Small Town Secrets: A Forbidden Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  But there was no way I could turn to Oscar because even if he had the money, I didn’t know what his phone number was. In fact, I wasn’t sure even if my brother would want to hear from me, given the man’s hostility towards our family. So I shook my head regretfully.

  “No, unfortunately, Oscar’s a no-go,” was my soft voice. “I heard he’s in Brooklyn, so thanks for the thought, but I can’t rely on him.”

  Mary-Kate’s voice was immediately contrite.

  “I’m sorry Susie,” she said. “I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”

  “No, it’s okay,” was my slow reply. “It’s just that Oscar’s not in any of our lives anymore, and so that one’s a dead end. Maybe I should just go on-line and buy my bus ticket now,” came my small voice. “After all, if I wait until the last minute, it’ll only be more expensive.”

  But Mary-Kate could hear the pain in my voice and she responded. Pausing for a moment, the woman collected her thoughts before speaking in a hushed voice.

  “You know, Susie, there’s something you could do.”

  I sighed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I knew what Mary-Kate was going to suggest. She was going to say something like “throw a bake sale” or “put a sign up outside asking for help.” Sometimes the innocence of my hometown friends got to me too, and I could see why my older brother left the moment he was able.

  “What is it?” I sighed, balancing myself precariously on the tub ledge. “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade right? Or with apples in your case,” I said.

  But Mary-Kate didn’t squeal and burble the way she usually does. Instead, my friend’s voice dropped even lower as if she were afraid of someone hearing, despite the fact that she was currently locked in her bathroom with only the dog outside.

  “Do you remember Candy Harworth from the next town over? The one who always wore those skanky clothes and supposedly got pregnant from dating that fifty year-old guy?”

  I nodded although MK couldn’t see.

  “Sure, I remember Candy,” I said in a puzzled voice. “Why? What about her?”

  “Well, don’t you wonder where her money came from?” asked MK in a near-whisper. “She always wore leather pants and had nice jewelry. Not costume jewelry,” emphasized my buddy. “Fine jewelry. Like gold and diamonds.”

  My brows furrowed.

  “But she was dating that fifty year-old guy, like you said,” I spoke slowly. “Didn’t he buy them for her?”

  I could almost hear MK shaking her head.

  “No, that guy has nothing,” she said in a low voice. “In fact, she was supporting him by dancing at the Red Raccoon.”

  I almost guffawed.

  “You can’t be serious. The Red Raccoon? That seedy place across the tracks with sawdust on the floors?”

  But MK wasn’t put off.

  “Yeah, that place exactly,” she said in a scandalized voice. “But I hear the tips are good. Like real good, making it rain good.”

  But I didn’t understand why my friend was telling this.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t dance at the Red Raccoon,” came my slow reply, “I’m out here on the East Coast. Unless you mean ….”

  MK leapt in then.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” she said in a low, firm voice. “You have to do what you have to do, and it’s not like it’ll be a permanent thing, Susie. I know you. You’re smart, talented and beautiful. You’re just stuck in a jam right now. So find a place like the Red Raccoon and dance there for a night. Just once. And then take the cash, pay whatever you need to pay, and never show your face again. It’s fine,” she said firmly. “It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person or anything.”

  No words came for a moment.

  “No, it’s not a morality thing,” I said slowly. “It’s just I never thought I’d be dancing, you know?” The word “dancing” came out a little choked, like it was a frog stuck in my throat. But “dancing” seemed more palatable than the word “stripping,” which was what we were really talking about.

  But MK has been my staunch supporter since we were six years old, and she held firm.

  “Again, Suse, this isn’t you, not really. It’s just that you’re in a tough situation, and have to make do with what you have. And why not?” she urged. “You’re in great shape and almost won the cheerleading championships for us last year, so you’re coordinated too. Just do it for one night,” she said, “and then take the money and go. Why not?” she repeated. “What do you have to lose?”

