Excerpt from Soft Core by Brittany Newell, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

One night I asked Arabella how she came by her name. She was scraping the bottom of her boots with scissors. She didn't look up. It was my stepmother's name. She was naked from the waist up, her breasts resting on her knees as she examined her work.

Oh, I said. That's sweet.

Sweet? Arabella snorted. Fuck that stupid fucking bitch. She spritzed the hacked-up bottom of her boot with hairspray. I just wanted a name that started with A. If shit is alphabetical, I wanna be on top.

* * *

What Simon said he wanted was a favor here and there. Really, they weren't favors. The word made me laugh, as if I were giving him a ride or lending him a sweater. We agreed on $800 a month, sent to me automatically through PayPal. He'd come to the club every now and again; whenever I saw him, he'd give me my instructions.

The night of the first favor was a busy one. Some big soccer game was playing, Mexico vs. Croatia. Men divided their attention between the women onstage and the TVs over the bar. Just because it was packed didn't mean we'd make money. On busy nights it was easy for dudes to melt into the crowd, feigning innocence when we singled them out and purred for a tip. I'm just here to drink was a familiar phrase. I'm just out with my guys. I don't have any cash on me. I just wanna drink in peace, OK?

Experienced dancers knew what to say. They could sweetly shame a college boy into, at the very least, subscribing to their OnlyFans. This is no ordinary bar, they'd say with a wink. They'd indicate their breasts, foaming out of a bustier. Do you like what you see? Yes? Then show me!

I envied their skill. I didn't know how to be sassy yet endearing, lovably firm. When rejected by guests, I just walked away. I was scared that if I opened my mouth, I might end up shouting. There was a very small yet ferocious girl inside me that was prone to throwing drinks in men's faces. Dino had seen her, though I tried my best to keep her under wraps.

When Simon waved me over, I felt a flash of relief. At least I knew he liked me. He was sitting at the bar and drinking a beer from a tall, frosted glass.

Howdy, he said. I could never get a read on Simon's inebriation, if he was totally plastered or just sat there drinking for something to do. It was rare that he would finish a drink but sometimes he bungled his words, betraying internal confusion. He smiled and pushed his glass toward me.

No, thanks, I said. I don't really like beer. Actually, I loved it, but I didn't want to be bloated in my little lace set. After work I often drank a Corona with lime in my bed, letting my tummy slope over the waistband of my terry cloth shorts.

He smiled. Me either. He ran a finger around the glass's rim. But I think you should take this. I think you should go to the ladies' room. I can't remember if he told me directly or somehow implied it, but it finally dawned on me: he wanted me to piss in his glass.

I picked it up and hurried to the most remote bathroom. Then I locked myself in a stall, dumped the beer in the toilet, and squatted. I closed my eyes and thought of sprinklers, tsunamis, big bruised-up peaches splattering juice. Finally, a modest stream came out. I managed to fill up a third of the glass, then diluted the rest with tap water. I washed my hands thoroughly and returned to the bar, where Simon appeared to be studying the innermost seam of his jeans.

He didn't look up as I placed the glass on the bar top. I sat down beside him and felt a bit shy, as if I'd written him a poem and was waiting for him to review it.

Excerpted from Soft Core by Brittany Newell. Copyright © 2025 by Brittany Newell. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.