by Eros, Marata
I meet his eyes again, and he smirks. Ty knows he has me. “Why are you Thorn?” I ask, taking him off-kilter with my question.
He answers with deliberate slowness, “Every rose has its thorns.”
Our eyes lock and he asks, “Ready?”
I nod.
“You get a hundred dollars a lap dance.” His eyes sweep past mine, and he recites the speech as if it’s a recipe for cookie dough. “The quicker you give the dance, the better you do it, the more money there is. The clients are not allowed to touch you, and you never have to do anything you're uncomfortable with.” He says the last part with the sincerity of a felon.
Our eyes meet again and I get the message.
Thorn's into clarity.
He lists off the things you can make extra for. “Let them grope your titties- fifty dollars. Hand jobs, one hundred.”
I swallow. I think there's a little throw up in my mouth. I don't say I've never done a hand job. Thorn already called me whore, and there's no convincing the decided. And really? It's better that Thorn thinks I'm what he presumes I am. Thorn doesn't know why I'm doing this. He doesn't know my past, my present job. He's guessing, and I'm all for keeping it that way. The less he knows is definitely more.
Those thoughts take seconds.
Thorn moves on, “There will be security. Not that it's needed.” He flicks his eyes to mine and smirks. “We have trained gorillas outside all the stations. So the girls don't have to worry.”
I squirm a little, thinking about how they'll fire me on the first night. My temples pound with the familiar start of a migraine, and my hand closes around the crumbled card of Doctor Matthews inside my purse. My appointment next week looms in front of me and I don't look at Thorn's dark face, eyes that hate me, a body that wants me. I know someone's got a tight leash on Thorn or he would have done more than proposition me and threat.
Who?
Jared McKenna? The elusive, semi-hero billionaire who happens to own the nicest strip club in Seattle?
I look at Ty, a.k.a. Thorn again, and wonder who could leash that pit bull.
“I'm not sure what to do...” If I don't say something, he'll hear about it from a pissed client. This isn't working my sore muscles against a pole in front of men from a safe distance. It's different.
Intimate.
Thorn grins, his white teeth an eery slash against his dark complexion. He strides over to where I stand, and I barely hold my ground, gritting my teeth.
He towers over me even though I'm 5'9” in my stocking feet.
I pull away and he frowns, gripping me tighter. “Chill out, it's a tutorial. I'm not going to rape you.”
Right . My body remembers and locks up, fights for air, for reason.
He looks at my face and gives a dark chuckle.
Thorn moves the swivel chair and sits down on it, slapping his lap once.
I die inside. If someone had told me I would be this close to Ty the creep manager, I would have laughed.
Not laughing now.
I gingerly lift one knee and place it on the outside of his thigh, his dark eyes watching as I do. The other knee follows, and I force myself to grip his shoulders for balance or I'll fall against him.
I shiver, and he takes it for arousal instead of loathing.
Thorn grips my hips, and I hiss and try to pull away.
“That's not going to work on the dudes we have coming to enjoy this body of yours.” He jerks my hips forward, and I feel his erection against my upper thigh.
“Move.”
I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I rub against him over and over. His hands move to cup my ass, and suddenly I'm not moving on my own. He's shifting my body against his stiff penis. My breasts are safely encased inside a nude bra that brushes his face as the friction of our clothed coupling intensifies. Thorn pants and gives a whispered shout that's somewhere between a hiss and a yell.
I feel sick as I climb off him, a wet patch at his crotch spreading to his muscular thighs.
I back away, shaking. The fine beginnings of a bruise blossom high on my thigh, and I shudder in revulsion.
I wrap my black trench coat around the underwear he insisted was all I wear underneath it.
Thorn asks softly, “Got it?”
I nod. I so have it.
And I never want it again.
I flee as though the devil's at my back.
~ 5 ~
Monday
I watch the blinking cursor as it flashes above send. My finger hovers, my will along with it. I clench my eyes and tap the mouse with a decisive click. My RSVP floats into the ether to be received by Thorn or one of his lackeys.
