by Amy Waeschle
Dutch gave her a nod, and climbed on. “Don’t lean away in the turns, okay?” he said, his face stern. “Keep your body neutral. And when I brake, don’t fall forward against my back.”
He started the engine. Cassidy’s skin jumped. She slipped on the helmet, her fingers shaking. Dutch lowered his sunglasses and gripped the handlebars, looking completely relaxed. He faced forward, waiting.
Cassidy stared at his back adorned with the leather vest, at his leather-clad legs and black leather boots perched on the ground. Inside the helmet, the engine’s rumble was softer, but her galloping pulse popped inside her ears. C’mon, Cassidy, she told herself. You can do this. She remembered how she rode the moped with Bruce in Nicaragua. Just imagine it’s him driving. Or Quinn.
Slowly, she stepped closer, put her hand on the black leather seat. It felt warm from the sun, and smooth. Dutch didn’t turn around. She stepped closer still. Reached her hand to the opposite side of the seat, and fighting the feeling that she was making a mistake, swung her leg over. Under her butt, the saddle felt soft. There was a place to rest her feet. But what about her hands?
Dutch gave just the slightest glance back at her over his shoulder. Cassidy’s body vibrated with the engine’s puttering. Slowly, she reached her hands to Dutch’s waist, past the vest’s chunky side stitches. She reached further, wrapping her body closer, her hands finding a stable grip around his firm sides.
“Ready?” he shouted.
No, Cassidy thought. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear her, she gave his sides a squeeze.
Dutch increased the throttle and lifted his feet off the ground. Cassidy closed her eyes as Dutch accelerated forward. They cruised out of the parking lot, then Dutch turned onto the street. Cassidy tried to keep her body neutral as the bike tipped slightly, but she felt stiff. She hugged Dutch’s back tighter, feeling the heat from his firm back spread into her body, the black leather vest warming the exposed skin of her neck.
When she opened her eyes, the dashed white lines of the pavement flashed by in a blur. The wind whipped at the hair she had tucked beneath the helmet, tapping and swirling it against her shoulders. As long as she stayed close to Dutch, she felt safe. She leaned when he leaned, and tried not to push against him when he slowed down.
A part of her felt a tingle of exhilaration with the wind on her body like this as the landscape flew by, but the other part felt like every minute she spent on this bike was a mistake.
Cassidy tightened her grip on Dutch’s sides and held on.
During the drive, her mind waxed from hyperawareness to the sensation of drifting through space. Since Costa Rica, she had not been this close to another human besides Quinn. Was this progress?
Dutch drove smoothly, keeping to the speed limit, and stopping once to let her stretch her legs. At the rest area, she looked for Izzy or signs that she had been there, like a message scratched into the bathroom stall walls. When of course she found nothing, she felt silly for looking. On the last leg of the trip, though her legs began to ache, the smell of Dutch’s leather and the open road began to feel almost welcome.
When they descended towards the city, the shiny, hazy expanse of the San Francisco Bay filled their horizon. Cassidy felt relief and a twinge of nerves flutter through her belly. While she loved this city because it was Quinn’s home and because of the sweet memories it held of Pete, it also made his accident feel closer to the surface.
Dutch followed the highway along the east edge of the bay, the gray-blue water choppy with whitecaps. Ahead, the traffic slowed, and Cassidy had to remember to hold herself back from falling against Dutch as he downshifted.
“Why is there so much traffic?” Cassidy shouted, looking around at all the cars. It was Sunday night.
“Bay Bridge toll,” he said, moving into the space between lanes and accelerating.
Cassidy was instantly on edge as Dutch cruised within inches of the idling cars at speeds that did not feel safe. What if someone suddenly opened a car door? Was this legal?
Finally, they reached the toll booth. While Dutch paid, Cassidy sat up, stretching her back then flexing each leg, rubbing the tendons along her kneecaps. She had already figured out that Dutch handled the bike differently with her on the back, as if his body could interpret her needs, and this feeling—which she interpreted as consideration—made the tension in her stiff limbs ratchet down a notch.
