I still had very few friends. That lesson had stuck with me since high school so the people I did interact with were either acquaintances from college or work, or fuck buddies. I was friendly enough at the dance club where I worked in the evenings, but we were usually too busy to form anything that resembled a friendship. The only thing I had in common with my college buddies was dance, nothing more.
My household routine was pretty structured and I visited the Laundromat as much as a supermarket. My job and class schedule meant I needed constant energy and clean clothes. I was excelling in most of my classes. As I’d mastered becoming someone else in real life, the drama part of performing arts wasn’t a stretch. And the dance… well, for me, that was like walking in a straight line.
The theoretical part of my studies was a bit of a drag. My brain thought it was useless to study structure, discipline and the theatrical history of everything because if you couldn’t actually perform, what use was being able to write about it? I was a glass half full kind of girl, though, so I always looked on the bright side of study. Having to do it meant I couldn’t work full time in the club, and dancing at college as well as in the evenings would have killed me off. My routine was set. I worked a full Thursday, Friday and Saturday evening, and with no classes on a Monday and Tuesday, I could rest up and recover. Monday was household chores day, with Tuesday and Wednesday spent studying and completing coursework. I’d gotten used to the art of juggling sleep, work and college, and I’d fashioned it to perfection. Those kids with moms at home, feeding them and doing their laundry, didn’t realize they were born. Real life was going to bust them open soon enough. Other factors that kept my feet on the ground were my grades. My course was sixty percent practical with the remaining earned from course work, assignments and theoretical exams. This meant I had to knuckle down and not rely on my dancing ability alone.
I had big ideas for my life. A lot of dancers went to NYC performing arts in some twisted Fame fantasy. Others wanted Julliard, but not me. Little old me—I wanted stability and a business, something to throw my heart and soul into and nurture so it kept me comfortable.
My life plan was simple: I was happy being alive and living a normal life. I was going to make a home and build a future.
I was going to find a house, a guy who worshipped me, and maybe when I felt safe enough, I was going to start a family and have my own dance school. A little place where I could watch kids dreaming big and having fun through dance.
I needed to ace college. There was no other option for me. The better my grades, the more chance I would have at securing a bank loan to get it up and running. When I started my new life as Rebecca, I’d had a little bit of money. Ross had made sure of that. I didn’t know where it came from but Rebecca Monroe had a checking account with over one hundred thousand dollars in it, but I needed to save that money for security, just in case my life didn’t go to plan.
I didn’t want to sink it all into my dream. I wanted to earn my dream like a regular person. I wanted that money to sit in the bank and grow so that should life go belly up again, I wasn’t living hand to mouth. I was doing things differently, so call me crazy, but I was happy earning my scholarship funding, which was also dependant on my grades. I was happy earning my future and that was my life’s dream.
If only I could shake off the feeling of doom that was clouding my perfect world.
I felt like I was constantly clock watching. Ross should have sent someone, but the more time passed, the more I worried that he wasn’t going to. All I could do was keep on going and hope I was wrong. Thankfully, it was Thursday and I knew I wouldn’t really see daylight for the next few days because I had my first shift of the weekend at the club.
The odd thing was that what had happened before hadn’t put me off being a dancer in any form, including being a stripper. It just taught me a lesson about what went on behind the scenes. The girls who took to the stage and worked their oiled asses off were just a front for what really went on. Invariably, they were businesses run by crooks, propped up by drugs or prostitution, and they attracted the lowest of the low. Once they got you in the system and sank their teeth into you, there was little you could do to get yourself out. The lure of big money was horrible, and for a talented dancer, that money wasn’t just big; it was amazing.
I’d found a bar tending job at Mansion’s club. It was owned by a rich guy who owned the entire building block it was based in. We never saw him. It was just one of his enterprises, apparently, run by a house manager. I loved the feel of the place the minute I walked through the doors. The vibe in the brick warehouse was something else with mood lighting and a number of huge dance floors. There were three long, strategically placed bars, lots of booths with tables and a host of VIP sections. It was the in place to be on the weekends, which meant most of those VIP sections were booked in advance with a few left open for walk-in guests.
The music was mostly dance based with a bit of euro pop, but basically, anything that kept the crowds coming in droves. Mixed in with the dance floor lights were enormous speakers, and the best thing of all were the suspended birdcages. They were big enough to fit a person inside. They hung above the dance floor and drew people in like moths to a flame.
When I first started bartending, I used to watch the dancers and feel frustration eating away at me. They were either plastic fantastics whose only dance moves consisted of twerking and boob bouncing, or muscled gay guys who stood posing like there were mirrors everywhere. There was no class or choreography; it was boring and insulting to anyone who had enough coordination to keep time with music. The only respite I had from that frustration was when I switched bar duty and worked in VIP hosting. When alcohol, important guests and money were involved, the recruitment policy was simple—make sure you are capable of handling it all at the drop of a hat. Our duties were switched often based on the number of guests in the VIP rooms and people in the mainstream club, or so they had us believe.
