Puck

by Marata Eros

  “So?” I ask in a purr.

  Kiki is pure drama. It's only Monday, so we have the entire week to build up to a crescendo. Mondays are usually sedate, so I brace myself. I have thirty minutes until my next client arrives to be tortured into wellness. Kiki smirks, sets down her tea, and moves to the pole. I give a furtive glance around the gym, hoping no one comes in.

  “Got a...” She wraps around the pole and slides down it seductively, letting her butt cheeks split as she wiggles and bounces at the bottom. She springs up, the front of her hoohah a hairsbreadth from the cool metal. “Ginormous tip this weekend from a richie!”

  She thrusts forward, wrapping one slender leg around the pole, and I groan. She does a little mock-hump against it and grins at me.

  Kiki is so inappropriate I could die. But she's my drug and I'm hers. We fit together because we're so different. She's an exotic dancer who's also a senior at Northwestern State.

  She makes great money, and she also does serious gym time, packing in an hour six days a week. It's important to not look too striated, Kiki claims. No “guy-look.” Just tits, ass, and curves with definition. I designed the workout for her because I’m intimately familiar with the human body. I didn't set out to be, but life had other plans.

  The sins of the past become the direction of our future.

  Kiki pouts, leaves the pole, and saunters toward me. “You're no fun.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay... I know I've got to ask the burning question or we'll get nowhere.”

  She perks up. “You got it, sister.”

  “Who was it?”

  Kiki always takes stock of clients. Men think they know so much, but women could rule the world if we came together. I sigh. Kiki notices regulars, high tippers, newcomers and flags the creeps. She's scary uncanny. I came to watch a set at the prestigious strip club, Black Rose, and went away shocked.

  Shocked by the clientele, shocked that Kiki could dance that well for such a short time, and shocked by the moolah.

  “The owner,” Kiki whispers as if we have a secret.

  I shrug. “So?”

  “It's Jared-effing-McKenna, baby!” Kiki is offended by my deliberate ignorance. Her brows rise to her hairline, and her dark eyes are wide with clear disdain.

  Mine are steady with indifference.

  The wheels of my memory spin. Oh yes. Jared McKenna. The Jared McKenna. Greek god. Adonis incarnate. Hercules. Playboy, womanizer, money mogul.

  I slowly nod. Let's add “strip club owner” to the repertoire. I remember the detail of why he has so much money and want to forget as soon as I do.

  Kiki pouts and tears off the lid of her tea. “Anywho... he was with someone, and his pal tipped me big time.” She sips her cooling tea, gazing at me with “cat that ate the canary” eyes.

  “Okay, the foreplay is killing me. How much?” I take a small slurp of tea, and she tells me. The tea sprays out of my mouth, and Kiki grins at my klutzy-ass move.

  “Five hundred dollars!?” I choke some more, and tea dribbles down my chin.

  “It's okay, baby... it is a mind-blower. I mean,” her hands go to her ample chest in patent disbelief, “my nipples got hard and he didn't even touch me,” she says sincerely and I burst out laughing. My headache is gone for the moment, my Monday morning lethargy lifting.

  Five hundred bucks is an assload of cash, especially for one night of dancing half naked. It's more than I take home every week. Just one tip. My schooling is done, my career path set partly because of circumstance. Kiki is high on drama, but doesn't always say things without a purpose and I narrow my eyes at her.

  “Spill it,” I demand.

  Kiki's lips twitch and she chucks her empty cup in the trash. “This type of gig could be the thing to get you out of that dump in downtown.”

  I scowl. I like my downtown dump.

  “Faren!” she wails.

  I shush her before Sue comes in thinking someone died. Of course, with all the sounds of torment she's heard since I began working here last year, nothing should faze her.

  Kiki relents and switches to a softer tone. “You could own something. Something nice.”

  I know this. I've been to her condo overlooking Pike Place and Puget Sound. Her view of downtown is magnificent. And expensive. It had to set her back five hundred K. I rent my death trap for nine hundred per month, and it's a studio in one of the tortuously small cobblestone-lined alleys of Seattle. At least it's on the fifth floor. The stairs are murder, but if I want two windows that actually face outside, that's what I can afford. Sometimes the freight elevator works; otherwise, it's exercise. The location allows me to walk to my upper-scale rehabilitation clinic. No need to use my beater car. That much.

