by Penny Wylder
“My private room,” he says. “After that, I wanted some privacy.”
“Mmm.” I snuggle closer to his chest, and I love this feeling. It’s perfect. I don’t remember a time when I’ve felt this content. “You never really told me why you do this,” I say. “Why you run a club like this. I mean, you told me that you and your friends wanted somewhere like this, but that doesn’t feel like the entire reason.”
“Very perceptive of you.”
“That’s me,” I sigh, still feeling a little high, “perceptive Christine.”
He laughs softly. “Well, I’ll tell you. I grew up in a really small town.”
“Me too.”
“Everyone there kind of knew how their lives would turn out, and I didn’t. I chose to go to college in California. Everybody was so different there, and away from home, I felt like a whole new person. I met my friends—the other owners—there. And when you talk about being yourself, sex is really at the center of that. Sexuality is a huge part of what makes you who you are. And we thought that everyone was too uptight about it, so we wanted a place where everyone could be who they wanted without judgement.”
“That’s really nice,” I say softly.
“And thankfully my family was supportive of the whole thing. They pretend they don’t know what kind of club I run, but they do. The whole town probably knows. It’s maybe six hours from here.”
I look up at him. “So you’re the reason the club is in Phoenix and not somewhere in L.A.?”
“Maybe a little, but we wanted somewhere that needed it and was also a tourist destination. L.A. has plenty of places where someone can find what they need.”
The fire is mesmerizing and so is the sound of his voice. I want him to keep talking. “What did you want to do before this?”
“I never really knew, to be honest. People wanted me to be some kind of athlete, and I was good at it. But I knew it wasn’t the right place for me. This landed in my lap and I never looked back.”
I feel brave in this moment, like there’s nothing between us and we know each other completely, even if we don’t. Even if I can’t ever really be myself with him. I want to share something with him. I want to open up because it feels right and powerful in this moment. “Hudson, I’m glad I spilled my coffee on you.”
He smiles, and leans down to kiss me. “I’m glad too.”
“I would never have done something like this on my own. Being here with you makes me feel alive.”
“I’m glad.”
We’re silent for a second, and then, “You said you grew up in a small town too?”
“Yeah,” I say, “Aguila. About an hour and a half from here. They’re exactly like what you said.”
“But you’re here.”
“I’m here. Even if they don’t want me to be. Artists aren’t exactly the pride and joy of the town.” That’s enough. I don’t want him finding out any more about who I really am. I couldn’t take it if it ended because the real me doesn’t live up to the woman I’ve made him think that I am in here.
“What kind of artist?” he asks.
I pull him down to kiss me me, and I reach down and stroke him where he’s still half-hard. “That depends,” I say. “What kind of artist do you want me to be right now?”
Hudson rolls me onto the couch and covers my body with his. “How about an artist in pleasure?”
“I can do that.”
Eight
A couple of weeks later, Hudson strokes his hand down my face as we lay together, sweaty and panting. “You’re beautiful.”
I blush at the compliment. I’ve never considered myself beautiful, and neither has anyone else. So I can’t possibly believe that he really thinks that, even if he did say it the day we met. It’s not me, it’s this bold person I become when I’m here. Not the real Christine. It’s the club Christine who takes matters into her own hands and dares to be sexual and wild. To let a man tie her up and fuck her in front of a club full of people. But even if it isn’t true, it’s nice to hear. “Thank you.”
“You know, other than that you’re an artist and you grew up in a small town, you’ve never told me anything about yourself,” he says.
“You noticed?”
“Why not?” His voice isn’t accusing, just curious.
I shake my head. “Why ruin it?”
His hand snags my hip and he pulls me closer. “Give me something. What do you do for a living?”
I swallow, my mouth going dry. “I work in a photography studio.”
“And do you like doing that?”
“I do,” I say, nodding. “Even though I prefer doing my own work.”
“What do you photograph?”
I shift so I’m more full on my side, and touching him a little less. I’ve never been really comfortable talking about myself, and the way Hudson is looking at me—as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard—makes me nervous. “I do environmental photography. Most people would call it landscapes, but it’s not just landscapes. Alleys, parking lots, rooms, whatever.”
“Why?”
“Because you can tell a lot about a place from just looking. It’s not just the people that make up a place. It has its own character. It influences you just as much as you influence it.”
His hand strokes from my shoulder to my elbow. “I’d like to see some of your work some time, if you’d let me.”
“Maybe.”
“I can come to wherever you keep it.”
I look at him. “You mean not here?”
He smiles that little smile that I love. “Yeah. As much as I like what we have going on here at the club, and I do, I don’t only want to see you here.”
“Oh.”
“Unless that’s only what you want?” His smile falters.
My heart is suddenly pounding. If he sees me when I’m not in this environment, it won’t be the same. He won’t like me the same way. He’ll see my small, boring life. He’ll see how utterly average I am. He’ll see everything that makes my family want me to come home and exist in their bubble. I like—no, I love—what we have too much to let him see that part of me. Because I don’t want it to end, and if he sees me for what I really am, then it will. I’m not ready for that.
