by Marata Eros
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 control. 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.”
I open my mouth then close it again. I don't know if I'm ready to tell her. I don't even know if I'm ready to accept what Matthews said. I'm going through the stages of grief just fine, thank you very much.
I think I'm hung up on anger.
I hear a noise, and we turn like guilty co-conspirators when the door opens. Someone passes through with a cheesy balloon with 1980s lettering that screams Get Well and a bouquet of carnations. The balloon bobs and wags, revealing a sliver of his face.
Ty, a.k.a. Thorn.
My guts seize, and Kiki gives the man who's effectively pimped me out a dazzling smile.
“Ty!” she says happily and throws herself in his arms.
His dark eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and he flashes a tight smile my way. I press my damp palms into the bed she
ets.
“Thanks for covering for Faren last night, Kiki,” Thorn says in an ominous message directed straight at me.
His eyes slide over my form, safely ensconced underneath the hospital covers. “Let me talk to our girl here.”
Kiki nods and turns to me.
I ask, “You did a...” I don't even know what to call it. I settle on the most innocuous word I can muster. “Dances for me?” I squeak, hating owing anybody, even Kiki.
“She sure did,” Thorn's eyes meet mine. “What are friends for?” The question is posed innocently, but I know what he's really asking.
Kiki gives me a light kiss on the cheek and ignores my eyes begging her to stay. She buzzes out with a I'll be back soon flutter of her fingers, leaving me with Thorn.
All pretense of a smile leaves Thorn's expression as his eyes go flat black in an millisecond. “Let's talk, Faren.”
I say nothing, and he begins. When Thorn finishes, I stare at my clenched hands, wanting out so bad I can barely stand it.
Thorn wants me as a regular. He wants me to cover my fresh bruises with makeup, like Kiki suggested. He asked if I can still dance, to which I only nod.
Hell yes, I'll dance. I have a sudden desire for my mom that's so strong it's like pain that I can't fix, a part of me broken beyond repair. We'd been so close and now I had no one to take her place as confidante. There's no glue for my broken problems.
Thorn's last words flit through my mind. “There's more money if you keep giving me dances. Private ones.”
My eyes travel to his. I'm so engaged with him I don't hear the whisper of the door when it opens and my angel walks in.
Seeing my face changes his expression of contrition to one of darkness. Those large chocolate eyes move impassively to Thorn and noticeably harden.
Thorn jumps to his feet, gathers up the balloon and flowers, and turns to the man who held my hand. Thorn explains nervously, “Wrong room, pal.”
My brows come together in a puzzled frown as they stare each other down.
I swear they know each other. I'm glad that Thorn leaves. I wonder what chased him out.
Who.
He's even more beautiful than I remember him. My eyes take him in with hunger, every moment of my life is hyper-bright, acutely surreal and microscopic. His hair glints, like the deepest copper penny, from the pale light bleeding through the window. His skin is like creamy mocha, and his eyes are so dark they look black.
Except when they look at me, they're molten amber.
“Hi.” He steps forward and stretches out his hand.
I move to put my palm in his, and I notice manicured nails that don't match the callouses on his palm. A signet ring flashes a college I can only dream of attending as his large hand covers mine.
Cuff links peek from his expensive suit sleeve.
Then I see the shoes. A different leather than before but just as supple. Just as distinctive.
My eyes drive up his body and meet his gaze, and a dimple flashes into existence as a smile full of white teeth dazzle me. Those eyes capture me in an embrace of satin chocolate.
“Jared McKenna,” he says, and I know I'm in for it.
I might be dying. I might have a dirty job that pays for the sins of my past. But right then, I know heaven, if just for a little bit, right here on earth.
~ 7 ~
Pretending is the hardest.
That I don't think about what Doctor Matthews told me. That Jared McKenna, billionaire entrepreneur, didn't run me down with his Harley because I barreled into his path. That I'm one of the exotic dancers at his exclusive club, Black Rose.
Thorn left because he doesn't want to clue his boss in on the relationship to me. Why?
Our handshake breaks. His finger trails along the inside of my wrist, and as it leaves my flushed skin, my heartbeat accelerates. I watch his pupils eat his brown irises. I can't tell if the dimming of his gaze is from the gloom of the room or that I have a clue to how I affect him. Our meeting is a testimony to the power of carnal attraction. Chemistry doesn't discriminate as to timing, looks, or circumstance. It's there to be recognized and play out, regardless of environment.
What's happening is exactly what I don't need. I look terrible, I have a visit to my mom's bedside tonight, and a set tomorrow night on the lap of another stranger. I'm facing the man who is my boss, my assailant, and savior all in one chaotic package. And he's enough of a man to make a legion of panties disintegrate.
Incinerate.
Jared McKenna leans back, drawing his pant leg down as he crosses his knees at the ankle. His eyes are shadowed as he stares at me.
