by Bec Linder
I glanced up, feeling a little self-conscious about sitting there smelling Turner’s wine. He was watching me with one eyebrow quirked. Busted.
“I didn’t realize you were a wine aficionado,” he said.
“Oh yeah, love the stuff,” I said. “Great nose. Sexy body. Notes of, uh, cinnamon and bergamot.” I didn’t even know what bergamot was, I’d just heard a client say the word once and thought it sounded fancy. Hopefully it was something food-related.
God, I was such an idiot.
“Bergamot,” he said. “Right.” He took a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving my face. “Sassy. Let me propose something.”
“Marriage?” I said. “But we hardly know each other!”
“Yes, you’re very amusing,” he said dryly. “Now be quiet and listen to me. I’m a possessive man, and I don’t share well with others. I want you, and that means I want you all to myself. No doubt I’ll grow tired of you soon, but in the meantime, I’d like to establish an exclusive arrangement.”
What a jerk: telling me how much he wanted me and then insulting me in the same breath. Nobody ever got tired of me. All of my regular clients kept coming back, year after year, unless they got married or their wife found out or something. But that wasn’t getting tired. That was just… moving on. “An arrangement,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “Let’s say a month. No other clients, no dancing. Only me.”
I scoffed. “No clients for a month? My regulars will all forget about me. I’m sure you’re going to tell me you’ll make it worth my while, but it doesn’t matter how much you pay me if I don’t have any clients when I come back to work.”
“Tell them you’re going on vacation,” he said. “Let them think about you lying on the beach in a bikini. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
I leaned back against the couch, considering. That might work, but it was still a risk. Right now, I had a monopoly: my regulars kept coming back to me because I never gave them the chance to sample the club’s other options. I was at work pretty much every night, and I had them on a schedule. I knew which one would show up on Tuesday evening, and I made sure to be available. But if I was gone for a month, they’d all have to turn to one of the other girls. Maybe Xanadu, or even Fresh Meat. And what if they decided they liked her better than me?
Dancing wouldn’t last forever. Eventually I would get old and have to quit. And it wasn’t like I would be able to find other work after that. I didn’t have any skills. I was basically unemployable, aside from stripping. I needed to save up enough money to support myself and everyone in my family for the rest of our lives. So I had to make every night count while I could, and I was terrified of doing anything that would threaten my earning potential. Even for Turner.
Maybe especially for Turner.
Rule 1, and whatnot.
“How much money?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Name your price. I don’t know the going rate for whores.”
That word again. I would be an idiot to take him up on it. He didn’t like me, he didn’t respect me, and he didn’t give a shit about what this would do to my career. “Career,” sarcastic air quotes included. I didn’t have a career. I was a fucking bottom-feeder.
So fuck him, and fuck me for being so drawn to him, like a moth to a stupid candle, that I was even considering his offer. Fine. Fuck both of us. I decided to tell him a number so huge, so over-the-top, that there was no way he would agree. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.” That was more than five times what I made in a good month. I could buy my mother a new house.
“Done,” he said immediately, like I had just low-balled him, and I sat there with my mouth hanging open, dumbfounded.
What in the name of sweet baby Jesus had just happened?
“Hold on,” I said. “I need to think about it. This is a big decision for me, and—”
“That’s fine,” he said. “Take your time. But don’t make me wait too long. You never know when my attention will wander elsewhere.”
“You’re an asshole,” I said.
“Careful,” he said. “That’s no way to talk to your present and future boss.”
“I didn’t say I was going to do it,” I said.
“No,” he said, and took another sip of his wine. “But you will.”
* * *
I thought about Turner’s words that night as I tried—and failed—to fall asleep. They kept running through my head, an endless repetition, taunting me: You will.
Well, I wouldn’t. I was going to prove him wrong.
I was an idiot.
I gave up after half an hour or so and went out into the dark living room. Long experience had taught me that if I couldn’t fall asleep fast, there was no point to lying in bed and stressing out about how I couldn’t sleep. Insomnia happened, and there was nothing you could do about it except wait it out. Sort of like the flu, or falling in love.
I turned on a lamp and flipped through the stack of magazines on the coffee table. Yolanda was a light sleeper, so I didn’t want to turn on the television, and I didn’t want to read one of my magazines because that always led to a downward spiral of shopping for makeup at four in the morning. I needed something boring. I settled on the latest issue of The Economist: Yolanda’s favorite magazine, and my fool-proof insomnia cure.
Halfway into an article about some political upheaval in central Africa, I gave up and tossed the magazine onto the floor. This wasn’t working. Instead of being lulled to sleep by the incredibly dull details of men who couldn’t agree with each other, my brain kept racing around in little circles like a rat trapped in a cage. I couldn’t get Turner out of my head.
The thing I didn’t understand was why him. Most of my clients were old and creepy, yeah, but there had been a few over the years who were young and charming and attractive—even a few who had made my heart flutter for a few moments, before I remembered the rules. I flirted with them, fussed over them, and then forgot them as soon as I left the club.