  “You don't have to give this up,” Kiki says quietly. She knows I won't budge on that, and she of all people knows why.

  Rehab’s not a well-paying profession. But there's more than money, sometimes the soul needs edification.

  I look at what Kiki has and what I don't. I shove those thoughts away. She's my best friend. She's seen me through everything. Dark shadows press in, and my headache returns with a throbbing vengeance.

  Kiki frowns. “Another headache?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don't want to argue, Faren. You've got to know that.” Her root beer eyes peg me to the spot. The sweep of her dark hair lays like chocolate silk past her full breasts. “But with your looks”—she throws her manicured hands in the air—“you could shake your booty a little and work a side job. Get a place in your same area... you could own something.”

  It's an old argument. Her penthouse is nearly paid for while mine's a rental with a landlord that cares more about the rent than maintenance.

  Her eyes swim with knowledge, and I set down my tea. It's too cold to drink anyway. Her words put the last nail in the coffin of my resistance. “Something secure,” she adds in a whisper and I let her hug me. I cling to her and try to believe my financial troubles and dark secret can be erased by taking off my clothes for strangers

  Kiki loves me more than I love myself.

  She loves me enough for us both.

  Sue glances up when I click off the light off. The sky is darkening as I slide my last patient folder through the glass partition. She has that look in her eyes and pushes a business card through the slot.

  It bears a doctor's name: Dr. Clive Matthews.

  I give Sue a sharp look, and she shrugs, giving my hand a maternal pat. My eyes burn with tears from the spontaneous gesture.

  Sue notices my emotional struggle and ignores it. “He got rid of my migraines. Miracle worker, I say.” She nods and glances at the card significantly.

  I notice the appointment time and sigh.

  Sue doesn’t drop her gaze. “How much longer are you going to struggle through those bone crushers?”

  I don't answer, and she nods in her knowing way. “That's what I thought, Miss Mitchell. You'd have just come in suffering worse than your own patients.”

  Sue’s right. She knows it, and I do too.

  I take the card and stuff it in the pocket of my smock, Dr. Seuss cats cover it in a smear of red and blue.

  “Thanks,” I say grudgingly while I grab my coat.

  “Welcome,” she shoots back in triumph as I hear the door whisper closed behind me.

  I look at the card again as the cars, people, and city noise encapsulate me in the comforting rhythm of downtown. The smell of fish, food, and sea mingle, and I begin the short trek to the dank alley with the entrance to my apartment.

  I have two weeks to prepare myself to go back into a hospital. I hate hospitals. They're all about death.

  The thought of returning is almost enough to get a proper panic attack going.

  Almost.

  2

  I tenderly brush the hair off her forehead, though she doesn't feel it. She never knows when I'm with her. The rain coats the window, distorting the outside world and making this room a bubble of reality. The space is dim. That's
a must, since too much light causes her to thrash. On some level, she rebels. It's my deepest regret that her rebellion couldn't have been sooner, when it could have saved her.

  It's a good day when I don't cry when I visit.

  Today my eyes are dry but the next time they might not be. I squeeze her hand, speaking softly. I lean forward to press a kiss on the tissue-thin skin of her forehead. It's translucent, the body inside, still and soft from lack of movement.

  Life.

  My mother lives but not as she should.

  I rise like I have hundreds of times and move to the door of the clinic that takes care of catatonic, high-needs patients.

  I have a new job.

  I do cry then.

  No one notices my tears anymore. They're used to them, and I don't bother to see their sympathy.

  I have a date with Kiki.

  Kiki swivels in front of her makeup table and smirks at me. My trench coat drips water onto the floor.

  “Gawd!” Her full lips pout as she swipes another layer of sparkly crap on her lips. “You look like a drowned rat.”

  Her face softens. “See your mom?”

  I nod. Kiki knows it always sucker punches me to visit. It kills me not to. I face the evil I can bear.