In reality, we all knew this was rubbish. They moved us around so none of us would get familiar with the same crowd or have the chance to exploit VIP duty.
My duties switched permanently one night when a girl called Jenna, who was a shocking dancer, turned up to work drunk. There was no way she was going to hold her own in a birdcage. The house management had strict rules—no empty cages and a definite mixture of dancing girls and guys. Having an all male cage team had two effects, either the dance floor was rammed with screaming girls, or it flooded with guys who thought it was a gay bar. All female dancers had an even worse effect. It kept the females off the dance floor—their jealousy was real and you could feel that tension between the steel confines of the cage like it was a bitch smack down waiting to happen. The other problem was that all female dancers made the place seem just that little bit seedier, and the dance floor was suddenly packed with horny, dribbling guys.
So Martha, the house manager, chucked a fit and decided the bar could cope with one less female, and demanded a volunteer. I should have kept my head down. I should have claimed that I was a dancing dunce, but no, the lure was too strong. The beat was calling and it had been so long since I’d let the rhythm take me outside of my college classes.
I stuck my hand up and watched as Martha flashed me a look of disbelief. I was the quiet and compliant one, always reliable behind the bar, and she didn’t think I could do it.
I could do this with my hands tied behind my back. I’d danced in worse places, in a lot less clothes, and had been groped by some of the nastiest individuals the world had to offer. Getting in that bird cage was child’s play for me.
I cashed out my register, trying to quell my excitement, and made my way to the changing rooms where I was offered a selection of clothes. My nerves were tingling with the thrill of it all as I grabbed a plaid mini skirt, a red cropped top and some over the knee socks. Keeping my Nike running shoes on and tying my hair in high bunches, I did my very best to channel my inner Britney Spears. Overdoing my makeup and then co
nducting a few simple stretches and core exercises, I made my way outside.
I couldn’t hide my smile when I hit the dance floor. I had an individual style that none of the other dancers possessed, and to top it all off, I was actually talented.
Marco, one of the door guys, did a double take when he saw me. I was different to the other girls. I didn’t opt for barely-there clothes and oiled skin, and he smiled like he knew I was about to do something great. He helped me climb into a cage before latching the door shut and shouting good luck. I was placed on one of the outer edges and furthest away from the bar, in what was known as the newbie corner cage.
That night, a number of things happened.
It was officially my last night tending bar. I was so successful there was no way they were going to put me back behind a bar. I claimed the fastest time for moving out of the newbie cage and into the biggest, most popular one. And I quadrupled the tips I’d normally have made on a Thursday night.
My dancing attracted a crowd as I moved with skill and did it without a single stripper move or twerk. Even showing less skin, I was still more popular than the rest. By the time my first stint was over, Marco was needed to help me pick up the money that had been pushed through the bars of the cage.
After a thirty minute break, I was led back out to the dance floor and saw that people began to gravitate towards me. I showed the other cage workers that dancing with a crowd instead of against them kept them on the dance floor and hyped up the atmosphere. The crowds of followers became part of my routine, and they worked their asses off, getting hot and thirsty, and as a result, the bar takings also increased. People cheered as I left for my next break, laden with money that Marco had begun to stuff into a cash bag the office had sent down.
It wasn’t long before the DJ was on board, playing tunes he knew I could work with, and as a result, Thursday, Friday and Saturday Cage Night became the most popular.
Ironically, Raven—the real me—found peace and harmony inside a cage, getting sweat drenched and exhausted, and earning a great little wage. I wasn’t forced. I was doing it because I loved it.
Like at high school, the other female dancers saw me as competition and consequently hated me, but I didn’t care.
About six months after I’d started dancing, Martha asked if the club could use me in their advertising. Word of mouth had spread, but with some clever posters and a few themed nights they were sure I could draw in more people, maybe even make the nights a ticketed event.
I immediately declined.
I was happy hiding behind makeup and costumes, dancing in the dark with only the flashing lights to illuminate me. I needed to remain unknown. Putting my face outside the doors would put me out there and I had to be careful. My old life would always be a threat and I wasn’t keen on attracting attention.
A week later at the end of my shift, Martha asked me to stay behind. I couldn’t refuse but felt confused when she walked away and an attractive older guy appeared from one of the VIP rooms and came and sat next to me. He had beautiful olive skin and black wavy hair. I noticed his hands were clean and neatly manicured as he made a show of palming them together and I began to feel nervous in his company, like I was being scrutinized.
