The other guy shook his hand as if he had been burned, and punched his buddy on the arm. An older woman came up and wagged a finger at the two friends, then was stopped short by whatever they told her. She glanced in Ronnie’s direction and vanished from the doorway.
Ronnie tried not to look, not realizing until that moment how much she wanted to be accepted in this world. This, after all, was where she wanted to head; the whole reason she wanted to go to college in the first place. She could feel tears welling up and blinked them back.
Buck up, girl. Remember, life stinks.
How long before the rumor got back to the Woodwards that they had hosted a stripper at their table for the night? How long before her financial aid package was history, before Mr. Woodward started turning his back in the hallway instead of giving her one of his quick hugs? Her lip trembled. How long before the juicy fact that she was a stripper made it into some file that future employers would look at and blackball her before they ever met her?
She was smothering. She couldn’t breathe. She had to leave. Now. Leave.
The older woman reappeared in the doorway and headed into the room, closely followed by two or three others. The woman pulled aside a man in a clerical collar for an intense chat.
The man glanced Ronnie’s direction, then shook his head and said something to the determined older woman. She practically pointed toward the table where Mrs. Woodward sat, deep in conversation. Several heads near the whispered discussion began to turn, ears perked.
Ronnie hugged her purse to her side and stood, forcing the tears back. Mrs. Woodward broke off her discussion and looked up.
“Do you need something?”
Her own voice sounded strange in her ears. “Where are your rest rooms?”
“Just through those doors we came in, straight across the lobby.”
“Thanks.”
She walked out of the fellowship hall, her back rigid, feeling all the eyes on her. Once in the lobby, she headed straight for the exit.
Hold it together, hold it together, hold it together …
Her steps quickened and she slammed out the doors, pushing them open with a furious force, jogging down the sidewalk, the tears blurring her vision.
She was running now, heading for her car, the nice car she had bought by taking her clothes off for the man in that church. She was crying now, picturing Mr. Woodward’s face when he learned.
She fumbled with her keys, opened the lock with shaking hands. She knew she had just lost a friend, the only person who had seemed to believe her capable of a better life. She collapsed into her front seat and slammed the door.
She caught a glimpse of Jo Woodward running out the front door, her eyes scanning the parking lot, her face worried, intense. Ronnie caught her breath on a sob and slammed the car into drive, her tires squealing as she sped away. She averted her blurry eyes from the rearview mirror, away from the woman who tried to run after her, calling, then stopped, her hands to her cheeks.
Ronnie made it two miles before she began to shake. She pulled into an abandoned parking lot, fell across the front seat, and sobbed.
FORTY-FOUR
The next few months passed in a blur. Ronnie kept her head down, going from school to work to Glenn’s bed with numbing regularity. She was rolling in cash, but took no pleasure in it, was taking interesting classes, but found them lifeless. Her secret was out, and the reason she had wanted to go to school—to make something of herself, to maybe even be a physical therapist someday—seemed as distant as Mars.
She had seen Mr. Woodward a few times on campus since that dreadful night, but had always darted into an empty classroom or around a corner before he spotted her. She had ignored the few messages left in her school box or on her answering machine, asking her to come meet with him, to call his wife at home. She tore up the notes and pressed “delete” on the voice mail messages without listening to them. After a while, they stopped trying.
She threw herself into her work at the club, boxing into a little corner of her mind the table dancing, the lascivious looks, Glenn’s increasing demands. And she did it well, enough so that she was the top moneymaker for three months running, much to Tiffany’s disgust. Tiffany, of course, sensed her detachment and asked from time to time what was wrong. Ronnie always blew her off, making a joke of it, locking away her feelings about that night at the church.
What did those people know anyway? It wasn’t like what she was doing was wrong—it was just unacceptable to the respectable crowd. The lily-white people at their church dinners were just uptight. And hypocritical, too. If she’d looked around the room, she might have recognized half a dozen other men. Why should she care what they thought?
She had nothing to be ashamed of.
As the months passed, she sensed a change in the atmosphere of the club, of Marco … even Glenn. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but everyone was stressed, angry, tense, stretched like a bow string ready to snap. Thanksgiving brought no merriment, the first days of December no holiday cheer. Glenn had become abrupt, even rough with her at times. And Marco began snapping at everyone, ordering them around like a field marshal. There were more closed-door meetings, more visitors to Marco’s back office, more demands on the girls to do the special parties, to act as messengers, to broker deals. They were all well compensated and no one complained. On the contrary, they jumped at the lucrative opportunities. Ronnie wondered if anyone else noticed that the same girls—herself, Tiffany, and two or three others—were always selected for the out of the ordinary jobs. Out of the ordinary, of course, except that one way or another they always involved taking their clothes off.
But no … she was the only one who was detached, who seemed to be observing it all from the outside. She wished she could snap back into one world or the other wholeheartedly, but she couldn’t. She’d tasted the other world, but couldn’t have it. So she lived in the club world, and tried to drown the secret longings.
Life stinks, remember?