The Bay Bridge rose over the giant expanse of water dotted with boats of every size, the lowering sun blasting them square in the face. Cassidy hid her head behind Dutch’s, squinting through her visor at the view flashing by. They crossed Yerba Buena island, then continued to the second span of the bridge, the city skyline looming closer, the glass windows of the buildings shining like mirrors.
The freeway cut through tall buildings, the city streets below teeming with activity. They exited the freeway and curved around, descending with the flow of traffic. Cassidy recognized the names of the streets: Harrison, Folsom, Howard, until Market, where Dutch turned left, crossing the trolley tracks.
Cassidy knew exactly where they were. A wide, brick-laden promenade, dotted with leafy trees set inside square dirt planters, lined the broad street on both sides. As they accelerated up Market, Cassidy took in the busy boardwalk. She saw street performers, a pair of young men dressed almost identically in black jackets, black jeans with holes, and black high-tops and wearing thick black eyeliner and with large gauges punched in both ears, families with young children, students wearing backpacks, street vendors hawking tee-shirts, hats, sunglasses, cyclists, and what looked like an Elderhostel group following a tour guide. Covered bus stops and bike racks were spaced evenly up the road which was dominated by buses. At a trolley stop, Cassidy watched a group of middle-aged Asian couples pose for a selfie, their arms laden with shopping bags. At a V in the road, Dutch veered right and continued up a side street. They drove several blocks, passing a building under construction with the word “Tenderloin” printed across the protective sheathing in color-block print. Cassidy saw signs for a hotel, a mission, and parking. Dutch turned right on a narrow street, cruising to an open spot between a dumpster parked along the curb and a SUV.
With the engine off and the bike at rest, Cassidy climbed off, her inner thighs cramping after so many hours of holding her position. Dutch tilted the bike onto its shiny metal kickstand while she slid the helmet off.
Cassidy flexed her feet one at a time while Dutch stored the helmet in the box on the back of the bike. She checked her phone but saw no word from Quinn, who was flying home from Aspen and arriving in San Francisco late that night. Thankfully, there were no more missed calls from unknown numbers. Were they finally leaving her alone? She also had no messages or missed calls from Izzy’s number, but Cassidy hadn’t expected any.
“The club’s on the other side of that block,” Dutch said, leading the way.
Cassidy fell in next to him, sliding her phone back into her pocket. The city heat felt prickly and thick, the sky a pale blue as they walked back in the direction they had come.
Though the streets were clean, a ripe odor, though faint, mixed with exhaust from the passing cars. Bars covered the windows and entrances to the lower-level buildings lining the street. They waited for a series of cars to pass then crossed to the other side, then turned down the road they had driven to the corner. Dutch moved with purpose, his heavy boots scuffing the pavement. A middle-aged woman in a slate-blue cardigan gave them a strange look when they passed, and Cassidy realized for the first time what a strange pair the two of them made: Dutch in his leathers and unkempt curls, wrap-around shades and broad shoulders, Cassidy in her U.W. Geology t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.
They turned up Market Street and passed metal roll-down doors, all closed, for storefronts named Payday Loans, Beauty Supply, and Sunglasses & More, until they were standing in front of an entrance with a tall black front extending to the top of the building with the name “Silver’s” in giant silver letters. Flanked on either side were
the silhouettes of a naked woman in high heels. Beneath the sign, a glass window was set back from the street like a movie theater entrance, lit by the glow of red neon in the shape of a woman’s naked body. On the wall leading into the club hung a poster of a woman dressed in a matching pair of lingerie below the words: “XXX Porn Star Tanya Green Live August 6-8.”. Several other posters, for events like “Game Night,” on Sundays, a burlesque show, and 2-for-1 Ladies’ Night left no wall space uncovered.
A few steps from the entrance, a dark-skinned boy of about ten or so stood behind a small square table crowded with items for sale: sunglasses, phone cases, jewelry. “Five dollars,” he said when he caught Cassidy looking. He selected a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses and opened the arms for her. “Special price for the pretty lady.”
“No, thanks,” Cassidy said, wondering why this kid wasn’t out shooting hoops with friends or reading detective novels in a library somewhere instead of working this table of junk. Was he working for someone? Cassidy glanced at Dutch, his sunglasses creating an unreadable mask.
