clenching his hairy butt cheeks, driving in and out of the hostess like a misfiring piston, neither of them aware of her.

Oh. My. God. He’s not gay?

Angel, holding her breath, plucked her time card out of the slot and gently, oh so gently, slid it into the clock. Unfortunately, pushing the button slowly did nothing to soften the click-click-click of the time stamp.

Gripping the hips of the waitress for balance, Frank twisted to see who was behind him. He flashed a grin, his teeth a beacon of light in the dim room. “Angel! Want in on this?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Angel said, backing out the door. The room had not been dim enough.

The hostess moaned, not bothering to turn around. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”