Today never should have happened. It never would have if the Eastwoods hadn’t taken Noah and me in. But they did, and today did happen, so there’s no point in ruminating about other paths.
Headlights trail us in the rearview mirror. Our two friends—Scott and Lauren—sit in the two front seats of the car. Lauren is the only sober one, so she’s behind the wheel playing the role of the responsible one. Since we were brought onto the Eastwood farm, I’ve changed the way I make decisions. Before parental guidance was an actual thing, I’d do whatever I felt like doing—I had nothing to lose.
But under the guidance of our new parents, Noah and I learned that we had everything to lose. Consequences that are the ever-so-present counterweight to adolescent discovery. You’re free to experience the world, but not all experiences are worth the trouble.
It’s a little after one in the morning, and we’re on our way home. The five of us are going to forge a bonfire and fall asleep under the stars while dreaming of what comes next.
The road ahead of us is lit up with blue and red sirens. An ambulance sits parked on the edge of the road beneath the light of the sirens. A sheriff stands in the center of the road where the no-passing lines dissipate into dotted, yellow lines. With a flashlight in his hand, he commands us to stop.
The scene is busy, the crowd of emergency personnel and vehicles all but blocking our view. Luke, who is pushed against the passenger side door in the cramped back seat, stirs as he tries to get a better view. Boys and their curiosity.
My stomach sinks knowing odds are good that somebody isn’t getting out of that wrecked car alive. We’re merely a few yards away from death and I feel ill. “Can we turn around?” I ask Lauren.
She turns in her seat, craning her head so that she looks at me. “There are too many cars now.”
I spin around to see a line of cars has formed behind us. Just behind us are Glenn and Maggie on their way home from the same party we just left. He throws his hand against the glass, flipping me off jokingly. I throw him a wave.
Luke mutters something against the window, but I don’t understand what he says. When I glance in his direction, he rolls down his window and pops his head out.
“Luke,” I call out quietly. “Could you not?”
“Oh, my God…”
“What?”
He punches the car door open and kicks his feet out onto the asphalt.
The hair on my arm raise, standing tall, as Luke begins to scream.
I go cold.
Noah pushes his door open and slides out of the car.
My eyes remain fixed on Luke as he pushes against one of the cops.
But then I see Noah, slowly approaching the scene from the front of our car.
My head spins as I scoot across the seat to exit the car. The air is humid, suffocating me in a vacuum of silence. But Luke’s voice breaks through the nothingness. Screaming. Crying. “Mom… Dad…”
Then I know I have to run. And I can’t feel my legs, but every tap of my foot against the ground sends another shiver through my spine.
The cop ahead grabs Luke at the waist, spinning him around so that I can see his face.
His tear-stained broken face.
I run faster, pushing myself past Noah, whose body wavers back and forth in a standstill.
I push myself past Luke and the cop holding him.
I break through the police barrier and the nightmare comes to a full stop.
It’s the quiet moments that kill you. The moments when you know you should scream, cry or fight.
But I don’t do any of that. I just watch helplessly as her lifeless body hangs from the broken window of their pickup truck.
5
PRESENT
How is it that the rest of the building smells like a potent combination of cherries and latex while this room reeks of old-man sweat? It’s probably him—Old Mike. He sits in his chair, leaning backward so that his body bends in a precarious way. His face is shaven—a feat that I’m sure was accomplished outside of the shower, since he smells like he hasn’t showered in days.
I want to vomit, but force a smile. I need my old job back, and he holds the keys to my semi-financial security. His tongue smacks against his lips as he ogles me with burnt eyes—he’s lit as hell, like he always is.
“Why would I give you your job back?”
I respond as if I’m being asked a question by Donald Trump during a beauty pageant—seriously. “Because I have a great work ethic?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I don’t think you have the passion…”
“For grinding on a pole? Who the hell does?”
He cocks an eye at me, furrowing his brow to the best of his ability, but the recent Botox work is apparent. “You know, you left last time without so much as a word that you were leaving.”
“Sorry about that, Mike.” Groveling to anyone is uncomfortable for me. Groveling to Mike—the foulest man I’ve ever known—could be the death of me. However, my situation is dire and grovel I must. “I really need this job.”
He holds a finger against his lip, contemplating. Then his hand trails to his crotch. I look away as he adjusts himself. He laughs, but it comes out more like a snarl. “You can start tonight.”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“You don’t look a pound heavier than the last time you were here. I’m sure Tessa has a thong you can borrow.” He grins. I hold down the vomit.
“Thanks,” I say with a faux smile and turn to exit the room.
* * *
It feels like I never left. I sit in a chair, the same chair I sat in all those years ago. There’s a mirror that runs the length of the wall, long enough so that five girls can all get ready at once. Bright white bulbs adorn the top of the mirror and the one directly above my face flickers.
I paint my lips with a rose shade of lipstick. When I pucker my lips, I can see the sadness written all over my face. I do my best to avoid it, but the only thing I can do is stand up and ditch the mirror.
