by Emilia Finn
“You’re writing our names into the tree?” I remember her laying on my chest and sighing. “Ugh. That’s so sweet it makes me wanna puke.”
I remember her words. Her playful grin. Her teasing eyes.
“Shut up,” I answered. “And yes. Because this is where we said we love each other.”
“Oh, so you’re not marking the place you touched my vagina?”
My cock doesn’t grow now like it did that day. Her words then were a filthy aphrodisiac, but the memory now makes me almost ill.
“That too. But mostly the love thing.”
“C-Q,” she read out loud as I carved. “Plus J-K.” Then she sighed. “For. Ever.”
“And ever. And ever. And ever.”
Too damn bad CQ is false. A lie. A fucking ache between my ribs.
I remember sliding the blade back into place and turning to meet her eyes. Dirty denim, dancing with playfulness and what I could have sworn was love.
“We have three-hundred-and-sixty or so phone calls to make after this week. I’m gonna be seriously pissed if you miss any.”
Pissed.
I said I would be pissed, but that’s not really the emotion that overwhelms my senses on a day-to-day basis these days. Sure, I’m pissed, but it’s barely a fraction of the heartache I feel, the agonizing worry, the grief and sorrow. Anger can barely stand up to the longing I feel, the loneliness.
Most of all, I feel confusion. Because right here, carved into this tree, is proof she was real. But the words ‘Cameron Quinn doesn’t exist’ play through my mind like a bad song on repeat. There are only so many times a man can be told something before he starts to believe it.
Which is why I’ve come out here today, because last night, I lay in bed and wondered if I made her up. Maybe she was a figment of a lonely man’s imagination. A wish, a request, a plea. I had to come back to this tree today, to the initials carved into the wood, to prove to myself that I’m not crazy. To prove that my heartache isn’t for nothing.
I lay in place for only a few minutes, and think back to better times, but then I get up again, because I might have abated the worry that I’m crazy, but in its place is the ache from the fact she’s not within my reach.
I trade one pain for another. And fuck, they both hurt.
“Come on, Annie.” I step toward the snoozing dog and kneel down to pat her ears. “We can go home now. Let’s go see your babies.”
I wait in silence while she lifts her tired body and makes her way to her feet. Then I hug her face to my hip as we walk.
Away from Cameron Quinn’s ghost.
Away from my own memories.
And away from the pain that makes it hard for me to breathe.
Someday, I’ll find her again. But I can’t honestly be sure if I’ll make her pay for stealing my heart, my wallet, and my watch, or if I’ll beg her to be mine. To take away the ache. To give me a chance to prove I could make her happy, if only she’d stay in one place long enough.
Part 3, I Guess
Victoria – Four Years Later
“Hey, Tori.” Lita pokes her smiling face around the tiny partition that separates her workstation from mine. “We’re up in ten. How’s your shoulder?”
I rearrange the heat pack I put on it just a few minutes ago, and grit my teeth as I roll my shoulder to test how loose the joint is. A week ago, I was in this very building, working, and I messed up a part of my routine. I was falling, so I reached out, grabbed on to the silk rope I’d been hanging from, pleaded for my face to not meet the floor, and because of that, it felt like my shoulder was being torn from its socket. Like the actual limb was being torn from my body.
But hell, I’m nothing if not resilient. Pups who were born to fight for their turn at the teat have no choice but to be.
“It’s fine.” With my right hand, I work on my lipstick and stare into the mirror. “I’m warming it now. But I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Wait, you missed a bit. Here…” My friend and coworker steps around my table and bends lower to take the lipstick from my fingers.
Lita is beautiful, exotic, wild, and daring most of the time. Or at least, she was, until she started dating her latest boyfriend.
She brings a hand up between us, presses the pad of her thumb beneath my bottom lip, and swipes away a little of the red that I messed up. “You gotta look the part, huh? Around here, money flows better if you look good.”
I shrug, then swallow my groan when my shoulder smarts. “I don’t really care.” Our eyes meet, her forest green to my denim blue. “Is messy lipstick really gonna be make or break for us?”
