CHIDERA His Sin A Nigerian Romance

CLARA

This cannot be happening.

I must've suddenly gone insane, because there's no way in hell I'm seeing this machine flash that giant word in front of me.

Jackpot.

The slot machine is blaring happy-but-loud alarms to celebrate; that explains why so many heads have turned my way to stare. Some look excited for me; some look frustrated.

Most look pissed.

One in particular, an older lady in a tracksuit and fanny pack, is mouthing curses so intense her dentures nearly fall out. I can't really blame her-she'd just moved from this exact seat moments ago.

But I don't hear any of it.

Not Grandma's cussing, not the whispers, not the bells and whistles announcing the lucky break I've been begging my whole life to receive. I'm a little busy trying to retrace my steps to make sure this isn't some fever dream I'm having in a ditch somewhere.

Here's the thing: I don't gamble. Gambling is for people who have nothing to lose, and I⁠-

Wait. I take that back.

I never gambled before, because gambling is for people who have nothing to lose, and I've always had far too much at stake.

That changed tonight.

Tonight, as I limped my way to a night shift at my second job slinging drinks as a cocktail waitress for one of Las Vegas's most exclusive nightclubs, I realized that I literally had nothing to lose.

Nothing tangible, anyway.

I've always been broke. I work long hours and sleep short ones just so I can scrape together enough money and time for my daughter. Willow is only five, and she deserves to have her mother present and active in her daily life. It's why I started taking night shifts as often as possible-so I could be there for her, providing for her emotional needs, even if I could barely afford to provide for her practical ones.

Martin promised to take care of us. He promised to take care of me even before I got pregnant, actually, and his pretty song only grew louder as my stomach grew larger. When he held our newborn in his arms for the first time, tears streamed down his face as he swore to take care of us for the rest of our lives.

Of course, I believed him. Who wouldn't? He wasn't just my boyfriend and my kinda-sorta, we'll-get–to-it-eventually-fiancé; he's an officer with the Las Vegas Police Department.

Which is why I grew suspicious when his promises fell flat only a few short months after the birth.

I was supposed to stay at home, which was something we both agreed on. He doesn't earn six figures by any stretch of the imagination, but he's on the cusp of making detective and the bonuses he's gotten have been enough to keep our heads above water.

At least, I thought they were. Until all of a sudden, I felt like I was drowning.

The first time he hit me was when I asked why he only gave me thirty dollars for grocery shopping.

The second time was when I asked him about the vague, ominous "Final Notices" appearing in the mailbox like clockwork.

The third time he slapped me across the face happened in the dark, because the electricity had been shut off.

I've been able to brush it off each time because of his job. The stress he's under, and in this city? It's enough to make Mother Teresa lose her shit. He was always mortified at what he'd done and would spend the days after worshiping me like a goddess. He gave me a little more for groceries, and the Final Notices disappeared. He figured out that the electricity issue was a simple misunderstanding, something in their billing office that was misfiled.

Or so he said.

But none of that ever lasted for long.

The fourth time he hit me was when I told him I got a job. He took it as an affront to his identity as the provider, a sign that I didn't trust him. An "underhanded, bullshit, feminist move to emasculate me, to cut my fuckin' balls off" were his exact words.

The truth is, I was tired of Googling eighty different ways to cook potatoes. I was tired of pretending like I don't eat breakfast just so I could ration out enough oatmeal for Willow. I was tired of being tired of being too poor to be a mother.

I started off waitressing at the kind of big chain where they make all the servers sing a goofy rendition of "Happy Birthday," but I quickly figured out that the real money was in the night scene. I will never set foot inside a strip club, don't get me wrong, but cocktail waitresses still make way more money than pancake house servers.

I eventually convinced Martin that it was a good idea. More money, fewer questions.