Courtney Chronowire awoke to screaming synapses, blurred vision, and the rank taste of stale vomit on her lips. Her Prada Frame Bag, stuffed to its gills with mismatched lingerie, pieces of sequined costumes, half-empty bottles of forged-scrip pills, and very few street clothes, served as a makeshift pillow.

As she sat up to balance against the cold wall, her eyes focused, and she realized that she was in an alley. She tried to remember what had happened to her the night before or how she had gotten here, but her memory was as hazy as the barely visible skyline before her. Her heart leapt into her throat as she looked around and realized that she was utterly alone.

“Where the fuck is Daddy?”

She’d been his bottom bitch, aka “Featured Dancer”, at the pseudo-classy, pseudo-Vintage Burlesque club that served as the front for his cocaine-slang and high-class hookers business. It was situated in a small, humid building – a renovated dive bar in the Little Five Points district of Atlanta. She was no stranger to what happened in a big city after hours and knew damn well that being here on her own, where ever here was, was both liberating and stupid.

But why was she here?

If Daddy had wanted her dead, then he would have killed her and probably done it his-damn-self instead of dumping her unconscious body in an alleyway in this shit-hole of a town – no matter how much it resembled Atlanta.

“God, Daddy, where in the hell have you left me?”

But then, she realized that this place was her ticket out. No more long nights in cramped, smoke-filled rooms wearing nothing but pasties and a g-string so that she could count his cash. No more moving to houses with more bedrooms so that she could mother, train, and supervise his new girls. No more keeping up appearances while he pushed candy up her nose so that she could be the candy on his arm.

She knew that one thing was for certain: Soon enough, Daddy would be coming back to claim his bottom bitch.

But… This bitch wouldn’t be found.