Sensing that something is wrong, Hudson pulls me closer and presses a kiss to my hair. “I like you, Christine. A lot. I don’t want this to be limited to just sex in my club. I want to take you on dates. I want to take you to the movies. I want you to take me with you when you photograph something.” He pulls back and looks at me. “I want to know more about you than your body.”
He hugs me close again, and I let him. I don’t know what to say. I’m trapped between an intense desire to know him too, to want all of those things he just said, and the reality that those things can’t ever happen. I’m not good enough, not glamorous enough for them. So instead I kiss him, and I let him kiss me back. He can interpret that kiss however he wants, but I’ll know the truth.
I close my eyes as he rolls over me and starts to move down my body. If this is the last time I can have with him, I might as well enjoy it. But how can I when every kiss he presses against my skin feels like a kiss goodbye?
I don’t usually fall asleep at the club, but I let myself this time. It felt too good to let him go. Especially since I know that I can’t come back. It’s better this way. We’ll both be happier remembering the time we spent here together, instead of being unhappy with the clash our real lives will bring.
Hudson is fast asleep beside me, and I have to move slowly, carefully, so I don’t wake him. I gather my clothes, skimpy as they are, and put them on. Looking at the clock, it’s close to four A.M. The club is still open, but barely. I’ll be able to get my coat and keys. Though I suppose if the club was closed I could just get them myself.
There’s a strip of moonlight falling across Hudson’s chest, and the way it contrasts with his skin is stark. Even though I just told him that I do landscapes, my fingers are itching for my camera. This is one p
ortrait that I would want to take. So I try to memorize it as best I can: The dark stubble on his face and the way his hair is messy from sleep and sex. The way the moon is shining across his skin, creating shadows I’d love to trace with my fingers. The way he’s still stretched out, reaching for me even though I’m no longer there.
I tear my eyes away from him because I can’t risk him waking up and asking where I’m going. I can’t. Because I don’t know what I’d say. So I’ll say nothing. He knows my name, and that I work in a photography studio. He might be able to find me if he really wanted to, but he won’t. Because this will hurt. I know it will because the pain is already seeping into my chest. It gets bigger with every step I take. I collect my things from the coat check and head out to my car.
It feels like there’s a weight on my chest as I drive home, and it’s practically crushing me by the time I climb into my own bed, not bothering to change my clothes. This time was amazing. I got to be somebody that doesn’t exist. I’ll always remember it that way. But it’s not real. None of it was real. Better something preserved than broken forever.
I curl up around myself, pressing my hands to my chest to ease the growing pressure there. It’s better this way.
Nine
I don’t go back to the club the next night. Or the night after that. Or a third.
It’s hard. I feel a pull deep in my gut to go, to lose myself in the character I’ve made for myself there. To let Hudson take me to places of pleasure I’ve never felt before. Instead I find myself reliving the moments we already had. Over and over again as I work and try to focus on my life. Tiny things will remind me and I’ll be thrown back into a memory from the last six weeks. The way light hits black fabric, a candle, or even just touching the grain of wood.
On the third day I don’t even notice when Sandra comes up behind me, and I jump when she puts her hand on my shoulder. “What happened?”
“What?”
She pulls a chair up to the desk next to me. “You’ve gone from glowingly happy to—for lack of a better word, depressed, in a matter of days. Something’s up. Give me a little credit.”
I shake my head. “I left the guy I was seeing.”
“Mr. Magic?”
“Yeah.”
She frowns in that way older people do when they don’t approve of something that you’re doing, but know that they can’t tell you to stop. “Why did you do that? You seemed like you were having a good time.”
Even though she can’t tell me directly what to do, I know Sandra well enough to know that she’s not going to stop with her questions until I’ve answered. I sigh and push away from the desk, trying to figure out a way to organize all the thoughts that are swirling in my head about Hudson and me and our relationship. “Because,” I say slowly, “the way he knows me, how we spent our time, it was exciting. Adventurous. I wasn’t really me when I was with him—I was a girl who bought lingerie and went to parties like that one and was some daring mysterious woman. That’s not really me. I’m…this. I work here and then I go home and watch TV. I’m not who he thinks I am. I’m…boring.”
Sandra gives me a look like she doesn’t understand. “And?”
“I mean,” I feel a little awkward talking about this with my boss, “I guess you know we were at a sex club.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, dear.”
I fight down the blush rising in my cheeks. “Anyway, he wanted to do more outside the club. He wanted to see my photos. He wanted to…I don’t know…date me. And I’m not ready for it to end.”
“Sounds to me like he wasn’t ending it,” Sandra chuckles.
“But don’t you see? I’m not the person he thought I was. And when he sees that I’m not that girl he knows from the club everything’s going to be ruined.”
She blows out a breath and leans back. “Girl, you’re being a little over dramatic.”
I grit my teeth. “No, I’m not.”
“What has you so convinced that he won’t like you when you’re not having sex?”