  “Well, let's get you in the slut suit, baby.” Kiki moves through the hanging costumes until she gets to my size, and she frowns slightly. “I don't know how I'm going to stuff that gazelle body in the average getup.” She taps her nail against her glossy lip and scowls when some of her handiwork comes off.

  “Damn,” she swears softly, making the hangers move with an angry swish of her hand.

  “No.” A blue outfit sails to the end of the size eight rack.

  “No.” A glossy green spandex number with a painful looking strip of butt floss floats past.

  Her eyes narrow to slits as a beige '20s flapper-style dress with cut outs at the nipples appears. “Fuck no!”

  I laugh, and Kiki glares at me. “It's not funny, bunny. You need to look spanktastic this first time out of the gate.”

  She's so serious I giggle again. “I'm not a damn horse!” I hold my sides as laughter peels out of me, and I feel closer to normal. I'm so grateful for the levity she brings that I don't know what to say. Even if I'm about to strip down to nothing in a roomful of strangers, Kiki makes it better.

  She finally grins as her eyes light on something red.

  I mouth no, and she says, “Hell yes!” She tears it off the rod.

  I don't think it's a real outfit. Actually, it’s more air than cloth.

  “I can't wear that!” I stutter, backing away as if it's the plague instead of a skimpy costume.

  Kiki's brows come together in an adorable frown. “Ah... we had this discussion dollface. You won't be wearing this for long.” Those perfect brows rise and I blow out a frustrated huff.

  Right. No clothes. Well, this is a “classy” club, so only titties. No frontal nudity down there. They can't touch, and I have to wear stockings for some reason. City ordinance. So basically my butt and boobs will be bare to the world, but somehow that's okay because a small triangle of cloth will cover my front and some super-sheer stockings will encase my legs. Yeah.

  Kiki pats the stool in front of a huge mirror, lit all around its square perimeter with Hollywood bulbs. Big ones. They glare at my pinched and pale face. Her mocha arm comes around my front and she begins to scoop and fix my hair. It is neither blonde or brown, but a rich honey color. It's never been dyed or bleached. I just didn't want any more attention when I was at home.

  My idea of girly-ness is wearing a pair of high heels, tight jeans, and a top with sleeve cut-outs. I watch, mesmerized, as Kiki hikes my thick hair into a loose topknot, anchoring it with about a hundred bobby pins. She pulls a few tendrils loose to cascade halfway down my back. No matter what anyone says, long hair is easier than short. However, Kiki convinced me to take off five inches before I met with the manager a few days ago.

  So far, meeting Ty has been the creepiest part. I remember exactly how he'd looked at me. It was eyeball rape.

  “Hi, Faren,” Ty said, shaking my hand.

  His large dark hand engulfed my smaller one. I’m surprised. I have long fingers that match my height. My hand never feels swallowed by a man's.

  “Hi,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose, and he spread his arms as he stepped back. “Kiki told me you know what to expect.”

  I did. I felt like crying, but I took off my clothes. The heat of my embarrassment crawled across my skin.

  My skirt pooled at my feet. My high heels and thigh highs don’t impede its crumpled slither down my legs.

  Next, I unbutton the scarlet blouse Kiki had picked out, revealing an inky bra and panty set. The bra is demi-cupped and holds my full Cs high and tight, my pink nipples hidden by a strategic strip of ebony satin.

  I made the mistake of looking at Ty. He licked his lips, his hooded eyes roving my body like a starving man. My palms begin to sweat.

  “Turn,” he said quietly, and I do. He'd been looking at my bare ass, only a strip of lace bisecting my butt cheeks.

  I felt the heat climb higher, infusing my neck to the roots of my hair. I count inside my head, praying for it to end.

  “Walk,” he said.

  I do, knowing I'm naturally graceful and balanced. The deep lace of my stockings whispers as I move away from him. Grace is the one thing that has never been taken from me, and I'm grateful for it now.

  “Turn,” he said. I don't miss that his voice is somewhat hoarse.

  I pivoted in a smooth motion, and I can't help but notice I've affected him. Shame flares anew, riding high to mortified.

  “Walk.”

