by Nikki Ash
She makes eye contact with me for a second and my stomach knots. She’s just as beautiful as she was the other night but so damn sad. Her bright green eyes now look glossy like she’s a step away from losing her cool. Unlike the other night, her face is free of makeup except for what I think is lip gloss, making her slightly pouty lips look shiny. She breaks the contact, her eyes going back to my daughter, and something in me wants to know what’s happened to her to make her so unhappy.
Chapter Ten
Charlie
As I’m taking a sip of my Pumpkin Spice latte, a loud noise rings through the coffee shop. Realizing it’s my phone, I grab it and see it’s an amber alert. Seven-year-old female last seen in Los Angeles in a silver Ford Focus. The license plate number is given along with her height, weight, hair and eye color. She’s missing. I would imagine a missing child is almost as bad as one that’s dead. Or is it worse? Death is so absolute. Final. Whereas a child missing leaves the parents in limbo, constantly wondering. Where is she? Is she being harmed? Will they ever see her again? A child who is dead, well, there’s no wondering about the unknown. She’s gone and never coming back.
I click to acknowledge I’ve seen the alert, the buzzing noise immediately stopping. That’s when I notice the date. October 5th. A lump forms in my throat. Five days. My heart clenches, and I bring my hand up to my chest to soothe the pain, only to stop myself. I don’t deserve any reprieve from the pain I feel. It’s a much-needed reminder of what I did and what I will have to live with for the rest of my life.
Picking up my book from the table, I open it up to where the bookmark is. It’s my day off from Plush, and I’m enjoying doing nothing. Because Veronica, an acquaintance of mine from Plush, needed to leave for San Francisco to visit her sick mom suddenly, I agreed to take on a couple of her shifts. Not only did that mean more hours, but it meant waitressing instead of my usual job of bartending. Luckily, the women I work with were okay with me only waitressing and not entertaining. “More money for us,” they insisted since the lap dances and private shows earn good money in tips.
I take another sip of my coffee as I turn the page of my book. I found this coffee shop a few months back when I finally got enough guts to venture out of my loft and do some exploring. It’s walking distance from the apartment I moved into eight months ago. The owner of my loft, Mr. Hinton, is an older gentleman who has retired to Florida to be closer to his children. At first, he was hesitant to accept cash, but he gave in when I agreed to pay the one year lease up front. He also agreed once the lease is up, to continue our arrangement on a month-to-month basis. I’m not sure if I will be forced to move… or run, so I don’t want to commit to another year. I never planned on staying here this long.
Up until a few months ago, I’d been nervous about leaving, only venturing out for the necessities such as getting groceries and going to the book store around the corner to pick up some reading material. Because I can’t use any credit cards that can be traced back to me, I need to stick to paperbacks I can pay for with cash. It has been eight months of finding myself. The problem is, it’s hard to find yourself when you’re still locked in the dark, so I finally gave in and started exploring the area, and that’s when I met Bianca. She was having coffee here at the shop and mentioned they were hiring at Plush when she saw I was looking in the newspaper for a job. Luckily, Tyler—the owner of the club—is Bianca’s brother, which meant at her recommendation, he hired me on the spot.
After speaking with Tyler, and explaining I need to work under the table because of my need to remain hidden, he made an exception for me. I think he could see it in my eyes how desperate I was. I couldn’t explain why and he didn’t ask, and for that I’m thankful. While I might have enough money for the time being, I know it will eventually run out. Bringing in a steady income makes me feel better.
I look out the window of the coffee shop. Growing up in a small town in Georgia, Los Angeles can be quite overwhelming. Even where I lived in Texas, it wasn’t as fast paced and chaotic as it is here. I was lucky to find a small community in Los Angeles, which seems to be a bit slower. More mom and pop stores and restaurants. Less glam and more down to earth. The only time I leave my little area of comfort is to go to work. The club is located downtown, so it’s a quick cab ride there and back. On my days off, I spend most of my time at this coffee shop. It reminds me of one I used to frequent when I lived in Georgia.
