Chapter 2
The Unwritten Rules of Falling Apart
“Last night,” the man snapped, “I told you you’re getting older. I said I could take you away from that life.” He jabbed a finger toward Latifa’s chest. “You started crying. Said your youth was gone. Said you were running out of options... and then you said yes.”
Latifa’s stomach twisted into a bitter knot. She didn’t remember saying yes—hell, she barely remembered the conversation at all. But the worst part? The words hit like a punch because they weren’t wrong.
Her best days were long gone. She wasn’t the weekend headliner anymore—not even the late-night girl. No. She was the one they threw on during slow Tuesdays. Grinding for the lunch crowd. Bored truckers. Half-drunk businessmen who pretended not to recognize her in daylight.
Sometimes, she felt like an old racehorse—used up, shoved into a pasture to wait for the end.
Her head dropped. She couldn’t even meet his eyes. Her fingers trembled as she slid the cold ring off her finger. It felt heavy, as if it carried every bad decision she’d ever made.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I had too much to drink last night.” She held the ring out, palm open, like it weighed a thousand pounds.
The man puffed his chest, voice rising. “I bought you drinks! Brought you home to meet my brothers! You two-bit—”
Before he could finish, Anthony stepped between them. His voice sliced the air. “You took advantage of a drunk woman when she was scared and vulnerable.”
The man’s eyes bulged. “We had a deal! That bitch agreed—”
Anthony stepped closer, towering over him. One finger aimed straight at the door. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “If I were you... I’d walk out that door. Right now. ‘Cause I’m this close to forgetting we’re in the house of the Lord.”
The man’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the stained glass.
Anthony didn’t blink. “And tell your brothers... next time you bring a deal like that through my door, it won’t be words.”
Silence.
Latifa stood frozen, staring at the door long after it clicked shut. Her stomach churned. Her throat felt raw.
When... when was the last time I felt this cheap?
The memories blurred—nights she wished she could erase. Faces. Names. Moments she never wanted to remember. God... the list kept growing.
Her gut twisted harder. Is this any different? Trading sex—and marriage—for some shaky version of security? Is that so far from selling myself outright?
She didn’t know anymore.
Like God Himself had read her thoughts, Anthony’s voice broke the silence. Gentle, but firm. “It ain’t the same, you know. Desperation ain’t the same as selling your soul. If it were... half the folks in this town would be guilty.”
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she shoved them down. Life had taught her this much: If you step in it, you’d better be the one to scrape it off your shoes. No one else is gonna do it for you.
And right now? She hadn’t just stepped in it—she’d waded knee-deep. Maybe deeper.
She sank onto the nearest bench and buried her face in her hands. “You must think I’m nothing but cheap... busted... broken.”
Anthony sat beside her, letting out a rough chuckle. “Who am I to judge? I spent half of my teenage years bouncing in and out of juvenile detention and county lock-ups. If I hadn’t straightened out... I’d still be there.”
Her voice came out raw. “I got drunk. Scared outta my damn mind. Offered to marry a man just ‘cause I didn’t know what else to do. Woke up half-naked... God knows what else happened. If that ain’t cheap... then what is?”
Anthony leaned back, eyes heavy. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” —Romans 3:23. “But the thing is... it doesn’t end there. Never does. That’s the part most folks forget.”
A bitter laugh slipped out. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna preach.”
Anthony grinned. “It’s kinda my job.” Then his smile softened, a mischievous twinkle sneaking in. “Or like Bruce Springsteen said in Thunder Road—‘Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night.’ Sometimes... that’s all it takes.”
Latifa laughed for real—warm, full, and unexpected. “So now you’re quoting The Boss, huh?”
Anthony stood and stretched, tipping his head toward the door. “I quote whoever I can. C’mon. You hungry? I’m starved.”
As they pulled into the gravel lot, Anthony grinned. “Best pizza in the whole county. Right here.”
Latifa squinted at the sign—Wagon Wheel Restaurant—with a faded picture of an old covered wagon tipped on one wheel. “Well... guess we’ll see,” she muttered, crossing her arms, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her.
Gravel crunched under their shoes as they headed for the door. Inside, it was like stepping back in time—dark-stained wooden walls. Wagon wheels hanging from the ceiling, turned into chandeliers with strings of warm yellow bulbs, and red vinyl booths. The air smelled like heaven—melted mozzarella, garlic, buttery dough... and something sweet. Cinnamon maybe. Or fresh apple pie cooling in the back.