Cassidy pulled on the heavy black door. Inside, the narrow entryway glowed with a pinkish light.
“Welcome to Silver’s Gentleman’s Club,” a woman in a tight black dress said from the end of the tunnel-like entryway, pursing her brick-red lips. A black feather poked up from her dark, shiny bun.
“We’re not here to be . . . guests,” Cassidy said, fumbling with the words. Behind the woman, a thick black curtain acted as an inner door, but the steady din of music filtered through. “We just want to see Saxon.” The woman’s bright smile widened but it seemed forced. “If he’s here,” Cassidy added quickly.
As if noticing him for the first time, the cashier looked behind Cassidy to Dutch. She blinked at the two of them. “Everybody’s gotta pay,” she said. “No matter who you’re meeting.”
Cassidy heard Dutch shuffle his thick boots behind her.
“It’s fine,” Cassidy said, and dug out her wallet from her backpack.
The woman swiped Cassidy’s card then handed it back. And then, Cassidy stepped around the thick black curtain.
Twenty
A narrow ramp descended to a large open room with a square-shaped stage as the centerpiece, lit up from within so it appeared to float. A metal pole extended from the middle of the stage to the ceiling. Beyond, a bar extended the full length of the back wall, with high-back stools made with red fabric parked in front of it. More lights lit the back bar so that all the glassware and bottles gleamed. Surrounding the stage, clusters of dark leather chairs with low, rounded backs hugged tiny tables. About half of the tables were occupied, some patrons wearing sports jerseys. She remembered the “Game Night” special and the discount. Surprisingly, some of the guests were women. Guys bring their dates here? Cassidy thought, trying to suppress her awe. She didn’t want to stick out any more than she knew she did.
Women in circulated among the tables in flashy lingerie. Some perched on the backs of the rounded chairs talking with the guests. Two waitresses were delivering drinks, their outfits slightly more modest in low-cut dresses and high heels. The stage stood empty. Cassidy cut a path through the tables to the bar where a burly-looking man in a sleeveless black shirt and slicked-back hair stood mixing drinks.
“What can I get you?” he asked, appearing in front of Cassidy moments after she’d slid into a stool. Dutch remained standing behind her.
“Oh, I’m good,” Cassidy said, waving him off. “Is Saxon here?” she asked, the name sounding strange on her tongue.
The man’s eyes drifted to the tables, as if checking on the action, then back to them, but this time his eyes went to Dutch. Cassidy could almost feel the tension zipping between the two men.
A waitress stepped up for an order, her tray of empty glassware balanced perfectly.
“I’m looking for a friend that caught a ride with him last night,” Cassidy continued, pulling out her phone. She tapped through her screens until the image of Izzy popped up. She handed her the device. “Her name is Izzy,” she added.
“Haven’t seen her,” he said after barely looking at the image. “Saxon’s out right now. Usually doesn’t come in until after ten, if he comes in at all on a Sunday night.”
Cassidy’s felt like she’d swallowed a pickle. “Is there any way we can get a hold of him?” she asked, hearing the desperation in her voice.
“Give me a minute,” the bartender said, stepping away. After the bartender filled several orders of drinks, Cassidy saw him type a message on a phone. “I can’t promise anything,” he said, returning to them. Then, grinning, he added: “In the meantime, why don’t you sit back and enjoy the show.”
Just then, the music shifted to something slower, more rhythmic, and a woman in skimpy white lingerie climbed onto the stage in the most ridiculous shoes Cassidy had ever seen. They were clear plastic and glittery, with a thick base and a tall high heel, at least five inches. It reminded Cassidy of Barbie dolls, and that’s what stuck in her mind, that this woman, that all of these women, were trying to replicate that assumed ideal—the big boobs, spindly legs, bright smile, all tucked into an attractive package that was sure to blare the message SEX. As the woman on the stage began her high kicks and spins around the pole, Cassidy became increasingly uneasy. She couldn’t help wondering what had gone wrong in this woman’s life to land her in a place like this.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Dutch, who had removed his sunglasses, his gaze not focused on the woman, but on the room. His face relaxed but she sensed his alertness, as if predicting trouble to break out any moment. Try as she might, Cassidy couldn’t locate the source of the threat, though she could not shake the unease and discomfort building inside her, like the slow but sure onset of an illness.