When I think about my hometown, my heart aches. Growing up, my parents didn’t have much money, but what they couldn’t give me in materialistic possessions, they gave me in love. When I was offered a full scholarship to study art at A&M, they insisted I take it. We didn’t have the money for me to visit often, but I did get to visit them during spring break my freshman year, which I’ll always be grateful for since it was the last time I saw them.
They were killed in a fire when a line ruptured down in the boiler room in their apartment building causing a fire from the ground up. By the time people realized what was happening, many of them couldn’t get out in time. Everything my parents owned burned to the ground, leaving me with nothing more than a small life insurance policy, a few pieces of jewelry, and only the memories to look back on.
Suddenly feeling the need to be creative, I set my book aside, and take my sketchbook out of my bag along with my pencil. I look around for something to sketch, my gaze stopping on a beautiful shade tree on the sidewalk right outside the window. For a few minutes, I get lost in the lines of the thick trunk, the delicacy of the leaves, and the shade the branches and leaves combined create on the sidewalk.
The door opens, the bells chiming, and in walks a little girl who looks like she dressed herself with her pink long sleeve shirt, purple ruffled skirt, and tie-dye colored Chucks. Right behind her is a man who I assume is her father. Even with only seeing a side profile of him, I can tell he’s gorgeous. The side of his face is covered in light scruff, and I imagine what it would feel like to rub my hands up and down it. He’s wearing a simple navy blue T-shirt with jeans that fit him just right. He’s donning a perfect LA tan, and he’s wearing Chuck Taylors just like the little girl, only his are white.
He laughs at his daughter who’s running toward the counter, clearly excited to be here, and holy moly does his laugh do something to me. It’s a foreign feeling to think about a man in this way, but it gives me hope that maybe I’m finally healing. When I took the job at the club, my therapist told me it would be good for me to be in a safe environment with men, to help me remember not all men are violent. But up until the other night, I never felt anything remotely sexual toward a man.
The woman at the counter greets the little girl and the man, and they talk for a few minutes. It’s obvious this isn’t their first time eating here. When the little girl is done ordering, she runs by me toward the corner booth next to me to set her purse and doll down. Then she runs to the counter to grab paper and crayons. She looks to be five maybe six years old with brown curly hair that is up in uneven pigtails only making her look even more adorable. My throat tightens and my eyes burn as I watch her sit and begin to color. She’s completely focused, concentrating hard on whatever it is she’s coloring.
The man leaves the counter and I’m able to get a better view of him from the front. Holy shit! It’s the man from the club the other night. I believe his name is Tristan. He sits across from the little girl and I will myself to stop staring. Closing my eyes, I count to ten, trying to shake off my thoughts the best I can. I take another sip of my coffee then attempt to get lost in my drawing once again. It’s afternoon here in LA, which means the streets are crowded, but what’s nice is here in Larchmont Village, the streets are lined with fall decorations, giving the area an autumn feel to it. Fake leaves wrap around the street poles with fake pumpkins placed on top of signs. Orange and white lights cover several awnings. The trees are even a beautiful mixture of green, brown, and red. You almost wouldn’t even know Larchmont Village is a part of Los Angeles, only five miles away
from Downtown LA.
I was lucky enough to find a loft here in Larchmont at a decent price because there’s no way I would be able to afford anything in the heart of Los Angeles, and as luck would have it, Jumpin’ Java is walking distance from my loft.
I’m drawing the street pole along with the fall decorations when a voice startles me, causing me to jump.
“Wow! Your picture is so good! Look what I drew.” It’s the little girl from the booth next to me and she’s holding up a picture of a pumpkin, the mouth drawn to appear scary. She pushes the picture toward me, so I take it in my hands, admiring it for a moment. I force myself to keep the memories at bay of the last time I looked at a colored picture.
“This is very cool. Did you make this up or draw it from something you saw?” The little girl grants me a toothy grin at my compliment and points to something in the distance. I turn my head to see a pumpkin on the counter. It’s almost identical to the drawing and it’s obvious, especially for her age, she is artistically advanced.