“Here,” Tessa says as she hands me a raggedy-looking blonde wig. “Mike wants you to wear this.”
“Of course, he does.” I shake my head. He’s always had a thing for blondes, and I know from personal experience, once I put that wig on, I become his personal property. That’s what he thinks. Putting that wig on strips me of my rights in his eyes. He’s a pig, and I’m his slave until I figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.
“You look good, Faith.”
“Thank you, but I know you’re lying.” I smile.
Tessa’s beautiful, worth so much more than a stripper. We went to school together, and she’s always been the smart girl that lived right down the road. But when I grab the wig from her hand, I notice the scars etched into her wrist. Beautiful, terrifying scars that speak volumes about who she’s become.
“Tessa…” I stutter as my eyes are glued to her arm.
“What?” she asks before realizing and pulling her arm to her chest. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“You vanished without a word about where you were going. Please, save the tears for someone who doesn’t know better.” She bites into her lip, then turns to head to the stage.
Everyone is furious with me, and I can never say the right things. I’m like a caged animal released back into the wild. The worst thing is that I don’t blame any of them. I’m responsible for my decisions—that’s the first step towards redemption, right?
I pull the wig over my head and prepare to put on a show.
* * *
The lights that were once a voice of freedom are now faded. Still, they glow the same, painting the stage in savory flavors of exhibition. I stumble onto the stage with four-inch heels and the crowd goes wild.
But they’re always wild. They holler. They shout. They extend their arms waving cash. Being a stripper isn’t so different from being a freak in a freak show—everybody’s always staring.
> My palms are sweaty, but not from being nervous. There’s a fear coursing through my veins that I’ll never escape this life. I grab the pole, swing my hips, and lock a leg around the warm metal.
When I throw my head back, my hair dances dangerously close to the floor. Somehow, the world makes so much more sense when I’m upside down. The patron’s smiles become frowns, and I can relate to that more than I could ever relate to reality.
I’ll never understand it, the appeal of being a spectator to a woman baring her soul—and her body—for no other reason than to pay the bills. It’s different, I guess, when girls enjoy it. But I’m not one of those girls. I had plans.
In the corner of my eye, I feel the dampness setting in. I flick my eyelids, wiping away the tears before they appear.
When the song changes, it’s my cue to exit the stage. With one foot carefully placed before the next, I descend the steps on the right side of the stage. There is a table full of young men, all beckoning me to come to them. This is the worst part of the job.
I approach the table and slap my sexiest—fakest—smile across my face. “Evening, boys.”
“Evening, honey,” the guy in the middle says. “I’m Tyson.”
“And what can I do for you tonight, Tyson?’
He looks around and grins. “Nothing for me tonight. I’m gay.”
That brings a genuine smile to my face. I’ve always had a soft spot for gay men and the men who danced dangerously close.
“But,” he continues and reaches for the guy sitting beside him, “it’s my buddy’s birthday tonight. Joey.”
I lean down to Joey as I hover over his body and whisper into his ear. “What can I do for you tonight, Joey?”
“Baby, you can do whatever you want.”
When I stand back up, I notice a familiar face sitting at a nearby table. Neon lights dance across his face, but I’d recognize that face anywhere. He’s out of his element here, far away from the safety of his church. Why the fuck is Noah Parker here?
“Was that too dirty?” Joey asks.
“Not at all,” I say while staring in Noah’s direction.
His eyes scan the room before settling on me. He pushes his seat back and stands up, and it’s time for me to make a plan—probably one that involves running.
“I’ll give you a deal. Half off for a private dance in the back.”
Joey practically jumps to his feet in excitement, pumping his fists and hollering, “Hell, yeah.”
I grab his hand and pull him towards the hallway that leads to the private rooms and away from Noah.
“Damn, you’re getting me excited,” Joey says through a nervous laugh.
I pull him into an open room and shut the door behind us. I push him against a mirror that covers the back wall, grabbing him by the collar. “Now, tell me again how excited you are?”
He shrugs. “On a scale of one to a raging boner, I’d say rock solid.”
“Sit,” I command, pointing to a chair on the opposite side of the room. He does as told with eagerness—and horniness—settling into his eyes. I ready myself, throwing my hair to the side and wait for the music.
When the beat drops, that’s my cue to start. I sway my hips from side to side while bending forward until I can see his aroused smile from between my knees. He bites into his lip and places his palms behind his head, resting there. His eyes never cease watching, even as I come up for air.
I spin to face him, and then approach. My legs straddle his, standing above him so that my breasts tease him. I push my fingers through his hair and pull him into me. There’s a sudden surge of excitement from within my own body. The same feeling that led me here through the dark alleys—all the while, the conscious half of my mind was screaming to go anywhere but here.
Some people—Noah—say that this stripper joint is where I lost my soul. I disagree. My soul went out the window on Highway 95 all those years ago. I spin my body and park my ass against his crotch, bracing my stiff arms against his knees as I maneuver against him. Through his thin denim, I can feel the heat. I can feel the want.