“Macy!” Marco stuck his head out the door and hollered for her. Ronnie came running down the hallway. “Glenn is on the phone. He says he’s been trying to get you for hours. He can’t make it over here tonight and wants you to meet him at his condo when you’re done. Here, can you talk to him? Make it fast. I’m expecting a call.”
She forced herself to smile and took the phone from Marco’s hand. “Hi, Glenn.”
“I need to see you tonight. What time can you be here?”
She tried not to give an audible sigh, to keep her voice soothing. “Oh, baby, tonight is not a good night. I’m supposed to work late and—”
“Any night’s a good night, if I say so. Be here by two o’clock.”
“But the club doesn’t even close by then, and I have that test tomorrow—”
“Two o’clock, Macy. And wear that little blue skirt I got you.” He hung up the phone.
She set the receiver down, slowly, aware that Marco was watching her. He raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
“He was ticked. He’s been so stressed lately. What on earth is going on with everybody?”
“Yes, well, people just need a break sometimes.” Marco bustled her out of the office. “Maybe you can convince him to go on a vacation. Take you to Cancún or somewhere.”
Ronnie sighed and turned away as he closed the door behind her. She fingered the diamond-and-platinum bracelet that sparkled on her wrist, the latest gift, and set her will to the long work night ahead of her.
“Where’s the blue skirt?”
Ronnie stared at Glenn, her stomach churning. She had crept into his condo, using her key, hoping against hope that he might be asleep. But he was lounging on the wide couch in the living area, staring at the door, his eyes glassy and a tall-neck beer in his hand.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You said you wanted me here by two o’clock, and I didn’t have time to go home and get it.”
He rose from the couch, his voice grating. “And you’re late. I’ve been
waiting for thirty minutes, Macy. And you know I don’t like waiting. I’m not good at waiting. Come here.”
“Glenn, you’re drunk. I’m not sure—”
“I said—” he flung the beer away from him, smashing it on the floor behind him—“come here!”
She fled for the door. She gasped as she felt him grab her hair, pulling her back and down. Her knees hit the cold tiled floor, and she yelped in pain.
He bent over her, his fingers intertwined in her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to look up at him.
He pulled her up again, her head still bent back, and steered her toward the couch. He pushed her roughly down. She sprawled on the soft material, panting, hyperventilating, as he removed his belt.
Her eyes wild, she knew what was coming. She’d seen what had happened to her mother when she resisted—and what had happened to her. From experience she knew it was better to put up with it, to close her mind to what was happening. It would be over soon enough.
Ronnie slipped out the door of the condo, shaking, trying not to limp from the pain. Glenn was sprawled on the sofa, snoring, his appetite sated. Until the next time.
Ronnie pressed her hand to a bruise she could already feel, tender on her cheek. There couldn’t be a next time. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t allow him to do this to her. But how could she stop it? Who could she talk to?
The image of Mr. Woodward rose in her mind. She pushed it away. Yeah, right. Where had that come from? She must be hurt worse than she thought, if she thought he would help her.
She reached her car and slipped inside, cradling her purse. At least her wallet bulged with several new one-hundred-dollar bills. He’d thrown them at her afterward, reducing her to fresh tears while he went to get another beer. Good thing he’d paid her before passing out on the sofa.
She sat stock-still as the weight of her thought hit her. Good thing he paid me.
She put her head on the steering wheel, her eyes dry, staring at nothing. She really was a prostitute. No getting around it, no sugarcoating it. She winced as the steering wheel pressed the bruise on her cheek. She was probably just getting what she deserved.
She sat for five minutes, feeling pulped and worthless, before summoning the energy to drive away. Then she groaned, realizing that she needed a textbook for the test tomorrow, and she had left it in her locker. She would have to pull it together enough to stop by the club on the way home. Either that or just quit school entirely. She sighed and checked the clock on the dashboard. There were probably still a few people at the club, closing up. She would just have to avoid them.
Twenty minutes later, Ronnie parked in The Challenger’s darkened back lot, the only car there. Only a few staff cars were left in the other lots, the night winding down to a close. She had fixed her mussed hair, but the bruises might be visible by now. She just wanted to get in and out without being noticed.
She slipped through the club’s back door and heard distant thumps and clatters and dim voices talking about going to an all-night bar or complaining that they had to get up too early in the morning.
The hall was deserted, half the lights already off. She walked quickly toward the break room and, hearing no one, poked her head inside. Empty. She hurried to her locker and retrieved her book, then hurried back down the hallway. She paused for a long moment, listening; then, satisfied she was alone, yanked open the door to the back parking lot.
A wide-eyed face loomed up out of the darkness, and Ronnie shrieked and jumped sky-high. She staggered back, her hand on her heart.
“Maris! You scared me!”
Maris panted a moment. “What the heck are you doing here? You left hours ago.”
“I had to come back to get something. What are you doing, coming in the back door like this?”
“They’d already locked the front door and I couldn’t get anybody’s attention. I forgot something, too; think I left it here when I was closing up.” She yawned. “I’m bushed. I just want to get in and out without talking to anyone.”