Tonight's my first night on the job. My new job.
One grand per night whispers through my head.
I'm exhausted. I worked a full day mending the wounds of others, forcing them toward wholeness. I paid for Mom's care for the first time in cash. I pretended not to notice as the receptionist paused when she took the rolled up money.
Her eyes met mine. “Cash?”
I still have the receipt in my purse. I think I'll frame it when this whole thing ends.
If it ever does.
I slowly walk to the “party room.” I know I've done all that I can to make myself desirable. Ty impresses on me the importance of the “mingle” period. These are men with tastes, he'd emphasized.
I walk in, my ice-blue dress barely covering my rear. Little strings that end in silver beads sway and tickle the tops of my thighs. They cup my ass as I move in four-inch stilettos. The neckline is so low the top of my belly button peeks in and out like a teasing divot.
The men turn as a new girl enters. I imagine their response is as instinctive as flowers turning their collective heads toward the sun. I know I've hit the mark when their conversation stops. Eyes greedily move over my form, missing nothing. Some eyes linger at my breasts, some my long legs, some caress the burnished gold of my hair under lights turned down so low they barely illuminate.
One man never looks at my body but my eyes. They're worth a stare, hidden by a mask of small Swarovski crystals. Only the light gray of my irises show through the slits. My dark blonde lashes are hidden under deep chocolate mascara.
“Two hundred for twenty minutes,” he says. He has deep black hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that might be a greenish-hazel if there was more light.
Voices erupt, drowning his and I fluster, backing away.
My masked eyes meet security.
Just like Thorn promised, he interrupts the bidding frenzy with quietly spoken words. “Five hundred, and she's yours for the virgin session.”
My eyes snap to his, thinking I've been discovered. But no, he simply means this is my first lap dance. Ever.
My shoulders drop, and I relax a little.
The man who said two hundred dollars nods at the security guard. Another man, complete in a tux and tails, brings a ticket on a silver tray, his eyes moving over me once.
It's enough.
I feel dirtier than when I arrived.
The man with coal black hair holds out his hand, and I slip mine inside his. It's warm and dry.
Other girls’ faces meet mine as I slide behind a door bearing the number one. I don't know who they are because they wear small masks as well.
It's okay because I don't know who I am anymore.
“I'm Jay,” he says as he loosens his tie.
I stand there stupidly.
He laughs and sits on a large chair. The plush burgundy faux suede hides a myriad of crimes.
Like the one I'll commit.
“Come here,” he commands in a low voice, his eyes burning into mine.
I walk to him. The beads that made me feel sexy a half hour ago sting like many bugs biting my flesh as I move.
I stand in front of him, and he doesn't touch me. He slowly unbuttons his shirt. Jay takes the loop of the tie over his head and tosses it aside. My eyes roam his muscular torso as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never le
aving mine. He does serious gym time.
I recognize the look of hard work instantly, my hand was not the only thing I rehabilitated.
I'm sore from my own workouts. A permabruise etched on the inside of the wrist of my bad hand testifies to my two weeks of pole dancing. But pain won't end me. After what I've been through, physical pain is just another obstacle.
It's the mental that's killing me.
“Straddle me,” he says.
I mount him like I did Thorn, my upper thighs quaking. Is it horrible that because it's not Thorn, that somehow it's better?
Music creeps into the room from strategically placed speakers. My eyes flick to the side and note scattered tissue paper, lube, condoms, and a neat pile of sex toys in an antique porcelain box.
Glass.
Rubber.
I turn my face away, tears making me hold my eyes wide so they don't fall.
Jay sets a fifty dollar bill on the end table next to the chair. A cut glass dish holds the bill perfectly. It twinkles in the low light while it holds filthy money.
I move, and he says, “I want to touch your breasts.”
My eyes shift to the money. I swallow and, after a brief hesitation, nod.
