muscle. “Let me go.”
“Answer me.” His eyes are bloodshot. “Are you screwing this guy?”
“No,” I assure him, just to get him to leave me alone. “Satisfied?”
His nostrils flare as he growls. He reminds me of a raging bull preparing to gore the matador. I am wearing a red dress. He still hasn’t let go. Crack. I slap his face. It’s gratifying to see the outline of my tiny handprint on his right cheek. Surprised, he lets go. I do a 180 and slip out the door before he can stop me.
Once I’m in the dressing room, I open my locker and grab a costume. I think I’ll wear virginal white tonight. After all, I feel like a goddamned emotional sacrifice for my mother, and now for Craig Hanson, who cannot seem to accept that I’ll never give him a second chance. I hate cheaters. I despise men and women who double-dip. It’s disgusting. I hope Craig’s giant prick rots off.
Desire and Sapphire are getting ready, too.
“Hey, girl,” Desire acknowledges me. She must be drunk. That girl has never liked me.
“Hey,” I say with a tight smile.
I watch her reach inside her cocktail purse and pull out a small brown vial. She uncaps it and taps a line of coke out on a compact mirror. She takes a mixing straw from a shelf above the vanity and snorts a line. Sapphire follows.
“Want some?” Desire calls over her shoulder.
“No thanks,” I say. I want to get out of here.
I dress quickly, then secure my locker. Without looking in their direction, I grab my backpack and leave the dressing room. The club is only half full. I drag my feet on my way to the DJ booth. Craig is standing by the main bar. He scowls as I walk by. I bob my head, acting as carefree as I can. I won’t let him ruin my night. Only my mom gets that honor.
David is spinning tunes tonight. He stands up to give me a hug as soon as I open the door. “Hey, baby,” he croons. “Bring it in.” He sweeps me into his arms.
I linger in his grasp and I’m sure he knows I’m suffering. Dave and I went to high school together and he’s always known my family situation.
“Is the old lady at it again?” he asks.
I pull away, then nod.
“Forget it.” He kisses my hand. “Pick your poison, girl.”
“You do it,” I say. “Give me something that would drive me to self-mutilation.” I peck his cheek and leave.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dancing to Alanis Morissette’s whiny voice onstage. Yep—I want a razor blade.
The first half of the night drags on. By eleven, I’ve already counted my tips three times and refused five table dances. Sometimes it’s not about the money. This place gets under my skin. It’s my sanctuary. When I’m up onstage I block everything out—people and places. It’s me and the music in perfect synchronicity. It cleanses my soul in some sick, twisted way. It’s nothing I expect anyone outside the business to understand. That stage is my weapon three nights a week, and I can either embrace it or resent it. Most of the time I dominate it—the way my mother did me.
I’m sitting alone near the ’57 pickup when Morgan the waitress informs me someone is waiting for me in VIP.
“What’s he look like?” I ask.
Morgan holds up a finger. “Do you need the talk?”
Whenever we get lazy, Morgan gives a motivational speech. “No thanks.” I smile and stand. “I’m going.”
She walks me to the VIP to make sure I go in.
Garrick is sitting at the same table we occupied last night. As I approach, he stands. “Good evening.” He grins like an idiot and bows at the waist.
I can’t figure him out. One minute he’s dark and brooding; the next, Mr. Congeniality.
I drop into the thick-cushioned chair opposite his. Candlelight casts shadows across his unshaven face. He’s beautiful; imagine Michelangelo perfectly blended Chris Hemsworth and Tom Brady. Very intimidating.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“I could eat.” The club serves steaks and salads on the weekends.
He gestures for the waitress.
“Answer me.” His eyes are bloodshot. “Are you screwing this guy?”
“No,” I assure him, just to get him to leave me alone. “Satisfied?”
His nostrils flare as he growls. He reminds me of a raging bull preparing to gore the matador. I am wearing a red dress. He still hasn’t let go. Crack. I slap his face. It’s gratifying to see the outline of my tiny handprint on his right cheek. Surprised, he lets go. I do a 180 and slip out the door before he can stop me.
Once I’m in the dressing room, I open my locker and grab a costume. I think I’ll wear virginal white tonight. After all, I feel like a goddamned emotional sacrifice for my mother, and now for Craig Hanson, who cannot seem to accept that I’ll never give him a second chance. I hate cheaters. I despise men and women who double-dip. It’s disgusting. I hope Craig’s giant prick rots off.
Desire and Sapphire are getting ready, too.
“Hey, girl,” Desire acknowledges me. She must be drunk. That girl has never liked me.
“Hey,” I say with a tight smile.
I watch her reach inside her cocktail purse and pull out a small brown vial. She uncaps it and taps a line of coke out on a compact mirror. She takes a mixing straw from a shelf above the vanity and snorts a line. Sapphire follows.
“Want some?” Desire calls over her shoulder.
“No thanks,” I say. I want to get out of here.
I dress quickly, then secure my locker. Without looking in their direction, I grab my backpack and leave the dressing room. The club is only half full. I drag my feet on my way to the DJ booth. Craig is standing by the main bar. He scowls as I walk by. I bob my head, acting as carefree as I can. I won’t let him ruin my night. Only my mom gets that honor.
David is spinning tunes tonight. He stands up to give me a hug as soon as I open the door. “Hey, baby,” he croons. “Bring it in.” He sweeps me into his arms.
I linger in his grasp and I’m sure he knows I’m suffering. Dave and I went to high school together and he’s always known my family situation.
“Is the old lady at it again?” he asks.
I pull away, then nod.
“Forget it.” He kisses my hand. “Pick your poison, girl.”
“You do it,” I say. “Give me something that would drive me to self-mutilation.” I peck his cheek and leave.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dancing to Alanis Morissette’s whiny voice onstage. Yep—I want a razor blade.
The first half of the night drags on. By eleven, I’ve already counted my tips three times and refused five table dances. Sometimes it’s not about the money. This place gets under my skin. It’s my sanctuary. When I’m up onstage I block everything out—people and places. It’s me and the music in perfect synchronicity. It cleanses my soul in some sick, twisted way. It’s nothing I expect anyone outside the business to understand. That stage is my weapon three nights a week, and I can either embrace it or resent it. Most of the time I dominate it—the way my mother did me.
I’m sitting alone near the ’57 pickup when Morgan the waitress informs me someone is waiting for me in VIP.
“What’s he look like?” I ask.
Morgan holds up a finger. “Do you need the talk?”
Whenever we get lazy, Morgan gives a motivational speech. “No thanks.” I smile and stand. “I’m going.”
She walks me to the VIP to make sure I go in.
Garrick is sitting at the same table we occupied last night. As I approach, he stands. “Good evening.” He grins like an idiot and bows at the waist.
I can’t figure him out. One minute he’s dark and brooding; the next, Mr. Congeniality.
I drop into the thick-cushioned chair opposite his. Candlelight casts shadows across his unshaven face. He’s beautiful; imagine Michelangelo perfectly blended Chris Hemsworth and Tom Brady. Very intimidating.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“I could eat.” The club serves steaks and salads on the weekends.
He gestures for the waitress.
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