And I want to be wanted. When everything is lost, and everything worthy is cloaked in darkness, and that’s my release. It tells me that someone—anyone—desires me.
My knees hit each other and I sink further into his lap. Further into the want. Customers are supposed to keep their hands to themselves, but I don’t mind when his palms take hold of my hips, pulling me tighter against his body. Through the loud music, I can hear his breaths becoming deeper, with sharp cuts between each desperate inhale.
I throw my head back against his, then to the side. His palm trails to the center of my stomach, firmly holding onto me as he begins to thrust against me.
There’s a knock on the door, but whoever’s on the other side of the door is going to have to fucking wait. Joey’s hand trails further south, rubbing against my clit through my panties.
Another pound on the door.
I hop to my feet and spin around so that I face the customer—Joey—and fall back into his lap, thrusting against him, feeling the hardness of his cock. “Come on,” I beg him. “Come for me.”
“The sign on the door…” he mumbles, referencing the sign on the exterior of the door that forbids men to come—it’s a technicality. Nobody expects men to come in here and hold their load.
“Screw the rules.”
Then the door is pushed open and my surprise that someone had the audacity to barge in is only matched by who’s standing there. I pull myself off Joey, whose eyes swivel back and forth, confused and unsure of what to do. There’s a little bit of fear in those cute eyes as well.
I grab Noah, the intruder, by the arm and push him out the door. I go to slam the door on his face, but he extends his arm, holding it open. “You need to come with me,” he says in his serious tone—which is a lot like his non-serious tone.
I pretend to think that over, but my mind’s already made. “I don’t think so.”
“Please,” he says and looks away. “Don’t make me drag you out of here.”
I scoff. “Why would I go anywhere with you?”
“Because I’m not going to watch you continue to throw your life away.”
“And what does that have to do with me? That sounds like a you problem.”
“Faith…”
“Noah.”
He rolls his tongue across his lips and scratches his face nervously. “Come with me and I’ll help you find Luke.”
Now, that’s a proposition worth considering. “Why would you do that?”
His shoulders rise. “Anything to get you out of here.”
I glance back at Joey to catch him eying us, but then quickly averting his eyes once he sees me. I turn back to Noah. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I brush past him and exit into the hallway. Noah walks into the room, and I spin to grab him, afraid he might do something. He tosses a twenty-dollar bill onto Joey’s lap.
I lead Noah out of the club, staying a few feet ahead of him at all times. “He didn’t pay me yet, so you basically gave that guy cash for getting danced on.”
“Well,” he sighs, “that’s just bad business-sense on your part.”
6
FIVE YEARS AGO
Sitting in complete silence, the ticking of the clock pounds against my ear. Every tick of the clock brings me back into the foray of a battlefield—a nightmare that will never end.
An elevator dings in the distance, but I find myself drifting away with it, going wherever it takes me. There are three floors in this hospital—hardly enough vertical space to accommodate the distance between grief and heaven.
I’m frozen—the tear stains across my cheeks a testament to the truthfulness of that statement—but still, the clock ticks, turning over another lost second into the vast reaches of the past.
I wait for someone else to speak, to break through the silence. I wait to be woken up from this dream. I wait and wait for answers to questions I’m unsure have been asked.
I wait for absolution.
Through the vacuum of silence, I hear Noah inhale a sharp breath from beside me. And then, on cue, Luke does the same on the other side of me. And I know for certain, this isn’t a dream.
None of us say a word, all unsure of what to say. And if it would mean anything if we did.
“I need to go for a walk,” Luke exclaims and rises from his seat. I catch a glimpse of his puffy cheeks and swollen eyes. I begin to break again. Pain is easier to manage when you’re immune to the truth that you’re not the only one hurting.
“Do you need…?” Noah begins to ask.
But Luke cuts him off. “I just need to be alone,” he says deadpan, drained of emotion.
I know the feeling.
Noah rises to his feet, standing before Luke. He looks like he’s about to restrain him, but leans in for a gentle hug. Luke grabs onto his back and pulls him closer, his palm pulling Noah’s shirt tight. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to fight the tears. But they escape anyway, and I can do nothing but look away.
“I love you, man,” Noah comforts him. “It’s going to be okay.” He sits back down and lets out an exasperated sigh. “It’s not going to be okay.”
I crane my head to face him. “Wha—why would you say that?”
He palms his fist around his thumb and doesn’t so much as look at me. “Mom’s dead. Dad’s been on the operating table for the past three hours. I’m just being realistic.”
Angrily, I jump to my feet and confront him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re making a scene,” he mutters under his breath.
“And you’re being an idiot!”
Behind me, automatic doors swing open painfully slow. I break from reality, turning my head in slow-motion.
“No,” Noah cries.
But I won’t believe it until I see it.
Faithless #1: A Tainted Love Serial Page 3