“Nope.” She grins, wide and playful, as she pulls back and flicks my breast. “This is your make or break. And your booty. Which is also super above-average.”
I snort and turn back to my mirror to work on my mascara. “From the queen of badonkadonks, that’s high praise. How are you feeling about tonight?” I make a face, a cross between confusion and sucked-on-a-lemon. “It all feels different, right? Things are changing.”
Lita – dressed in ridiculously high heels, fire engine red bikini bottoms, and not a hell of a lot more than tassels on her nipples – leans against my mirror, and folds her arms. It’s her thinking pose, her I’m being a serious adult pose. “Well… I don’t know. I guess things feel a little different, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. When Sly owned this place, it wasn’t always clean, you know? Now Evan is doing it up, so it feels a little classier, and the cash they throw is worth more than a dollar.”
“I guess.” I run mascara through my lashes and stare into my mirror. “I guess I just mean… well, Sly was sly. He was a pervert, and not particularly charming. But at least he was transparent about his intentions. Sure, he wanted to fuck me, but he was honest about it. And that counts for something, right?”
Lita’s bright red lips shimmer and turn up into a crooked grin. “So, his honesty about what he wanted to do to you was…” She lifts a brow. “Welcome?”
“Not welcome.” I laugh. “But honesty brings a certain level of comfort, and when a girl doesn’t have much else, honesty is worth a lot.” I stop with the mascara for a moment, study my work, then I start on the other eye. “Evan is just…” I hesitate. “Well, I guess he wants to fuck me too, but he’s smoother about it, he’s a schemer, and the scheming bothers me.”
“Ya know,” Lita taunts, “if you’d just fuck him, the scheming would go away. And you could probably quit working, too. You’d be set for life, and protected in a way that, without him, you’ll never know. And then you’ll get to sit in that office up there.” She nods toward a spiral staircase that leads to the next floor up, and above that, a fancy apartment that no one but the people Evan considers ‘elite’ are invited into.
Her plan is solid. I know it is. Evan isn’t some seventy-year-old weirdo with a fetish for twenty-three-year-old dancers. But a thirty-year-old businessman, a well-dressed, handsome, smells-nice-when-he-walks-by businessman. And god knows, I could do with the help.
For a girl in my position, money, protection, and the networks Evan controls are mighty friggin’ tempting. But despite the myriad opportunities I’ve had to make my life a little easier, I can’t do it. I can’t slide between Evan’s expensive silk sheets, in his high-rise apartment, after riding in his midnight-black, five-hundred-thousand-dollar town car.
My survival instincts demand I get over my shit and slide on in.
But how could I? How could I possibly be expected to give myself to this man, all for the sake of a few dollars and safety, when every time Evan’s hands touch my skin, another man’s face flashes through my mind?
It’s impossible.
And my pride, I’m somewhat annoyed to admit, is stronger than my hunger for safety, security, or, ya know, food.
“No.” I go back to work on my mascara. “I can’t. I don’t wanna.”
And Lita is the only person on this planet I would admit that to. Because around here, Evan is synonymous with
God, and if you defy him, he’s proven he will smite more savagely than a scorned wife after a messy divorce.
Lita tsks and shakes her head. “He’s got his eyes on you, girl. That’s all I’m saying.”
I finish with my mascara, stare at my reflection for a moment, then I exhale and toss the tube down to my little table. “I’m ready.”
I turn to my friend and try to fake a smile. “I can’t say yes to Evan. I’m a lot of things, Lita. I’m a thief, a liar, I do bad things, and I say mean things about people who don’t deserve it. I have a million faults, but going to bed with a man simply because of his financial status…” I shake my head and try once again to rid my mind of a certain someone’s face.
I never went to bed with my first boyfriend because of his money. In fact, his money was what stopped me for so long. But in the end, we did sleep together, we fell in love, then on my way out the door, I stole from him, and switched off my phone. Now years have passed, and I refuse to find him again.
