A/N: Anything and anyone that you recognize belongs to Lucasfilm, Lucasarts, whatever it's called. The rest of it is mine.

Don't worry. You ARE reading a Star Wars story. This first chapter is an expositional thing, and you won't see much that you recognize. Don't let it bother you.

I take a long drag on my cigarette and glance at the slip of paper on the bar.

"Is it Wednesday already, Hyjo?"

Hyjo turns around, his bushy eyebrow rising over his eyes. He sees what I'm looking at and chuckles.

"It certainly is, Bellabell, and I can feel it this week. Look at those numbers. No way I can go wrong with numbers like those. Ain't nobody got numbers like those I got." He puts down the glass he was wiping and picks up the paper, shaking his head with a huge smile on his face.

Poor bastard really thinks he has a chance. No one wins the goddamn lottery. Ever. Not even if you buy a LottoKing ticket every. Single. Week.

If anyone deserves to win the lottery, however, it would definitely be Hyjo. I wouldn't necessarily call him a "gentle" giant, but he's certainly well-meaning and crudely benign, you could say. He's helped me out of a couple tight spots. I would do anything for that guy.

I finish my cigarette and blot it out in an ashtray that used to be transparent, hundreds of cigarettes ago.

"I'm up, buddy. Be back in a few." He nods at my farewell and I leave him, heading for the stage. As I walk I am careful to make my ass and chest as apparent as possible. What can I say. I get paid to be well-endowed.

It's like this: I came to Showstoppers five years ago, sixteen and in a world of shit. Hyjo had me serving drinks and wiping glasses for a while, but eventually I started dancing. Lucky break for me. That's where all the money is.

Showstoppers isn't a strip club, if I may make the distinction. You don't see anybody naked here. Hyjo likes to say that the difference between Showstoppers and a strip club is respect. He won't make us strip because he respects us. That's what he says. He's a really soft kind of guy, as you can see.

My last dance ends, so I head back to the dressing room. My feet hurt like hell. I throw my shoes into my locker and grab my bag, turning around as I unzip the top. I walk straight into someone, and look up to apologize. I see who it is, and the word "sorry" gets lost somewhere. Instead.

"Oh, fuck no." He raises his eyebrows. "What are you doing here, Jam?" I walk past Jam to the counter and start piling my clothes onto it.

Jam is the last person I want to see. Not that it's been a bad night or anything. There is never a time when I want to see Jam. Jam is among the vilest and most despicable human beings I have ever met, and on Sorenno that's saying a hell of a lot.

"I don't want to see you either, Bella, so I'm gonna make this quick," he said, leaning on the counter next to me. I look at him and sigh.

"Please do."

"They found the body."

I feel my face harden instinctively. I'm not going to let him see my fear. Even being a full foot shorter than him, I'm not going to back down to him.

"That has nothing to do with me."

His lip curls and he clenches his jaw. "Look, bitch."

"Show some respect: you're on my turf," I snap, putting my hand into my duffel bag.

"This has everything to do with you. You're the only one who has nothing to lose by talking to the cops. Why do you think I came all the way to Alton? I'm gonna make sure that pretty little red mouth of yours stays shut, Bella." He pulls a long, thin knife from his waistband and lightly brushes the blade against my cheek.

Oh. Hell no.

He now has a Cromexin 501 revolver resting neatly against the bridge of his nose. Extremely old-fashioned, yes, but powerful enough to bring down a fucking Wookiie. I smile sweetly as his eyes cross to look at the gun.

"Get your knife off my face. Get out of my bar. Never speak to me again. I have pretended that you didn't exist for five happy years, and I'm not going to start now." He replaces the knife in his waistband and steps back.

"I'm not done with you, baby. Next time I'll bring something for that gun of yours to think about." He leaves. Cocky bastard.

But as soon as I hear the door close, I gasp for breath. I do not want to deal with Jam. If he has a problem with me, I'm fucked.

Please review! I have at least thirty more chapters coming, this is just the prologue, really.