“Me, too.”
Maris looked at her more closely. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
Maris glanced up and down the hallway then pulled Ronnie into the ladies’ bathroom, staring at her face in the fluorescent light. She pressed a finger to Ronnie’s cheek, pausing when Ronnie winced.
“That’s what I mean, girlfriend. What’s going on. Who’s hitting you?”
“No one.”
Maris folded her arms across her chest and just stood there, barring the doorway.
“Okay, fine. Glenn, the guy I’m seeing. He was drunk tonight and got a little carried away.”
“A little carried away,” Maris repeated, shaking her head. “Don’t do it, Ronnie.”
Ronnie looked up, surprised as the use of her real name.
“Please, girl,” Maris said. “I knew you before your fancy stage name. You’re still Ronnie in my head. Always will be. Just like your friend Tiffany.” She hesitated. “You want my advice, you should get out of it. Just leave. You can find another job somewhere else. Somewhere they won’t trade you like a piece of meat for their deal of the day.”
Ronnie sighed. “Look, I know you were disappointed when I started dancing.”
“Hey.” Maris held up her hands. “It’s not my role to be disappointed or to cheer you on or to hold your hand. You gotta do what you gotta do. I’m just saying I can see the writing on the wall. I’ve seen it too many times. Better you leave now than get your spirit broken. You’ve got a different spirit than the other girls. Even Tiffany.”
Maris nodded, her eyes direct. “Oh yeah, girl, don’t think I don’t notice these things. You’re different. Always have been. But this stuff’ll break you eventually.” She started to say something then shrugged. “That’s all. You’re the one that’s got to decide if you’re going to respect yourself. You do with it what you want.”
Ronnie stared at her. “Okay.”
Maris nodded, then turned away. “Got to use the john. See you.” She disappeared into one of the stalls.
Ronnie cracked the door, looking up and down the hallway. Still empty.
She stole the short distance back down the corridor, out the door, and to her car without being spotted. Well, except by Maris. As she drove home, she turned over in her mind what Maris had said. There was no way she could quit, obviously, but she could respect herself enough to tell Marco and ask for his help.
“What?”
Marco stared at Ronnie in disbelief, then in rising fury. He took two quick steps out from behind his desk and put his hand under her chin, turning her cheek to the side. The ugly bruise was well covered by makeup, but was still visible. Too visible to do stage work that night.
“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him.” He turned and slammed his fist onto his desk with a force that made Ronnie jump.
“Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—I don’t believe that he did this to you!”
Marco paced the room, using every word in the book to describe Glenn, then abruptly turned back to her.
“Tell you what. You go home, take the night off. Put your feet up and recover for a couple of days, okay?”
Ronnie looked at him in surprise. He waved a hand and put on a scowl.
“Don’t thank me. I’m just looking out for my own best interests.” He paced some more. “You ditch Glenn. Do not see him again. This is just unacceptable.” He slammed his fist into the desk again. “Unacceptable!”
Marco abruptly turned back to her. “Glenn doesn’t know where you live, does he?”
“No. But he does know my phone number, and he could probably find the apartment that way if he tried hard enough.” She shivered.
Marco muttered under his breath, then returned to his chair, his face calm and cold. “I will deal with this. You go home and relax. Don’t worry; it’ll be taken care of.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Leave that to m
e.”
“But … I don’t want anything—you know—bad to happen to him. I just want him not to do that again.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t.”
Tyson stared at the darkening ocean as Marco’s tirade blistered through the phone. Marco sometimes got too worked up about things, but this time Glenn really was the fool. Drawing this sort of attention at this stage of the game was inexcusable. Not to mention putting one of their best girls out of commission for days.
He reassured Marco that he would take care of matters and ended the call. His feet crunched on the soft sand as he headed back up to the house.
The others members of the S-Group looked up, curious, when he came in.
“We have a problem.” He briefed them on the breakdown of discipline, the awkward situation. “Suggestions?”
“Wish we could just whack him and get it over with,” one of the others said. “I’ve been concerned about Glenn from day one. He’s got the skills and the money motivation, but he’s never taken the thing seriously enough.”
Another member shook his head. “Can’t eliminate him. He’s too critical right now, and it’s too soon. We’re just ramping up all the pre-Christmas sales. Another month, maybe, but now?” He shrugged. “We just have to find a way to bring him back in line without raising outside suspicions.”
Tyson folded his arms. “Marco’s relieved that the girl won’t be near Glenn anymore. He’s been fretting she might learn too much. Paranoid.”
The others didn’t smile. “Yeah, maybe, maybe not,” one said. “Let me just refer it to my boys, the two that did that other job for us. Our backslider will be in bed for two days, and on day number three he’ll be back at his post like a good boy, ready to act his age again.” He looked around. “Any objection?”
Seeing none, Tyson nodded. “Go ahead then. We can’t afford to have Glenn go after the girl before we get to him. It’s got to be done tonight.”
The Lights of Tenth Street Page 35