“I’m boring,” I shrug. “I always have been. I’m not special. I’m average. The most daring thing I’ve ever done was moving here. Which isn’t exactly a stretch considering it’s only an hour and a half and away from my hometown. I’m just…in the middle.”
Sandra is quiet for a second, just looking at me. The way she’s looking at me—as if she’s really looking through me—is unnerving. Finally, she stands. “We’ve got a quiet few days ahead of us, and I know the weather is going to be nice. Why don’t you take a couple of creative days? I don’t think you’ve had much time lately to take any photos of your own.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you shorthanded.”
She smiles, and it’s a little sad. “I have your phone number. I can call if I need you. I’ll see you back here on Monday, okay?”
“Okay.
She heads back to the office, stopping before she reaches the door. “I don’t think those words about you being average actually come from you. Do me a favor, and give some thought to why you’re so convinced that you’re not worth this guy’s time. Especially since you seem to make each other happy.” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, closing the office door behind her.
I have that sinking sensation in my gut like I’ve disappointed her. Even though I’m not sure why. I’ve known Sandra for a few years now, and I know she cares about me, but why does this really matter? I’ve made the decision. Might as well get a head start on picking my locations tonight if I’m going to shoot tomorrow. Pushing Sandra’s words out of my head, I grab my things and head for home.
Even though I tried to push Sandra’s words aside, over the next few days they come back to haunt me. They echo around my head as I photograph parking lots and alleys, and a sequence of fountains at an abandoned complex that are still running for some reason. They boil down to a mantra in my head. Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.
My whole life I’ve been average though. Average talent, average looks, average grades. That’s all anyone’s ever expected me to be. Who they still expect me to be. I can feel the realization on the edge of my mind, but I don’t let it in. I have a feeling, like dread, that fully understanding Sandra’s words is going to devastate me, and I’m honestly not sure that I’m ready for it.
I’m going through my photos from my second day of shooting when my phone rings. I cringe, hoping that it’s not Hudson. He’s called a couple of times and left messages. I haven’t answered. Don’t know if I’m going to answer. But it’s not Hudson. It’s my sister. I haven’t actually talked to her since we argued on the phone last time. She’s probably pissed at me. It’s been three weeks and I haven’t talked to anyone back home. I wonder what it says about me that I didn’t even notice.
I pick up the phone, and before I even have a chance to greet her, she’s speaking. As usual. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Hello to you to, Catherine.”
“Hi.” Her tone is clipped and short. “What are you doing this weekend?”
Nothing. Freaking, miserable nothing. “No solid plans. Maybe some work, nothing too special.”
“Perfect. Mom and I will be there tomorrow morning.”
My entire body freezes. “I’m sorry…what?”
“There’s a piece of equipment that Dad needs for the store. They won’t deliver and Dad can’t make the drive so Mom and I thought we’d come and pick it up and stay with you for the weekend.”
I’m trying to pick my jaw up off the floor. “What were you going to do if I said I had plans this weekend?”
“Tell you to cancel the plans, of course.” There’s absolute certainty in her voice, as if this was expected. Perfect, boring, Christine. Of course she’d be willing to go along with this. Why wouldn’t she?
I clear my throat. “It’s a little short notice, Catherine.”
“Yeah, but you just said you weren’t doing anything.”
“I said I had no plans, not that I was doing nothing.
” I feel a familiar frustrated pressure in my chest, the way I usually do when I talk to my older sister. Sometimes it feels like she’s not even hearing what I’m saying. It’s the same way when I talk to my mom.
Her voice is scathing, “You’re going to make us stay in a hotel because we have to pick up a giant fridge and we sprung it on you?”
“No,” I say carefully. “But I would like it if you told me more than twelve hours in advance.”
Catherine snorts, “The city is turning you into a princess. No wonder you think you’re special. We’re family. You should be ready and happy for us to show up whenever.”
I have to physically bite my lip to keep from screaming at her, and I’m quiet for so long that she asks if we’re still connected. “I’m here,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“By—” I press the end button before she can say anything else. Anger is burning in my chest and I feel like I’m going to explode. It’s always been this way, whenever I say something that makes sense, they tear it down like I’m crazy. Why would I need more than twelve hours’ notice for visitors—are you some sort of royalty? Why would I need to move away from the city—you too good for us now? Why would I need to go to college?—you think you’re smart enough to get in?
That sickening realization that I’ve been holding back comes hurtling into my brain and I can’t breathe. Sandra is right. None of that has ever come from me. Every time I’ve wanted something more or tried something new I was shot down, bullied into being what everyone else thought was normal. So why would I think it would be any different with Hudson? Of course I wouldn’t think that he would want me when I’ve been practically trained to think that he wouldn’t.
I have to get out of here. It’s too much. I don’t want to think about how many times I may have missed out on something because someone else convinced me I wasn’t good enough or it just ‘wasn’t the way we do things.’ The only thing I can possibly think of that will make me forget about this is Club Deep. I have to go. I have to be there. I have to lose myself. I can only hope that Hudson isn’t so pissed that I left and ignored him that he won’t see me.