But I couldn’t seem to forget about Turner.
I felt trapped. I couldn’t escape my own mind.
I needed to stop thinking about him.
I went back into my bedroom to get my phone, and then sat on the couch in the lamp’s warm circle of light and texted Cece. It was summer vacation for her, and she was basically nocturnal by nature. You up?
My phone rang a moment later, the screen showing me Cece’s beaming face. It was an old picture I’d taken with a disposable film camera and scanned in at the photo shop down the street from my apartment. I had only seen Cece once since I left Virginia, and that wasn’t exactly a happy occasion.
I picked up. “Surprised you’re awake,” I said.
“Surprised you are,” she said, and it was so good to hear her voice that I smiled helplessly, face stretching out with the force of my joy.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Where are you?”
“Front porch,” she said. I could picture it like I had never left: the paint peeling from the steps, the broken railing that had never managed to get replaced, the full moon sinking slowly toward the trees. Cece would be sitting on the ripped-up old couch that had been on the porch for at least a decade, the perfect place to sit on a long summer evening and wave to everyone who strolled down the road.
Nostalgia formed a hard knot in my throat, and I had to swallow a few times before I could speak. I pressed the phone closer to my face, like doing that could bring Cece closer to me. “I miss you,” I said.
“Yeah, same,” she said. “But that’s not why you’re calling me.”
“How on earth would you know that?” I asked. “You don’t know why I’m calling you. Maybe I want to talk to Mama.”
“Bless your heart,” Cece said. “You don’t call me just to chat and exchange pleasantries. I know you better than that. Plus you should be asleep now, so there’s some reason you’re awake and calling me.”
“It’s sort of creepy that you’ve memorized my schedu
le,” I said. I could already hear my accent coming back. Thirty seconds of talking to Cece, and my words relaxed and stretched out like I hadn’t spent my first six months in New York doing everything I could to erase every trace of the South from my voice.
“It’s not like you do anything but work and go to yoga, so it’s not too hard,” she said. “You need to get a life. What’s the point in living in New York if you’re just going to be boring?”
“Well, the men,” I said. “They’re a lot more handsome here than they are in Wise County.”
Cece giggled, and then she said, “Is that why you’re calling me? Did you meet a man?”
“Well,” I said.
“You did!” she crowed. “I knew it! Tell me everything. Is he handsome? Of course he’s handsome, you’re so picky. Is he rich? Did you meet a rich guy? One of those banker types. I bet he went to Vanderbilt and majored in political science. Didn’t he?”
I rubbed my free hand over my face. “Honestly, I have no idea.”
“Oh, I get it,” Cece said. “You’re too busy having sex to talk. That makes sense.”
I laughed. “Cece! That’s not what’s happening.”
“So tell me about him, then,” Cece said. “Are you going to bring him home to meet Mama?”
“It’s not like that,” I said, and sighed heavily. “Look. I met him at work, okay? And it isn’t just—he’s the owner, Cece. He owns the club. And tonight he told me he would pay me a quarter of a million dollars if I’m his for a month.”
The silence dragged on so long that I actually took the phone away from my face to make sure the connection hadn’t dropped. Then, finally, she said, “That sounds like a mess, Sasha.”
“Yep, you said it,” I said. “I feel like I can’t turn him down, you know? Because he’ll fire me. Maybe not right away, but nobody likes a disobedient stripper. He’ll find some reason to get rid of me, and then I’ll have to scramble around to find another job, and—”
“You think he’s that kind of person?” Cece asked.
I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not.”
“But you like him,” Cece said. “You were talking about him like you like him.”
“Look, I goddamn do, okay,” I said. “That’s the problem. I can’t like him. I can’t afford to. I can’t get distracted. It’s bad for business.”
“What business?” she asked. “You have a job. You’re making—God, Sasha. You’re making more money in a single night than most people in this town make in an entire month. I don’t know why you’re always so worried about money.”
Did she really not know? How could she not know? “Because you’re all depending on me,” I choked out.
Cece was quiet again, for a long time. I waited her out, listening to her breathing. She made a clicking noise with her mouth, and then said, “You know, every month when Mama gets the check you send her, she calls me and cries. Because she’s so grateful and so worried about you. Don’t you know you’ve already given all of us everything we could ever want? Now we just want you to come home.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t yet. I want to—college for the boys, and a good old age for Mama, and maybe—”
“Sugar, you’ve already done it,” Cece said. “Don’t you ever look at those account statements? This isn’t just on you, anymore. I’m done with school in another year, and then I’m going to get a job, a good job, and I can help out too. Tristan says he wants to be a plumber, and you know that’s good, steady work, and Caleb’s talking about going to school and maybe being an engineer. We’re all going to be fine. Come home. I was thinking about moving to Roanoke, maybe, and we could get an apartment there, and you can get your GED, and we’ll be close enough to go home whenever we want. And you won’t have to be so far away, or let those men touch you, or worry about us ever again. Because you’ll be here, and you’ll see how well we’re all doing. You’ll see what a good job you’ve done taking care of everyone.”