  I wanted to say something along the lines of dignity, honor, and pride, but those words got stuck in my throat. So I nodded, face flushing and my fingers trembling a bit.

  “I’ll think about it,” came my tense reply. “There has to be a better way.”

  But MK wouldn’t let me off the phone so fast.

  “Suse, you have to do it for the women of Littleton,” she urged. “You’re the only one of us who’s made it out of this place. Of course, there are folks like me who don’t want to leave,” she added, “but you’re a role model for so many girls here. You made it possible for other women to think that maybe they can have careers and lives outside of the home. So don’t give up so soon!” she urged. “Do it for us, Suse, and not just you.”

  I nodded, murmuring a few vague promises before hanging up. Because the way MK made it sound, I was a hero for the new wave of girls coming up in Littleton. With the #MeToo movement, a lot of females wanted to find their way out of our rust-belt hometown what with its declining blue-collar manufacturing base. So what message would it send if I came home with nothing to show? Beaten down and tired after only a few days in the cosmopolitan city?

  And with that, I resolved to give dancing a go. After all, like MK said, no one would ever have to know. I’d do it for one night, make my money, and then leave with this chapter shuttered forever behind me. So taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and began rummaging around for my laptop. I’m a modern, resourceful woman … and the heartless Chesters and Cheryls of the world weren’t going to keep me down.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Susie

  Six months later …

  “Annnnnd here she is, gentlemen, our very own Pearl Evanescence!”

  I strode out onto the stage, shimmying and smiling, shaking my bottom for what it was worth. The male crowd erupted into cheers, guys stamping their feet as the feathers on my head wiggled. In fact, every part of me was wiggling, come to think of it.

  For sure, this isn’t what Mary-Kate had in mind when she said it would only be a one-time thing. Because that first night, I made my way to The Pink Flamingo with a lot of fear, trembling beneath my thin trenchcoat.

  “Um, I was wondering if you had Amateur Night tonight?” I asked in a whisper, cheeks flushing red. Good thing it was so dark that no one could see. The manager barely glanced my way.

  “Sure, just wait until they announce it,” he said, already looking off disinterestedly into the crowd. “Angel, over there,” he said, pointing to two guys who’d just walked in. And immediately, the girl named Angel strutted their way, a welcoming smile wreathing her lips.

  I watched, mouth agog, as she led the men over to the bar by their ties, striding along sassily while swinging her hips. I was nothing like Angel. Nothing at all. But the thing is that even across the room, I could see that the girl had dozens of bills tucked into her g-string, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the new guys were pulling out their wallets even now.

  So I swallowed hard, turning back to face the stage. Could I do it? Could I, Miss Straight A Student, go onstage and dance for money?

  And evidently, anything is possible when you need to make rent. Because I strutted my stuff, and the heavens opened, money pouring down from the clouds. It wasn’t easy. It’s not like I’m a natural stripper, who immediately began undulating to the music with hot lights bathing my curves. But I did well enough, and sure enough by the end of my set, I had five hundred bucks in cold, hard cash.

  “Yo,” hisse
d the manager, beckoning to me. I was just about to go, my trench coat already cinched tight around my waist. “So you wanna come by and do another set tomorrow night?” he asked.

  “Is it Amateur Night again?” I wondered in a small voice. “I thought it was only Wednesdays.”

  The manager, who’s nametag read Nero, shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  “No, it’s not Amateur Night tomorrow,” he snorted with exasperation. “I meant as one of our regular girls this time. You know, one set every hour. You dance, you twirl, and boom! You get paid.”

  I just looked at him for a moment, mouth open. This was only supposed to be a one-time thing, so I was about to say no. But then Chester’s face appeared before my eyes.

  “Cash,” he sneered. “I’ll need it by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Oh god. I only had five hundred right now, and I was supposed to come up with a thousand. Maybe, just maybe, I could make it to the four figure mark if Chester gave me another day. So I nodded my head quickly.