He bends forward and whispers, “Keep moving... yeah...,”
He groans as I grind against him, my face averted. I stare at the gilded wallpaper, trying for an out-of-body experience. I memorize the geometric shapes. I feel his fingers push aside the glittering v of my top. A finger brushes my nipple, and I nervously increase my pace. My nipple hardens like a traitor, and my heartbeat speeds up in unrequited fear.
I won't embrace it or I'll scream. This stranger latches onto my nipple and sucks as I increase the friction against him. I gasp a little at the contact. I guess touching my breast can mean his mouth, though I'm not expecting it.
I disassociate myself further, my eyes tracing the fleur de lis wallpaper. My grinding stresses my muscles, my fight against adrenaline exhausts me, and the need for money spurs me forward anyway.
His breathing tells me when it'll be over, and then it is. He presses my naked breasts against his face and shouts into the center of my warm flesh, releasing against a hand towel over his front.
Jay holds me against him as if I'm precious. That's worse than if he’d just let me go. I disengage, scuttling off his lap in an awkward lurch and averting my eyes from his crotch.
He stands up, limp and spent, and uses the little toiletries provided to clean up his inconvenient mess.
I'm numb as I adjust my top and scoop up the fifty, adding it to the five hundred. As I walk out of the room, his eyes commit me to memory.
I realize I never said a word. He doesn't even know my name. Jay didn't ask.
At least there's that.
In the restroom, I gaze into the wall of gilded mirrors. Toiletries, makeup, and wipes of every variety litter the vanity. I put my head in my hands and sit there for moments that become minutes. When I lift my head, I turn on the tap, wait for it to steam, and yelp as I wash my hands raw. Then I unwrap a toothbrush and wash my mouth, brushing viciously. Twice.
I thank whatever's holy that I never kissed him. I couldn't stand that. It's the final insult. No kissing.
Because this is closer to prostitution than dancing. I get that now. I take deep breaths, concentrating on inhaling, then exhaling.
I stand, straightening my beaded dress borrowed from Kiki, and head back out into the room.
They bid again, and I head back into the room of the damned. This one wants to touch my breasts.
I let him.
And leave with twelve hundred dollars.
Only forty-eight thousand and change to go.
~ 6 ~
Present day
“Sir,” someone says to my right, but my eyes are shut.
“Please step away.” The timbre of that voice is commanding, authoritative.
My eyes open slowly as I take in the tactile wave around me.
I hear a low curse, and that warm presence moves. I feel cold, bereft as a beefy man in a navy uniform crouches next to me and smiles. His clear blue eyes scan the street. I hear car doors open and close, sirens cut off. The silence is deafening, a deep well to get lost in. All around me, people's legs appear, like clothed tree trunks.
I'm in the middle of a people forest and it makes a slightly hysterical giggle erupt from my mouth.
That's when I realize I'm higher than a kite.
All the while, the man in blue has been talking to me quietly in soothing tones. My eyes sort of spin before focusing on his. I lift my hand to try and touch him, and I hiss in pain.
A moment of panic tries to rise up in my throat because it's my good hand. Please God, don't let that be wrecked too.
“Shh,” he says.
He calmly takes my struggling hand, and his finger moves to the underside of my wrist. I feel the subtle pressure of him taking my vitals. A loop of transparent tubing swings in my vision. “I've got ya,” he says and I notice his name tag: Johnny.
My body becomes weightless. I feel them place me on a stretcher. My thigh shrieks in pain, and I whimper. The paramedic's eyes move to the needle in my arm, and he adjusts something. I float deeper in the haze of the drugged.
“It's going to be okay,” he says, which fills me with instant dread.
I hear that melodic voice in the background. It grows loud in argument, and I know it's my angel trying to shelter me with his wings.
Johnny the paramedic loads me into the back of an ambulance. I try to move. I have work.
I have to die. I remembered Matthews's words perfectly. The drugs can't soften that.