I started crying silently, tears running down my cheeks and dropping onto my bare legs. “That was quite a speech,” I said.
“I mean it,” Cece said. “Every word. Come home to where people love you.”
The picture she had painted of our future, of the two of us living together and building a safe, quiet life, was so appealing that I almost couldn’t bear it. It was the only thing I had wanted since the day I arrived in New York: to leave, and go home, and be with my family again. I’d gone back only once, for my father’s funeral, but that had sucked and been sad and temporary. Cece was talking about going back for good.
But it wasn’t an option.
Or at least, I hadn’t thought it was.
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Okay?”
“Don’t think,” Cece said. “What’s there to think about? Get your happy ass on the next bus heading south.”
“Couldn’t I fly, since I’ve got so much money?” I asked her, teasing gently. Cece didn’t always think things through.
“Whatever,” she said. “Bus, plane, train, skateboard. I don’t care. Just come home.”
“I said I’ll think about it,” I said. “Don’t push me on this one. It’s a big decision.”
“That’s more than I thought I’d get out of you, so I’m happy,” she said. “But don’t make me wait too long!”
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me tonight,” I said, and then quickly, before she could ask me any sticky questions, said, “Look, I’m going to try to get some sleep. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“I can tell you’re changing the subject, but okay,” she said. “Love you.”
“I love you too, Cecilia May,” I said.
* * *
I fell asleep on the couch after talking to Cece, and I woke around dawn to see Yolanda standing over me, dressed for work, hands planted on her hips.
“The sofa is no place for a lady to sleep,” she said.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “God, tell me about it. I’ve got a crick in my neck like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I’d believe it,” she said. “Go to bed. You working tonight?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got tomorrow off, though.”
“We should go out for dinner, then,” she said. “Catch up. Living with you is like living with a ghost.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. I stood up and stretched, and padded off toward the bedroom. “Sorry. Have a good day at work.”
“Sweet dreams,” she said, and I collapsed face-first onto my bed and slept without moving a hair until the mid-day sunlight crept across the mattress and turned my dreams bright orange.
I rolled over and looked at my alarm clock. 1:30: time to get up. Teddy would be hungry.
I made coffee and let Teddy do his morning rounds of the apartment—waddling along the back of the sofa, investigating the top of the television—before I put him back in his cage with a puzzle toy and went to brush my teeth. I stared at myself in the mirror, foamy-mouthed, messy-haired, and thought about what Cece had said, about coming home.
I wanted to. Christ, I wanted to. But I couldn’t afford it.
Right?
Cece was right: I didn’t pay much attention to my finances. I put money in my various accounts and then ignored it. It wasn’t money I intended to spend anytime soon, so why keep close tabs on it? But maybe it was time to take notice.
I spat toothpaste froth into the sink and went to sit on the sofa with my laptop. It took me a few minutes to log into my accounts—it had been so long that I’d forgotten most of the passwords, and had to root around in my email for them—but I got in eventually, and then I just sat there, stunned, staring at the numbers that stared back at me.
It wasn’t enough. I didn’t know how much enough would be. A million dollars? Two million? Ten? But it was a lot. More money than I ever thought I would see in my entire life. And it was maybe—maybe—the kind of money that meant I could start to think that Cece m
ight have been right.
Not that I would ever tell her that.
It wasn’t enough, not quite, but almost. Just a little bit more, and I would be able to call my mom and tell her I was coming home.
Good thing I knew exactly where to get that little bit more.
I would tell Turner yes. One month with him, and at the end of it, my two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Enough money to walk away from stripping and never look back.
If Turner didn’t bat an eye at that much money, well, neither would I. We could take advantage of each other: he could use me for my body, and I could use him for his checking account. We’d both end up happy.
And after the month was over, I would be free.
He was my ticket out.
I closed my laptop with shaking hands. I’d always known, dimly, that someday I would quit, but the future was usually something I avoided thinking about too much. I couldn’t predict it, or change it, and so I did my best not to worry about it. But now the future had suddenly arrived. I was in it.
Everything was going to change.
I was afraid. I was glad, and excited, but it was still terrifying.
I decided that I wouldn’t think about it, or about Turner. Not at all. Not unless I saw him at the club that night. Really, until I saw him. I didn’t have any illusions that he would stay away. He wanted me, and he was determined to have me. He would show up every single night until I gave him what he wanted.
Well, he wouldn’t have very long to wait.
I was already breaking my promise to myself. No thinking. I had shit to get done, and I didn’t have the time or mental energy to spend all day letting Turner take up residence in my head.
No thinking.
I wasn’t a genius or even very self-aware, but I was stubborn, and that had gotten me through plenty of tough spots in life. If I decided I wasn’t going to think about Turner, I damn well wasn’t, and I didn’t: not all day. I did a load of laundry, and went to buy groceries, and gave Teddy a bath in the kitchen sink, and I didn’t think about Turner. Not even on my walk to work. Not even when I stepped through the front door.