  I inhaled deeply and draw nearer. I stop about three feet from him, and we stare at each other. I'm so tense I could've screamed.

  “You'll do,” Ty said in a sarcastic drawl.

  I looked into his dark eyes and see desire there. I swallowed so hard my throat clicks. Silence fills the space uncomfortably. “So when can I start?” I hate how timid my voice sounds.

  Ty smirked as though he understands how desperate I am. I know Kiki didn't tell him my reasons. He assumed a lot. It must come with the job. “Tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” With shaky fingers, I'd put on my clothes, fighting tears so hard that my eyelids burned with the need to cry. My mind filled with all my defenses. I'm a respectable girl. I pay my bills. I don't party, have boyfriends, goof off... I'm a physical therapist, for God's sake! But when I get the last button done, the words die. Ty sees me as commerce, and I sighed, feeling defeated. I can't even make the proper ending salutation.

  I made my silent way to the door and almost escape before he'd asked “Have you ever had sex?”

  I turned slowly, my heart hammering. What kind of effed up question is that? I gathered my courage, knowing I could lose this chance to clean up my fiscal problems with the wrong words.

  “That's none of your business.” I'd hated myself, but I had to ask anyway, “Why? Why does that matter?”

  Ty walked around his desk and shifted papers, his interest in me clearly waning. He'd been silent so long I opened the door and began to walk through it.

  His words caught me before I closed it, “Because you walk like a whore.”

  I stiffened. The tears that threatened earlier? Yeah... those fall.

  I had softly closed the door and moved through the crowded, dark hallways of the strip club. My coat is secured around the outfit that'd cost me almost a week's pay.

  I hated what Ty said.

  I hated it because it felt true.

  Kiki shatters the foul memory of meeting Ty when she asks, “You ready?”

  I look back at the girl in the mirror that's me. Her eyes are so pale a gray they would look almost white if it weren't for the lightning strikes of bronze that streak the irises, a warm brown ringing the outside. Right now, they're wide and ghostly in my even paler face and Kiki stares back at me in the mirror. Her dar
ker skin and complexion contrasts with mine in the reflection. She draws me in as I lean back against her.

  “You don't have to, Faren.” She gives me an out as I stare at her dark arms wound around my neck in an embrace of solace.

  But we both know why I have to.

  I nod. “Yeah I do.”

  She kisses my coiffed hair and backs up. I slip into the ruby red heels and try not to take that final glance in the mirror.

  A tall slim girl stares back at me. Her hair looks like caramel, eyes like ice. Her creamy skin looks like milk against the deep red of the outfit. A glittering mask that is part of the act. It surrounds my silver eyes in secrecy. I'm glad for the anonymity. The glittering v between my full breasts needs only an inch to reveal my nipples. The waistband is Velcro.

  Meant to be torn.

  Kiki does a little spin, hump-hips, and throws her head back, keeping a death grip on the doorjamb. “Every time you come down the pole, 'kay?”

  I nod as the music begins for my set.

  “Use your good hand, hon,” she reminds me.

  There's no way I could use the bad one. It'll be the wrist for balance and faking using both.

  I don't fall apart until it's over. Then I'm at the commode throwing up my meager lunch.

  I don't notice anyone watch as I race out of the club.

  3

  The hundreds fan out like a deck of perfect cards, and I move as though I'm in a dream. I scoop them up from Ty’s desk, and he stays my hand by wrapping my wrist with his large hand. My eyes skitter up to his, and I blink.

  “What?” I feel filthy every time I'm near him. He seems to know it by some pervert instinct and capitalizes on it by treating me like dirt whenever our paths cross.

  I’d tried to tell Kiki, and she flung her hands up dismissively. “No touchie!” she said and sashayed off. It's easy for her to say because he doesn’t watch her.

  But he touches me now.

  It's easy for her to say because I don't see him watch her.

  He tightens his hold to just shy of bruising, and I fight my natural urge to pull away.

  Ty has a hold of my bad hand, and anything can happen. As it is, my heart tries to escape my chest. I can't stand for a man to touch me. Every time it has happened in the past, it ended one way.