The woman on the stage finally finished her dance and paraded to all four corners of the stage, letting men tuck bills into her underwear. After, she circulated around the room, accepting more money, working the crowd. Cassidy turned back to the bartender, hoping for an update, but he was busy filling an order of cocktails. In the mirror above the bar, she watched the woman from the stage saunter their way.
Cassidy wished she had more space behind her in order to back up, but there was nowhere to go—the edge of the bar pressed firmly against her back.
Dutch made small talk with the stripper, asking her about how long she’d lived in the city and what she did for fun, as if this was some kind of cocktail mixer and she wasn’t almost naked. The stripper turned to Cassidy. “Did you enjoy the show?” she asked in a silky, high voice that Cassidy knew was engineered to sound innocent and playful.
“Um,” Cassidy managed, but her mouth stopped working before she could continue.
“I offer a special price for couples, you know,” she said, winking at her. She eyed Dutch, as if they were sharing a secret.
“Oh. We’re not a couple,” Cassidy stammered. “We’re just waiting to meet someone.”
The dancer fluttered her long lashes and smiled, clearly undeterred. “We have a private room. You can request anything you want,” she said, and ran a hand down the side of her body, giving Cassidy a coy, sultry look. “I promise you’ll leave very happy.”
“Maybe next time, honey,” Dutch said next to her, his voice neutral.
She glanced at him, smiled, her perfect white teeth glowing. “Have a good time tonight,” she said, showing no sign of disappointment in Dutch’s refusal. “Tara is up next. She’s got a new routine I think you’ll like very much.”
She gave Dutch one last look and sauntered away.
Cassidy felt how tight she was clenching her shoulders and tried to relax them, but it was impossible. Shouldn’t places like this be against the law? Couldn’t these women be offered a different choice than to sell themselves like this? The smell of the booze and the bleach from the glassware coming out of the dishwasher mixed with another scent she couldn’t quite name—the smell of sweat and greed and forbidden freedom—to create an amb
iance of lust.
I have to get out of here, Cassidy thought.
One of the girls working the floor sidled up to Dutch, and the two of them talked in low voices for what seemed like a long time. They both laughed at something, Dutch showing his teeth, his face relaxed. He’s actually enjoying himself, she thought with disdain.
The stripper named Tara climbed up on stage to the hoots from several men in the audience. Tara strutted to all four corners of the stage, posing and bending over to speak with several of the men, giving the other side of the room a full view of her backside. Some of the men tucked dollar bills under the strap of her lingerie which arched over her hip and into her butt crack. Her skin looked glossy, as if she had greased herself. The music for her routine started and Cassidy had to look away. It was too disturbing. She felt like a part of herself was being poisoned.
“Is Saxon here yet?” she asked the bartender, catching his eye as he delivered a trio of drinks to a waitress’s tray. The waitress gave her a sharp sideways look, so quick Cassidy almost missed it, then lifted the tray and spun back to the floor.
“Yeah,” the bartender replied, wiping a section of the bar with a white rag. “He said he’ll drop by.”
“Did he say when?” Cassidy asked, having to raise her voice over the sudden hoots and cries coming from the crowd behind her.
The bartender shook his head, then hurried back to his orders.
Cassidy caught the reflection of the stage in the mirror behind the bar but quickly averted her eyes—Tara was now topless.
“I’ll be right back,” Cassidy said to Dutch, who nodded. She glanced around—careful to avoid the stage—for the restroom and located it midway down a dark hallway in the back corner of the club. She fell in behind a pair—a patron and one of the girls working the floor. The woman led the man toward door with “VIP Room” lit above it in blue neon. The woman’s white skin seemed to glow in the moonish light, making Cassidy think of vampires, and as if to confirm this, when the woman turned slightly to open the door, her red lips curved into a smile that revealed a set of carnivorous teeth. The couple disappeared into the room. Cassidy realized she was standing, frozen, the music from the stage vibrating the floor beneath her feet.