In his mind, I was probably the whore who wanted a romp with a rich guy. And knowing there’s a chance he thinks that breaks my heart.
When Lita moves in my peripherals, I close my eyes and vow to not think of him again, then I open them and meet her gaze. “I’m not into Evan. But if that’s the way you want to swing, I bet we could tempt him, and get you an invite to his apartment.”
“Ugh.” She spins away when I stand, and hooks her arm in mine when I walk beside her. “You’ve been invited into his friggin’ lair! That’s not something he does freely, but nooooo,” she drags the word out. “You bring your booty to our door, you ask for a job, you work for three-point-two seconds, and bam! Evan McFreakinGrady is all ‘oh Mylanta, who is that exquisite creature?’”
“He did not say that,” I snicker. “He didn’t say Mylanta, or exquisite, or creature. He said ass, tits, and I wanna put my cock in that tight little hole.” We pause at the doorway so our eyes meet. “Excuse my sensibilities, but I didn’t feel the swoon.”
“You want the romance!” she cries out. “You want to be swept off your feet. But, baby, that’s not how it’s gonna work around here.” We step through the door and onto a mezzanine-type level that sits high above a club. “What you’re gonna get is either a life of struggle and men trying to fuck you, even without your permission, or you’re gonna get Evan McGrady, who will protect you, feed you, and—”
“Also fuck me without my permission?” I lift a brow as we make our way down the metal staircase and past men who drink and touch their dicks while watching us with lewd sneers. “I get the feeling he’s gonna demand whatever he wants, then he’s gonna take whatever he wants, whether I’m interested or not.”
“But…” She turns to me with genuine confusion in her eyes. “But if you’re with him, he doesn’t need to—”
“Ask?” I shake my head. “You’re wrong. Really, really wrong. And that’s not the kind of life I see for myself, so…”
“Let’s go, Tori!”
I turn and smile for a man I know by face, but not by name. He’s a regular, a little bit country, a little bit cowboy, but he has cash, and he’s always a gentleman.
He rushes from his seat just a few feet from the stage, offers his hands – one for me, and one for Lita – and helps us onstage even though he’s not supposed to touch.
Loud boos echo through the club, angry protests from men who would prefer to watch us climb on our own, but this guy seems impervious to the hate, and insists on being a gentleman. For some strange reason, he’d rather spend his time here, ogling the girls at Zeus’ even knowing that whatever attention he receives, was bought, instead of at home, married to a woman who adores him for free, and with two and a half kids on the way.
“Ladies.” He does a kind of bow, a wicked, playful grin, and ignores the hollers and complaints being thrown at his back. “Good luck tonight. Knock us dead.”
Weird pep talk. But okay. “Thanks, handsome.” I smile for him, wink, because that’s all I’m allowed – or willing – to give, then I step onto the stage that stands about four feet off the floor, look up to the door Lita and I just walked through, and when my eyes meet those of Evan McGrady himself as he stands at the banister and looks down at us, I nibble on the inside of my cheek and give him none of the nerves I feel, none of the disgust, none of my bubbling resentment.
But I give a small nod. An acknowledgement. Because declining his offers to become a kept whore are one thing, but to not acknowledge him at all… that would be unacceptable.
“Dance, Tori.” Lita moves by me, and whispers as she goes. “Music’s on. Move before you get us both in trouble.”
She’s right. So I turn away from Evan’s penetrating stare and instead make my way to one of three poles built into the floor. The tops are freestanding, since the ceiling is two stories above us, but the foundations are strong, they keep the poles secure and unbending. Lights shine above us, around us, they flicker over my bare stomach, my arms, my booty – which, according to Lita, is my second most redeeming quality. Snagging the soft lengths of silk I personally tied to a small clip at the top of the pole, I bunch it in my hands, slide it around my back, and stepping once, twice, three times, I use the momentum and glide into thin air, using the silk to lift and guide my way.
Rihanna’s “Diamonds” plays through the speakers. The loud, thumping bass helps me be, it helps me focus on my steps, and not on the thoughts that race through my head.