“Let me through!” the angel says. His face appears above mine, seeking me through the safety of blue men, through the onlookers in the multi-colored forest of people.
They can't save me.
No one can.
But the one who held my hand when I was laid out in the middle of the street takes it again. The sedative works in collusion with the hit to my head as I begin to fade.
His deep brown eyes in a strong face are the last thing I see as the sedative takes me from consciousness like a thief.
That undeniable face is the last thing I see.
Then it hits me: I don't have to deny myself anything. When one knows the hour of their death, it all becomes clear.
It's a kind of relief.
*
Kiki's wide eyes greet mine when I wake up.
“Thank God!” she says in a loud voice, and I cringe a little. She covers her mouth. “Sorry,” she tries to whisper and misses it by a mile.
“Oh my gawd, girl, you had me peeing my pants!” Her anxious eyes scan my face then move down my body. They sweep back up to my eyes again.
I smile a little, and my mouth feels like torn sandpaper, complete with cracked lips and breath like ass. “Water,” I croak.
Kiki slaps her forehead and brings a cup to me smoothly, tipping the bendy straw down to my lips. The water tastes like cold heaven. My eyes meet hers.
“Okay, tell me what the hell happened,” Kiki says, plopping down in the hospital chair next to my bedside.
I want to know where that guy is. The one I saw in my drug-induced stupor... where did he go? But I don't ask.
“I don't really know. I was coming out of the clinic...”
“Seeing the doctor about your migraines?” she prompts.
I just nod. Talking about about my death sentence is a little too much.
Matthews's words come back to me, welling up in the center of my brain: loss of sensation and appetite, issues of vertigo—loss of balance.
I can't have that. I need to keep dancing so there will be something left for Mom when I'm no longer here.
Kiki snaps her fingers. “Y'know, they can't release you like this. You're not all here, Faren.”
Not all here . My memory blinks, and I'm on the lap of one man. Like a camera shutter, it clicks. Then I'm suffering through Thorn and his brand of con
trol. The shutter stalls on my stepdad beating my mom nearly to death.
All because she defended me.
And I think I can go and die?
I close my eyes.
Kiki pushes my hair back. “What is it, doll? I mean, besides the obvious… You look like someone just stepped on your puppy.”
I bark out a laugh. You know the type, full of beaten and contained emotions bubbling to the surface. “I don't have a dog.” Perish the thought; I can hardly handle my own life.
Kiki lifts a shoulder, “Yeah, whatever, but if you did...” She smiles, and I smile back.
After a few moments, she says, “This is what I know. You came screaming—”
“Screaming?” My brows pop.
Kiki rolls her eyes. “Not yelling but bookin'.”
“Oh.”
“Anywho, you come screaming out of the doctor's office and run right into the street.”
I nod. That sounds right. After the wonderful bomb dropped, I just wasn't myself.
I'm not sure when I will be again.
“Then!” Kiki throws up a finger. “A super-hot guy plowed into you with his Harley! Love by bike!” she says with a squeal.
“Kiki...” No matter what I say, it won't work. I'm okay, and she's smitten with the strange circumstances.
“You're okay, Faren.” She looks at my blanket-covered body and snatches the blanket down to my thigh. “Battle scars. You can cover that with foundation.”
We look at the bruise made from the bike, and I realize I'm lucky my leg's not broken.
I watch her dark eyes move to my right thigh and land on my bump and grind bruise. She lays a finger on it.
Kiki doesn't meet my eyes when she asks, “How's the work?”
I don't look up. “It's going.”
“What do you have to do?” Kiki asks.
I give her an accusatory look.
She backs away, her hand coming off my leg. I cover my lower body with the sheet again.
“You were desperate,” she says. “You need the money, and this is the only way, short of dealing drugs, that it's going to happen for you.”
“I don't want a penthouse.”
“I know.” Kiki’s eyes bore into the top of my bent head. “Now tell me why the fuck you ran out of the doctor's office.”