Latifa hesitated in the doorway. Places like this? Not her scene. Too neat. Too wholesome. Too... safe. For a second, it felt like she’d wandered into someone else’s life. Someone who hadn’t spent years crawling through the mud.
Anthony tipped his chin toward a booth in the corner. “C’mon. You’ll thank me after the first bite.”
A waitress appeared, small and spry, silver hair pulled back in a bun, her grin wide enough to light the whole place. “Well, hey there, sugar. Got you some menus. What can I get y’all to drink?”
Anthony answered without missing a beat. “Coffee. Black.”
Latifa opened her mouth—beer sitting right there on the tip of her tongue. But something about this place... this moment... made her stop.
“Coffee too,” she said softly. “Thanks.”
The waitress winked. “Comin’ right up, hon.”
As they waited, a man shuffled past their booth, tipping his head politely. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said as he eased by.
Latifa blinked. Ma’am.
She couldn’t remember the last time a man called her that. Hell... she couldn’t remember the last time a man looked at her like anything other than a body on a stage—a thing.
It could be small-town manners. Maybe it was the old floral dress she’d grabbed from the church basement—the one that clung in all the right places even if it was two decades out of style. Whatever it was... for the first time in years, she didn’t feel cheap.
She felt like a person.
Anthony took a long sip of his coffee, studying her over the rim. “So, Miss Robinson... what’s rattling around in that pretty head of yours?”
Her cheeks flushed. She leaned in, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret. “I think... everybody here actually thinks I’m... respectable.”
Anthony leaned forward, tapping his fingers against her hand. “What exactly do you think respectable is?”
Her mouth opened—then shut. She stared at him. Damn. No one had ever asked her that before.
She shrugged, throwing out the only truth she had. “Not me. I’ve been climbin’ on the wagon and fallin’ off with my pants down for as long as I can remember.”
Anthony chuckled softly, but his gaze stayed steady. “No... I mean it. What does respectable look like to you?”
She frowned. “What kinda question is that?”
“It’s the kinda question that matters,” he said. “If you don’t know what you think respectable is... how can you be so sure you ain’t it?”
Latifa whispered, voice cracking, “Not me. I take my clothes off for strangers. I drink so much I wake up in places I don’t even recognize... with half my clothes gone. My own family won’t even talk to me.”
Anthony sipped the water the waitress placed on the table, watching her closely. “So... a new job and stayin’ sober. That’s what respectable looks like to you?” He let the words linger. “Is that what you want... or just somethin’ you read somewhere?”
He leaned in, voice plain, steady. “When I was locked up... you ask a thief, and he’ll tell you stealin’s okay—‘cause at least he didn’t kill nobody. Ask a killer... and he’ll say he only killed one man. ‘Cause if he’d killed two... then he’d be a bad man. It’s all in how you look at it.”
His fingers tapped the table. “People draw lines wherever they need to... so that they can sleep at night.”
Latifa rested her chin in her hand. “And where’s your line?”
Anthony’s face shifted—something sad passed behind his eyes. “You know that old line about ‘honour among thieves’? It’s a lie. A straight-up lie.” He sighed. “I was a bad man in my youth. I stole. I hurt people. I drank too much... and did a whole lot else I ain’t proud of.”
His eyes drifted somewhere far off. “My line? It... faded. The day I stopped makin’ excuses and finally took responsibility.”
Silence.
Then, softer. “It was a break-in. My three buddies and I. We hit this old man’s place—Riley. Harmless guy. Sold bootleg cigarettes and whiskey ‘cause his pension wasn’t enough. We tied him to a chair. Tore through his house. He didn’t fight... didn’t even yell. And yet...” His voice caught. “We left him lying on the floor... covered in blood. For what? A couple hundred bucks. Not even.”
Anthony rubbed his face, like he could scrub the memory out. “He didn’t die. But I spent a whole lotta nights in a cell starin’ at the ceiling... wonderin’ why the hell I hit that old man. What the hell was wrong with me?”
His fist tightened. Then loosened. “That’s the thing... when you’re livin’ wrong, your line’s always one bad decision further than you swore you’d ever go.”
Latifa stared down at her hands. “Guess neither of us is who we used to be... but I don’t know who the hell I’m supposed to be now.”
Just then, a little girl wandered by, staring wide-eyed at them. She stopped, pointed straight at Latifa, and said, loud as anything, “You’re Black.”
Before either could say a word, the girl added brightly, “And pretty.”