  “Sure, I’d be happy to come again,” was my quick reply. “Just let me know when.”

  And one night led to another, and then another, and finally, I I became a regular girl at the Pink Flamingo. It’s no better than the Red Raccoon back home, to be honest. The Flamingo is a seedy dive in Midtown Manhattan where mid-level managers in baggy suits come to while away their time and dollars. We don’t get high rollers who spend thousands or tens of thousands in one night. Instead, we get guys who like to throw back their drinks while tipping ones and fives.

  But I’m not complaining because it’s the only way I can get by in Manhattan. I work as a librarian during the day, putting in my hours at the New Academy’s circulation desk. But my salary’s barely enough to make ends meet. In fact, I looked it up and I qualify for public assistance and food stamps, given the high cost of living here. But that’s going too far. I’m an able-bodied adult who can work, so instead, I dance at the Pink Flamingo now to make sure there’s money for rent, food, and electricity.

  Plus, it’s not so bad. A job is a job after all, and there aren’t many places that have flexible schedules like the Pink Flamingo. For example, if I can’t do Tuesdays, it’s simple to switch to a Wednesday or Thursday. They even let me do weekends sometimes, although the girls who dance then are territorial, since those are the nights that make the most money.

  And now, after six months in the city, I’ve settled into a groove of a sort. I go to my desk job during the day, wearing conservative brown tweed skirts and button-up blouses. Dutifully, I help people find reference materials and sort returns into their different stacks. And then at night, I’m a stripper called “Pearl Evanescence” who shakes her bom-bom to the music, collecting tips in her g-string. If the folks back home in Littleton knew, they’d be scandalized. But then again, owning my femininity and controlling my body are my right. Maybe my old neighbors would be supportive in their own way? Who knows.

  So one such night when my song came on, I strutted onto the stage, smiling beneath the hot lights. It’s hard to see out into the crowd, but my eyes could make out some regulars. There was Tim Lewis, whom we called Tiny Tim because he really did have a bad leg. And tonight, he was here with his co-worker Adam Morrow, who drank girly cocktails all night like cosmos and Manhattans. Over in the corner was Jake the Snake, with his oddly beady eyes that you could see gleaming even in the darkened room.

  But I put it all out of my head. I was here for a job, and that was to dance and show these guys a good time even if on the inside, I thought thinking about mundane stuff like bills and what I’d be having for breakfast. So I closed my eyes, running my hands through my long brunette locks and parted my lips slightly, as if in ecstasy.

  Heeeere she is! sounded the announcer’s voice over the PA. Let’s give our girl Pearl a hand!

  And slowly, my hips began to sway to the left, and then to the right. My hands ran up over my waist, slipping up to cup my gigantic Double Ds. Because when I left Littleton, I was in pretty good shape. Cheerleading helped keep my glutes tight, and athleticism was natural to me.

  But the thing is that once I got a desk job, the pounds came piling on. I sat at the circulation desk all day, doing nothing except eating snacks while helping people find books. So now, I’m no longer “athletic” or “trim.” I’m officially a curvy girl with lots to spare in every direction. My boobs are out to there and my ass has plenty of junk in the trunk.

  But the truth is that customers seem to like it. Guys like having luscious flesh that swings this way and that, even if they can’t touch. So if anything, the extra weight has made me an even bigger draw at the Flamingo, and now I’m the show opener on Tuesday nights, competing with girls who’ve been here for years longer.

  But I wasn’t focused on the competition right now. I was focused on letting the music flow through my soul, and with my eyes closed, I shimmied a bit to my left, hooking my leg around a shiny golden pole. Ah, the pole of goodness. Lasciviously, I leaned towards it and winked at the crowd before licking up the hard metal suggestively. Ick, it didn’t taste good but sure enough, dollar bills started raining down on the stage as guys hollered their appreciation. Good. That’s what I like to see and hear. I take pride in a job well-done, no matter the circumstances, and my dancing was no exception.