My last experience of suited and booted individuals was my honey trap at Sunset Strip. If he had any proposition that was less than legal, money or not, I was leaving and Mansion’s would be a firm part of my past. “Miss Monroe,” he began, causing me to look up at him. He knew my name and that was a worrying shock. There was something familiar about him and I hated not being able to place him. “I’m Mr. Mansion, owner of this establishment. I’ve heard great things about your change in status at my club and wanted to meet you.” He leant towards me and hitched up his pant leg in that way guys do when they need a bit of extra leg room to get comfy. My eyes were drawn to the shiniest shoes ever. He was immaculate in his presentation. “I’m aware my management team has offered you the opportunity to be involved in some new advertising.” He waited patiently for my confirmation, so I nodded. “And you declined?”
“I did.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” He sat back smiling like I’d amused him. “I’d like to make the offer again, personally this time.”
“Thanks, but I’m not really interested,” I replied honestly, smiling back at him. I wanted my refusal to be as pleasant as possible.
“How about we negotiate? I’m a businessman. Say five percent of the bar takings on the nights you dance?”
It was a horrifically tempting offer. I could clean up and afford my dance school with no problem, but he was still a stranger who made me nervous. No one made these offers out of the goodness of their hearts, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen him somewhere before. This was one of those times where Bob’s ‘trust your gut’ advice was coming into action. “That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Mansion—”
“But it’s still a no? You drive a hard bargain. Maybe you should come work for me as a negotiator. Ten percent?” His charm offensive was disingenuous, and as he began to barter, his demeanor was changing, portraying the same ugly qualities as all rich people who thought they could buy anything they wanted.
“You’re offer is very generous, but I need to focus on my studies,” I replied and stood up from the bar stool. My flight response was kicking in and I needed to get out of there because I knew he was going to keep offering. I was keen to avoid this becoming even more awkward than it already was. “Goodnight, Mr. Mansion,” I said, hoisting my backpack up onto my shoulder.
“You’re an intriguing mystery, Miss Monroe. I didn’t expect you to drive such a hard bargain. You should know I don’t really give up that easily when I see something I want. I hate it when an opportunity goes to waste.”
I stumbled slightly as I walked a few more paces away from him, shaking slightly over his creepy choice of words. My gut was screaming at me now and it told me to stay away from Mr. Mansion.
Ever since that night, I’d felt someone watching me, that unseen pair of eyes lurking somewhere in the shadows.
And no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I was imagining it, I just knew I wasn’t.
Jake
When I finally slowed down and stopped racing through the airport, I felt queasy and I knew it was because I was running on empty. I’d had little or no sleep, no morning coffee or breakfast, and I still had the hangover headache from hell. Before the airhostess, who was hot as fuck by the way, told us to switch off all electronic devices, I sent a text to Lacey. I knew she’d be worried with me disappearing. The last time she did it, it scared the shit out of me and not just because she nearly bled to death while I was at the bar trying to hook up. Evidence suggested that when I let my dick take control, things get bent out of shape and there was a definite pattern forming. I just wished I’d l realized the lesson before I screwed my brother over.
After chugging a bottle of water, a cup of poorly made in-flight coffee, and snarfing down a breakfast roll, I pulled my hood up over my head and crashed. It was one those semi-aware naps where your brain won’t shut the fuck up and even though your eyes are closed, you know the snoring you can hear definitely belongs to you.
When we began to descend, my inner ears contracted and popped, and I realized I was slumped and asleep on the shoulder of the person next to me. I was mortified—not only had I snuggled up to a guy who was clearly gay and loving the attention, he made it clear he was all for discovering the possibilities of a mile-high travelling tryst while I was dribbling all down his top. “Sorry,” I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Cutie pie,” he began in a very feminine voice. “It’s been my pleasure, although whoever Jack is, I reckon with your good looks he’ll get over it. I would, sugar.”
“Uh…” I knew my brain was spinning, trying to catch up with what the hell I’d been mumbling about.
“But just in case he doesn’t…” He winked. “I’ve popped my details in your sweat top
pocket.”
Deciding it was too much effort to explain, I figured letting this random stranger leave feeling like he’d pulled was simpler for both of us.
When I finally got through arrivals and switched my cell on, it pinged with a load of incoming text messages.
Lacey:
Normally she’d have been asking for the full story of why I was taking an impromptu holiday that she knew nothing about, but her change in relationship status meant I got lucky and she was obviously occupied.
Unknown Number:
Fucking Meesha. She was one sandwich short of a picnic if she thought I’d ever touch her again. How her dubious relationship morals got past my brother was a complete mystery. He found good girls, treated them right and then managed to put them back on the shelf, all while still remaining friends.
The last message was the one I was expecting.
Jonas:
The next few messages from him told me her address, the college where she was studying, the nightclub where she was bartending and a brief description of what she looked like. In a separate text, he’d given me details of a motel room he’d booked for me, and the rental car booking. His final text lets me understand his mood and what he was expecting.
Jonas:
Not only would it take a lot to get Jack’s trust back, it was clear that I could add Jonas to that list, too. I only hoped they didn’t spill my deed to the rest of the family. That would kill any hopes I had of getting things under control. My folks would fucking freak.
Alive Page 3