I climb a little higher, even while Lita does the same on the opposite side of the stage. I wrap a single silk around my hips, and up I climb.
For the men watching us, for the topless servers who bring those men drinks, I’m certain I look carefree, fit, smooth in my movements. I put on the show I’m paid to give, I play my part, I seduce men out of their paychecks, and at the end of the night, when our tips are counted and Evan takes his cut, I’m rewarded with that glint in his eyes, the longing stare, the nod of approval for a job well done.
But inside, my mind swirls. Worries for my brother. Longing for a boy I once knew. Concern about my aching shoulder, and the damage I add when I work with it instead of rest it. My mind is a cornucopia of things I shouldn’t think about while suspended eight feet off the floor with silk lengths the only thing keeping me safe, but I can’t help myself.
When I was younger, a little more naïve, I dreamed of dancing for a living. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but still, I get to dance here, I get to stand on a stage, and hell, I even choregraph most of the stuff the girls here perform.
So, in a really sick, messed-up way, all of my dreams came true, right?
“Victoria?”
Hours after first stepping onto the stage, and leaving several hundred dollars richer, I stop at the doorway that leads back into the ladies’ changing room, and swallow my nerves when Evan places a hand on my collarbone. He touches my chest, but he’s careful enough that he won’t be accused of sexual assault if I decide to get brave.
The club is still dark. Darker, even, because of the cigar smoke that permeates the air and drifts up to the second floor. The music downstairs is as seductive as it was when I was onstage, but now there are new girls dancing. Fresh blood. A fresh new sight, while Lita and I try to swipe away our sweat without shattering the image of perfection we paint for those who pay to see us.
“Please wait with me,” Evan orders in a quiet, firm voice. He looks to Lita, and inclines his chin. “Good work tonight. You held your audience captive.”
Heat rushes to her cheeks – she’s a stripper who blushes – but she does a mini curtsy and waits for her dismissal.
“You may go,” Evan obliges her. “Please leave your money at your station. I’ll be by in a moment to collect it.”
“Sir.” She dips her chin, and scoots around us to escape into the room at his back.
“Victoria.” Evan rolls my name on his tongue, and steps in so close that his chest touches mine.
Back when I was eighteen and I’d v
isit this place to sell stolen electronics, Sly knew me as Cameron Quinn. It was an easy lie, an easy identity to adopt. It was my favorite name of all those we’ve used, but perhaps that had something to do with who knew me as her.
Jamie Kincaid, the guy I swore I’d forget, has been on my brain every single day since Will and I drove away. He was the guy who captured my heart, the guy who made me believe in fairytales again, the first and only guy, apart from my brother, I’ve ever trusted.
Hell, I don’t not trust him now. I was the one who raced out on us. I was the one who lied and stole and ran away. So if, by some crazy chance, we were to ever meet again, I would be the villain in that story.
Back when Sly was the boss around here, he invited me in to dance to make a little cash, to earn a little freedom only money could buy. And because I was such a skilled liar, I convinced him to allow me a stage name.
Hello, Victoria Quinnton.
I was so convincing in my act that he didn’t blink an eye when I suggested everyone use that name, and that the other – Cameron Quinn – simply wouldn’t exist inside these walls.
From the first moment I stepped on a stage, my new name was in place, so by the time Evan McGrady came along to buy and rename this club, I was firmly known as my new alias, and that status was cemented soon after, when Sly met an untimely death – I swear it wasn’t me or Will.
Sly was the only one who knew my secret, and he never shared it. I’ve been grandfathered in to this club named Zeus’, my ID is never requested, my history never asked. The only thing anyone begs of me is to dance, to teach, and if I should ever change my mind about Evan, to place myself in his bed and show him the time of his life.
Much of my appeal inside this club is tied around my age. I’m twenty-three, but I could easily pass as a high schooler if I tried, and though that grosses me out, it pays the bills.
Victoria the Virgin.
Not factual, in the most literal sense of the word, but having that descriptor figuratively hung around my neck means men pay more for me to dance. They pay the big sums, like they think that’ll gain my attention.