  Slowly, I twisted my torso to the left, and then to the right with one knee still hooked around the pole before hoisting myself upside down. This isn’t easy. It’s like being an acrobat, but fortunately even though I’ve put on weight, some of the muscle memory from cheerleading has stuck and I’m still limber and adept. So upside down, I slid down the pole, my assets jiggling and full, almost dropping out from under the tiny bikini.

  But when my head was about six inches away from the stage floor, something caught my eye. It wasn’t the money on the ground, or the funny gyrations of Geezer Coots, a dude who likes to dance along with the music. It was the gleam of an expensive watch from a man who sat in the back, half-hidden in shadow. What in the world? Most guys here are middle managers and don’t wear a lot of finery. Or if they do, it’s gold-colored Rolexes that are as thick as a brick and stuck with rubies and diamonds. Not the subtle, distinctive gleam of true wealth.

  Because this man was different. His silhouette was imposing and massive. I could see broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, plus long legs crossed casually at the knee. He wore a perfectly-cut suit that hung from that broad frame, highlighting the strength, power, and assertiveness of the male within.

  What in the world? This guy wasn’t our usual customer, that was for sure. So righting myself, I shimmied again suggestively while peering into the darkness. But I couldn’t see much except for a strong, hard jawline and a pair of blue eyes that made my heart literally flip for a moment. He was looking at me, and liked what he saw. The air between us shimmered with electricity and I swayed again, dancing for his eyes only.

  Slowly, I saw those hands raise up and clap. No, he didn’t throw dollars my way, nor did he approach the stage. But again came the glint of that expensive watch as the man applauded, egging me on. My heart pounded in my chest, cheeks flushed. How could a stranger be doing this to me? But in my soul, I knew he was different. This was no Cooter, no Geezer, no Marky. This was someone at a completely different level, who frankly, didn’t belong at the Flamingo.

  And helpless before his gaze, I threw myself into the dance. Turning around, I ran my hands through my long mane again before lifting it off my shoulders and peeking at him suggestively over one shoulder. This time, I saw the gleam of white teeth as he smiled.

  With my back still turned, my hands slipped up to my bikini tie and suggestively pulled the long gold string. The material began to come undone and a collective gasp rose from the audience. Oh yeah, the Pink Flamingo is a full-nudity type place, but even though the guys know they’re going to get it, they still love the teasing and anticipation. So I pulled the tie slowly, stringing out the wait.

  And finally, the gold bik
ini top slithered down my body and fell to the floor, revealing my luscious Double Ds.

  There you go! hollered the announcer. Pearl has the greatest pearls doesn’t she? Hardy har har!

  I barely kept from rolling my eyes at the ridiculous banter while swaying to the music. They needed to replace Mickey D, he just wasn’t doing a good job as an MC. But fortunately, the dark man in the back didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he made a circling sign with his finger, and I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. Slowly, I rotated until I was facing him, both boobies out, luscious and full. Oh yeah, my nips were hard and pink, already pebbled for his gaze and I caught them in my hands, pushing the creamy mounds up and out as if in offering.

  He smiled, those white teeth flashing before indicating what he wanted next. But I was going to do him one better. After all, I’ve been on this job six months now, and it’s clear what gets guys going. Slowly, I lifted my breasts to my mouth and never dropping his gaze, licked one hard nipple before licking the other. The man jerked silently in his chair. Oh yeah, he liked it. That’s one of the great parts of having huge ta-ta’s. You’re able to suckle yourself, and right now, I could tell that the man wanted to kiss my breasts desperately.

  But the Flamingo is a no-touch type of place, so I smiled at him once again before letting my fingers slide down to toy suggestively with the sides of my g-string. And with clever fingers, I plucked one side open, and then the other, the gold lamé falling to the floor and leaving me completely nude.