“You drew and colored this all by yourself?”
“Yep!” She nods in confirmation. “I’m going to enter a painting contest at the library and the paper they give you is way bigger!” Her hands fly outward to show me how big, her smile never leaving her face. I look around her and notice that even though her dad is on the phone, his gaze is trained on us—his love and protectiveness for his daughter evident in his eyes.
“My name is Lexi.” She holds out her hand and I have no choice but to take her tiny hand in mine. It’s warm and soft, reminding me of… No! I stop myself from going there and close my eyes for a second to stop the tears that are threatening to break free from behind my eyelids. When I open my eyes, I look up to see her dad staring at me, no longer on the phone. Even with a small frown marring his face, the man is stunning. His blue eyes match the little girl’s, both dark like the deep part of the ocean. She’s sporting the cutest dimple on her left cheek that only seems to appear when she smiles extra wide, and it has me wanting to make him smile to see if he has the same one.
Looking back at Lexi, I say, “My name is Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Are you an artist?” she asks.
“Lexi,” Tristan calls to her. “Leave her alone.”
She turns around to face him, holding up her tiny index, finger indicating to give her a minute. “Dad, one minute.” Her hand is on her hip and I can’t help but laugh at her sass. Yep, he’s her dad. He raises an eyebrow, but she’s already turned back around looking at me.
“Are you?” she asks again.
“I would like to think so,” I choke out the words. “I think anybody who loves to color or paint or draw is an artist in some way.”
“I love to color and paint and draw! Does that mean I’m an artist?”
“Absolutely.” The lump in my throat gets bigger, making it harder to speak.
“But you didn’t color this.” She points to my drawing. And she’s right, it’s not colored nor will it ever be. Drawing I can handle. It’s my outlet. But coloring, that won’t be happening. I just can’t bring myself to use color. Ten months ago, my world lost all its color, becoming nothing more than swirls and shades of black, white, and grey. I swallow thickly but quickly gather myself together. “Would you like to color this picture for me?” I hand her my black and white drawing and her eyes go wide in excitement.
“Really? I would love to.” She squeals and turns to her dad. “Look! My new friend, Charlie, said I can color her picture!”
“That’s very nice of her, Lex. Did you say thank you?”
“Thank you!”
“You’re very welcome, sweet girl.”
She puts the paper down on the table then turns back to me. “Saturday is the contest at the library. Since we’re friends now, will you come?”
Her request shocks me. I don’t want to say no when it’s clear she wants me there, but at the same time, I can’t imagine her dad being okay with a stranger showing up to the library to watch her paint. Then there’s the fact I shouldn’t allow myself to infiltrate their life in any way when nothing good can come of me being around them. I know my therapist insists what happened all those months ago was an accident, but to me, it wasn’t, nor will I ever consider it to be an accident.
“Lexi, you can’t ask someone you don’t know to go to your painting contest. She could have plans that day.”
“We shook hands and she gave me her drawing to color. We’re friends, Dad. Do you have plans?” she asks me, her dark blue eyes pleading. I barely even know this little girl, but something tells me people have a hard time saying no to anything she asks for.
“If it’s okay with your dad, I’m sure I can stop by to check it out.” I glance toward her dad and catch a hint of a frown before he plasters on a smile.
“Of course, it’s fine. It’s at the downtown public library on Saturday from noon to four.”
“Yep!” she adds. “I have four hours to draw and paint the bestest picture there!”
Her dad stands, takes their garbage to the trash can, and then walks over to his daughter. “C’mon, Lex. We need to get going. Why don’t you go say bye to Shawna?” Lexi takes off to the counter to say goodbye to the owner, and once she’s out of earshot, he turns to me. “You work at Plush.”
Unsure where he’s going with this, I confirm, “I do. You were there with your friends the other night.”