A woman—probably her mother—rushed over, red-faced. “Oh my God, I am so sorry,” she stammered, grabbing the girl’s hand. “She’s still learning...”
But Latifa smiled. She’d always liked kids. Never had any of her own—not with her life, not with her choices. Didn’t seem fair to bring a child into a mess like hers.
Still... kids were honest. Sweet. Pure in a way the world rarely was.
“It’s okay,” Latifa said softly, looking at the little girl. “Haven’t been called pretty by someone that sweet in a long time.”
The waitress came back with two steaming cups of coffee. “Here ya go, sugar. Best coffee in three counties... though the bar ain’t real high,” she added with a wink. As she set the cups down, she sighed, glancing toward the kitchen. “Lord, we’re always shorthanded in this place... Wish we could find one or two good waitresses who actually show up when they say they will.”
She winked again and walked off, leaving the words hanging in the air.
Latifa stared down at her coffee, feeling something shift in her chest. Something small... but real.
Maybe... just maybe... the world wasn’t done with her yet.
After they’d finished eating—just like he promised—Anthony drove her home.
It was... strange—the quiet hum of the engine. The dark road rolling by. But what struck her most was how safe it felt. No wandering hands. No heavy breathing. No sideways glances like she was something to be sampled.
It was almost unsettling—being treated like... like a person.
People liked to think that just because you dance naked on a stage, you’ve got no pride. No boundaries. No self-respect.
For some girls, that may be true. But not everyone.
Not her. Not entirely.
She’d spent years watching the parade of women who climbed those stages. They came from every walk of life. But more often than not, they were like her—girls from broken homes who partied too hard and stayed too long. Some would go home with customers at night. She wasn’t proud to admit... that used to happen to her a lot more when she was younger. Hell, it still happened sometimes. The game hadn’t changed—only the price.
But not all of them were the same.
There were the college girls—ones who picked clubs far from campus so nobody would recognize them. They were grinding for tuition, student loans, rent—whatever it took to keep their heads above water.
And then there were the married women. Mothers. She’d known more than one who danced by night, then showed up to the PTA meeting the next morning with cupcakes in hand, smiling like the world had never seen them half-naked under neon lights.
It wasn’t all shame. It wasn’t all pride either.
It was survival.
As they pulled up in front of her apartment building, Anthony put the car in park and stepped out. Without saying a word, he walked her up to the front door.
He turned to leave... but stopped.
Reaching behind his neck, he unclasped the thin gold chain he wore—a small cross dangling from it, worn smooth at the edges.
“Here,” he said, holding it out. “It’s not anything fancy... but it got me through some rough patches. Figured... maybe it could remind you that just ‘cause you can’t see God... doesn’t mean He ain’t walking beside you.”
Then, with a crooked grin, he added, “Pretty sure He doesn’t jump on any stages... but... I don’t claim to know everything about Him.”
Latifa laughed—an honest, unexpected laugh that warmed her chest. “What... no Bible to go with it?”
Anthony paused, dead serious. “You want one? I got a few in the car.”
That made her laugh even harder. “You’re something else, preacher man.”
He grinned wide. “Yeah... I get that a lot.”
As he handed her the cross, Anthony also slipped a small piece of paper into her hand. “Unless you have faith,” he said, “the Bible’s just... words. Paper and ink.”
His eyes darkened. “In my congregation... there’s three brothers. Ruthless businessmen. They lay people off the minute things slow down—don’t think twice about ruining lives. Cheat on their wives like it’s a hobby... and swear nobody sees. But come Sunday? They show up in their suits, drop a check in the plate, shake hands, smile... and they think that clears the slate.”
He stepped back, shaking his head. “They read the Bible. Know it front to back. But faith? Living it? Nah. Most people don’t.”
Latifa tilted her head. “Do you follow it?”
Anthony didn’t flinch. “I try. But I ain’t perfect.”
She glanced down at the paper. A phone number. “What’s this for?”
Anthony nodded toward it. “When you’re ready... call.”
No sermon. No pressure. Just that.
She stood there and watched as he headed back to his car. For a second... she thought about calling him back. About asking if he wanted to come upstairs. Not for... that. She didn’t think things with Anthony would go where they usually went with men. And weirdly, that almost made her want to ask more.
But before the words could leave her mouth, her eyes caught the faded blue Chevy Nova parked near the edge of the lot.
Her stomach sank. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “For an ex-boyfriend... he shows up more now than he ever did when we were together.”