Dawn Robertson - Finding Willow

The music blared in my ear as the lights damn near blinded me. My heels were far too fucking high, and the club was packed. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? Oh, that’s right! I am fucking broke.

I keep telling myself I can do this. I try to ignore the cat calls surrounding the stages. One drunk in the corner whistles before throwing back a shot. Another man shouts at me to take my clothes off. Twenty four years old and instead of being a college graduate or settling down, I am taking my clothes off for money.

This morning the owner of the small motel I have been living in for three months gave me until the morning to come up with three hundred dollars or I would find myself homeless in Daytona Beach. Far from any friends or family. I could call my sister, Star. But that would mean admitting failure and that would never fucking happen. I am just way too proud for that.

I am snapped out of my thoughts when some scumbag with a matted beard grabs my leg.

“No fuckin’ touching!” my voice fails me. Instead of the authoritative tone I was aiming for, I sound like the scared little girl I really am. I seductively dance back toward the pole in the center of the stage while I start to untie the barely there triangles of pink fabric covering my tits. I have never been shy about being naked, but everything about this screams run for your fucking life, Paisley!

“Yeah baby! Shake that ass!” The rowdy men get louder, and I take my thong covered ass to the front of the stage again. The Buckcherry song, Crazy Bitch is nearing the end and I wanted to get as many singles stuffed in my crotch before I walk out that door.

I drop down onto my knees, and thrust my pussy into the faces of three men sitting center stage. My hands slide over my bare breasts, and make their way for the tiny piece of fabric keeping me from being entirely naked. I rub my hand repeatedly over my cunt giving them the show of their lives.

When I open my eyes, I meet the most piercing set of blue eyes I have ever seen. His jaw is square. His hair is long and brown, pulled back into a lose ponytail at his nape. There is a long scar that runs under his eye, and when our eyes meet, he flashes me the most beautiful smile. I forget I am on stage in front of hundreds of perverts, and focus on him alone.

He is the man that will make my every nightmare come to life. I just don’t know it yet.

Dawn is a woman of many colors. Born and raised in the North-East, the youngest child of three, to two hard working, and extremely dedicated parents, she thrived on her love for creative writing; which started with the Narnia series. Her commitment to hard work lead her down a number of career paths over the years, stopping with her love for fiction.

Dawn is a mother, entrepreneur, and self proclaimed book whore; who enjoys whiskey, iPhones, and kink. She also loves to hear from her readers, so feel free to drop her a line anytime!

Find Dawn Robertson:

Facebook : http://facebook.com/authordawnrobertson

Twitter : http://twitter.com/eroticadawn

Website : EroticaDawn.com

AuthorDawnRobertson@gmail.com

There’s a mind-numbing restlessness that comes with living in small towns. The gossip, the people, and the unending monotony that makes you want to poke your eyes out with a fork. I’ve lived my whole life in Sugartown, so I should probably expect nothing to ever change, and each new day to be just as dull as the last. And yet, every day I wish for the unexpected. I wish for big cities, for open-mindedness, for the ability to jump on my bike and ride the hell out of town and never look back.

Every day I dream of leaving Sugartown. And every day I open this crummy pie shop, I make pies and serve customers, and stay several hours after closing to make pies for the following day. I’m nineteen. The world should be full of endless possibilities, right? Wrong. Oh, so very wrong because I’ve just finished high school and my family happen to own this joint. So instead of making the world my oyster and all that, I’m stuck wearing this retro waitress uniform for the rest of my days—my mum and dad had some kind of rockabilly diner fetish, it’s sad really, don’t ask.

Sugartown sits smack bang on the highway in the middle of nowhere. It’s a quaint little town and a pleasant enough place to stop on your journey from there to anywhere but here, but no one ever stays. And why would they? It’s surrounded on both sides by nothing but cane fields and the ancient sugar mill, that spreads its sweet acrid stench in a smoggy cloud over the whole town, making everything smell like burnt toffee. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, and the nearest town is 25 kilometres away.

I sigh and lean over the counter, staring out the window. Across the road, my dad has shut the doors to his other business, a garage specialising in custom Harley-Davidson fittings: Big Bob’s Bikes and Auto. He leans against his bike and smokes a cigarette as he waits.

My mum’s dream was to open a diner and make pies all day. My dad’s? To run a garage and customise Harleys. That way he could combine his early midlife crisis with his love of mechanics. They were both lucky enough to have had their dreams realized, and both unlucky enough to have them shattered when she found out she had cancer. Amid the chemo and the hospital visits, mum taught me how to make the pies from her recipes. Now I bake pies in the kitchen she taught me how to bake in, dad runs his garage across the street and in a way it’s like my mum’s dream is still alive and kicking. Though I doubt she expected the dragon stepmother to be a part of that dream.

“Ana, are you even listening to me?” My friend and long-term tormentor Holly screeches in my ear. Holly works every shift with me. She’s all kinds of crazy gorgeous with wild red curls, green eyes and more ‘personality’ than a whole ward of mental patients.

“It’s kinda hard not to listen to you, Hols.” I say, and then laugh as I add, “On account of you never shutting the fuck up.”

“Shut up, biatch, I know you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. Lucky for you, I’ve got no problems repeating myself.”

“Yippee.” I deadpan.

She waves that away like I’m the one with all the crazy and begins wiping down the counter with a dirty rag, smearing grease all over the Formica. I love her, but I think Holly may have been dropped on her head when she was a baby. “Anyway, as I was saying, are you going to Nicole’s party next week?”

A scruffy looking kid with strawberry blonde curls and bright blue eyes comes strutting through the shop, saving me from a tiresome conversation in which I continue to argue all the reasons why going to that party would be disastrous for someone like me and where Holly manages to twist the entire conversation back around to the fact that not going would be social suicide. The little brat acts like he owns the place, pokes his tongue out at me and jumps up on the counter that Holly just finished wiping down.

I ruffle his hair and he smiles up at me. “What’s up, Sammy?”

“Nothing. Whereth mum?”