He looks back to Lexi to check on her before he says, “I judged you when I saw you the other night. I’m not gonna lie. I was attracted to you and I couldn’t take my eyes off you, but I still judged you because of your job.” I open my mouth in confusion when it hits me, he thinks I’m one of the dancers. He thinks I take my clothes off and give lap dances for money. I close my mouth because well… fuck him for judging me regardless. “Anyway, it’s not my business what you do for a living, but I have to ask that while you’re around my daughter, you keep that part of your life separate.”
Oh my God! What the hell does he think I’m going to do? Show up in a stripper outfit? Take her to the club? I’m so pissed off I want to yell at this judgmental asshole, but my gut tells me to keep quiet. The last thing I need is to get into a heated argument with a man. But then my anger wins out. “So, no pole dancing lessons…got it.” I raise one challenging brow up, and Tristan flinches.
He opens his mouth to say something but then closes it quickly, staring at me for several seconds before he says, “Maybe we’ll see you Saturday.” He gives me what looks like an apologetic smile. Then he walks over to his daughter, puts his hand out for her to take, and then pulls her along.
“Bye, Charlie! See you Saturday!” She waves as they exit. My eyes follow them as they walk down the street until they disappear out of sight. Grabbing my cup, I take a sip of my now cold coffee and notice Lexi left her pumpkin drawing on my table. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen a child’s drawing. My fingers trace the black lines of the pumpkin then move to the inside, the waxy feel of the crayon on the paper making my heart pump a little faster. Bringing the paper up to my nose, I inhale deeply, the distinct crayon smell almost calming me, until I have a flashback of the last time I smelled crayons on paper.
A little over a year ago
“Mommy! Look what I drew!” Georgia, my three-year-old daughter, comes running into the kitchen waving her picture in the air. Turning off the sink, I wipe my hands on the dish towel before taking it from her. There’s color all over the paper, messy lines drawn every which way and I have no idea what she’s drawn, but it doesn’t matter because the smile on her face tells me she’s proud of this picture and that’s the only thing that’s important.
“Tell me about your picture.” We sit at the table and Georgia excitedly explains it to me.
“It’s a rainbow! But not just any rainbow. The biggest, brightest rainbow.” She names each color she’s used and then moves on to explain the sun in the upper right corner. When she gets to the birds, the sound of the gar
age door going up halts her words.
“Mommy,” she whispers, fear evident in her voice, but I’m already out of my seat, grabbing the crayons as fast as I can, and shoving them into the container.
“Georgia, go to your room until I come and get you.” Georgia listens, knowing the routine, and runs off to her room, closing the door behind her. Just as I think I have all the crayons and paper gathered up, I spot one on the ground. Quickly, I reach down to grab it, but it’s too late. The door opens and in walks my husband.
“What the fuck is that shit in your hands?” He towers over me and there’s no point in arguing. Anything I say will be used against me. “Answer me!” His hand comes up and backhands me. I try to hold on to the crayons and paper, but they fall from my hands, landing all over the ground.
“What have I told you about this?” He grabs my chin, his cold black eyes staring through me.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Justin shoves me up against the wall, one hand wrapping around my throat. “Don’t say sorry when you don’t mean it. You’re only sorry I came home early and you got caught.”
He’s so close to me I can smell the woman’s perfume lingering on him. It’s the same scent as the last time he stayed away for the entire weekend, so he must be screwing the same woman. You would think after getting laid all weekend he would come home satisfied and happy. Instead he comes home angry and bitter. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he’s so mad all the time. Maybe wishes he could stay with her instead of having to come home to us.
But at the end of every weekend or business trip, he always returns home, and he always takes his anger out on me. Then after he treats me like shit, he insists we have sex. He couldn’t care less if I get off and there’s never any foreplay involved. I’m almost positive it’s only in hope of getting me pregnant again, especially since he makes sure to tell me daily how broken I am. Every day I pray he’ll leave me for whoever it is he’s having an affair with. but I know it will never happen. He’s too wrapped up in appearances to divorce his wife for his mistress.