I break the silence. “I'm Faren Mitchell.”
I pray he has too many dancers to know who I am. I can't help my embarrassment.
His manicured nail, blunt and perfect, flicks the clipboard with my medical chart. One corner of his lush mouth picks up in a dimpled half-smile, and I blush, glancing at my hands. Of course he knows who I am. He takes my cool fingers and frowns a little at them. My eyes are hidden, staring at my lap as my heart beats a staccato rhythm.
He turns my palm over and talks to my hand. “I'm so sorry, Faren.”
He says my name like a talisman, and I look up, startled by the soft way his voice caresses the syllables. I gaze at him numbly, his fingers playing over my knuckles. It's more intimacy than I've received from a human being since Mom was taken from me four years ago. It's a terrible beauty that the genuine touch of another human being moves me.
I've lap danced with dozens of men in the last ten days, but Jared makes me feel as though I'm part of him. The light play of his fingers over my flesh creates a symphony of sensation.
I want to snatch my hand away.
I want him to move on to other body parts. I'm so out of my emotional comfort zone that I can't breathe.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “It's not your fault. I was-I was upset.” I glance at Jared again then bite my lip, casting my eyes downward.
He squeezes my hand lightly. The callouses on his palm scrape an erotic path as they slide away from my skin.
I miss his touch and feel relief at the same time.
He rakes the hand that was just touching mine through his hair and exhales. “It's not your fault. I should have seen you before you were in the street.”
I look at him without wanting to, and his deep brown eyes pull me in. They look so sincere. He doesn’t look like a rich guy who’s had it easy. There's a hardness to him, an edge. Jared McKenna isn’t accustomed to being scrutinized, and he smoothly redirects my thoughts.
“I’ve already paid the bill for your care,” he says. A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
Thank God! I think then on the heels of that, How dare he?
My eyes narrow and he looks surprised.
“What?” he asks as if he doesn't know.
Like he doesn't realize how manipulative the whole paying it is. I don’t want to be an ungrateful wench, but I cross my arms underneath my breasts. The unattractive baby blue hospital tent covering me from knee to neck hitches up, and I watch his eyes shift to my breasts then away.
Still a guy. An unapologetic, manipulative, gorgeous guy.
“I have health insurance.”
He nods, his strong chin holding a kiss from God in the center. My mind swirls with drug-induced thoughts of him as my angel, and a little smile touches my lips.
His stare moves to my mouth. “I understand. However, I feel responsible, so I'll take care of it.”
His words are final, said with an expression that is equal parts hard and unyielding. Jared is used to people saying yes. I wonder if anyone ever says no.
He stands to walk away as if he expects me to roll over. Even I know I'm not being reasonable. The fault lies with him. Jared McKenna has made me forget everything but his presence, and that's not fair. I have terrible debts to pay, a short life to live, and instead of focusing what needs doing, I let a man unnerve me to the point that I for
got what's important. Not to mention he's my boss... and he did hit me with his motorcycle.
His hand circles the doorknob, but as if he forgot something, he returns to my bedside, and slides an elegant business card into my handbag. “I don't think I'm finished with my penance just yet, Miss Mitchell.” Then he does it, a second intimacy I don't know what to do with, I can't know how to quantify.
He leans forward and wraps his hand around the back of my head where it's snarled with asphalt and dirt from the accident. As he breathes a kiss of fragrant heat above my forehead, he whispers, “I really am sorry.”
I gulp down the luscious scent of him: male, cinnamon, and spice. Jared McKenna pulls away, pulverizing me with a stare for my ten heartbeats to his two and walks away.
I watch his tailored navy back and deep bronze hair leave as silently as he entered.
*
I hold my mom's hand, as I have a thousand times before and I cry. I'll miss her. And so much else. Her prognosis is grim—maybe a handful of years or less. I can't let them move her.
I won't.
I swipe at the wetness on my face, listening to the clock as sunlight slants inside her room. Someone forgot to close the blinds.
I sigh, stand, and make my way to the window. My right hand grasps the twisty plastic rod, and I turn it to shut the slats. My eyes catch sight of a familiar motorcycle. As if on some bizarre cue, my thigh throbs where McKenna hit it. His body's unmistakable. He’s large and broad in the shoulders, and the unique hair color brands him.
Unobtainable.
I shut the blinds with a sharp click. He ran into me. Jared McKenna paid my bill. He needs a piece of my mind.
He held me and made me grieve for something I can't have. For that, I hate him. I stare at the louvers. I glance behind me at my mother sleeping in false peace. I turn back to the blinds and the man I know is behind them.
I lift one of the louvers and peer out at him as he sits astride his idling bike, surfing his cell with a tapered finger. I allow my eyes to take in his all-black ensemble. Gone are the tailor-made suit, Italian shoes, and subtly jeweled cuff links. In their place is the kind of leather a girl dreams about.
