Every Waking Moment

by Meryl Sawyer

  “Great. Thanks.” She pointed to her butt. “Pull out the splinter.”

  Buzz placed one clammy hand on her waist. He grunted as he took his sweet time locating the splinter. He yanked it out with another grunt. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

  “There’s more. It’s broken into pieces.”

  Small wonder, she thought. She’d felt it when she’d driven herself here from the bayou. So, the money was great. It beat flatbacks—regular tricks—to hell.

  The John worked on one of the oil rigs in the Gulf and had money to burn when he was on shore. She’d had rough sex with him before. Each incident became more violent.

  She swore this was the last time and thought about Caleb’s plan as Buzz removed the splinter fragments.

  “What were you expecting?” Brianna asked as they walked up to the line of men waiting to get into the club where Renata Rollins worked in the seedy fringe of the French Quarter.

  “Dancing at a club called Puss ’N Boots isn’t the ballet. I should know. I used to make a living lap dancing in Little Havana, remember?”

  “Was it like this?” Taylor asked, conscious of the men leering at them.

  She was unexpectedly thankful they had Shane escorting them. Most of the guys waiting to get into the club looked as if they should be in a police lineup.

  “It was worse,” Brianna replied. “Your uncle was the only gentleman who ever came into the club where I worked.”

  Taylor grudgingly admired Brianna. She never pretended to be anything she wasn’t.

  For an instant, Taylor thought of her mother, a woman who kept her background a well-guarded secret and lived to maintain a place in society. She could just imagine what her mother would say if she saw just the outside of this dive and knew Renata worked here.

  The sign for Puss ’N Boots featured a comic strip type painting of a nearly nude woman dressed up in a cat outfit with a long tail and a headband with oversized ears. The nipples of her humungous breasts were covered with fur pasties. She wore shiny black leather boots up to her knees and brandished a whip in one hand.

  The thundershower had passed, but water dripped from the roofs and formed oily puddles with cigarette butts floating on them. A pale ghost of a moon momentarily parted the clouds. Moisture formed gauzy haloes around the neon signs for the other joints on the narrow street.

  Rain had cleared the air but had done nothing to make this place look better. What could?

  “New Orleans gets more rain than Seattle,” Taylor said, thinking out loud about a question for her Trivial Moments game.

  “No kidding?” Shane said with a hint of humor.

  “Bet on it,” Brianna told him. “Taylor’s hobby is trivia. She knows her facts.”

  Taylor tried for a nonchalant smile but didn’t quite make it. She peered into the alley across the street. Piles of cardboard boxes soggy from the rain. A black cat foraging in a McDonald’s bag. Discarded Styrofoam cups.

  A world away from the Miami she knew.

  “Both of you stick close to me,” Shane ordered. “Don’t make eye contact with any man. No matter what they say, don’t answer.”

  Shane guided them around the line of men and walked up to the bouncer. “We’re guests of Renata Rollins.”

  Caleb had told them to say this and it would get them inside. The dark man appeared to be Bahamian, and he looked them over while the men nearby whistled and tried to get their attention. Shane slipped the bouncer a folded bill and he stepped aside.

  The stench of beer, cigarette smoke, and rank body odor hit Taylor the second she walked into the pitch-dark club lit only by a blue neon sign advertising Abita beer. Off to one side was a long bar with several women in pussycat outfits serving drinks. At the front of the club was a small stage with a brass pole in the center.

  “I see a table near the front,” Shane said as he guided them through a warren of tables crammed with men.

  Several men reached out to grab them, but Shane zapped them with a look that could have backed down a pit bull. Except for the women who worked here, they were the only females in the club.

  The three of them huddled around a table the size of a dinner plate in the second row from the stage. A waitress in a threadbare cat costume with limp ears and a tail that dragged behind her collected the cover charge and brought them a pitcher of what she claimed was their famous Hurricane.

  The phosphorescent drink so popular on Bourbon Street tasted like lukewarm turpentine in this club.

  “I guess they’re between acts,” Brianna said, stating the obvious.

  “Are they lap dancing here?” Taylor asked.

  “Nah,” Brianna replied. “There’s not enough room. Expect a stripper.”

  A stripper. She’d suspected as much the second she’d heard the club’s name, but nothing prepared her for how seedy this place was.

  Look on the bright side, she thought. Mother won’t be so anxious to bring a stripper home. Especially a stripper with a half-baked story about being her daughter.

  Her mother was a snob; no getting around it, Taylor silently conceded. At all times Vanessa Maxwell was conscious of class and background and breeding. Her wealthy friends, the country club, her place in society meant a lot to her.

  Now Taylor understood why. Her mother had grown up poor and neglected. Even the love of a wealthy, powerful man hadn’t made Vanessa feel secure. Unless Renata Rollins could prove she was Vanessa’s daughter, Taylor knew her mother wouldn’t want the woman around.

  With a drum roll, the stage went dark and a hush charged with anticipation replaced the chatter in the room. Taylor inhaled a calming breath, wondering if this woman would look like her the way Taylor resembled her mother.

  She prayed not, but she wasn’t positive. Shane’s confirming what Caleb had told them had shaken her.

  A single spotlight blasted the stage with a circle of blinding light. In its center, leaning against the pole was a tall woman clad in a black leather trench coat and stiletto heels.

  Renata Rollins.

  Thick hair gleamed blue-black in the intense light. Pouty lips suggested collagen. Those spidery lashes couldn’t be real.

  Taylor forced herself to admit the woman was beautiful in a hard-looking, overly made-up way. Renata’s eyes were as dark as her hair and enhanced by the liberal use of eyeliner.

  Taylor examined every feature as the woman strutted across the small stage and untied the belt on her coat to the hoots of the all-male audience.

  She didn’t see a hint of her mother in this … person. Thank you, God. Taylor watched, relief morphing into anger. This stripper and the jerk they’d met this afternoon planned to take her mother for a ride.

  Over my dead body.

  “Typical striptease,” Brianna whispered as the woman slowly peeled off the coat, then tossed it aside.

  The closest Taylor had been to anything like this was a raunchy show she’d seen in Key West during spring break when she’d been at Yale. The women had danced in skirts and tops that came off with a flick of Velcro, leaving them in black lace bras and matching panties. She stole a glance at Shane to see what he was thinking.

  Like every other guy in the place, his eyes were tracking Renata, but his face was expressionless. He was darn good at hiding his thoughts, she decided. This afternoon with Caleb Bassett, she hadn’t been able to gauge Shane’s reaction to the man.

  Renata had shed her skirt and sweater as well as her boots. She was wearing a red satin slip that Taylor had to admit was sexy. She noticed Shane’s eyes narrowed just slightly. So, he wasn’t the master of the poker face after all.

  “Why is she doing that?” Taylor whispered to Brianna when Renata began to move provocatively against the pole in the center of the stage.

  “It’s called ‘humping the pole.’ It drives guys crazy.”

  Taylor nodded, noticing the men were now banging on the tables or stomping their feet. Many were yelling for her to “Take it off. Take it all off.” />
  Shane was silent, but his eyes were still on Renata.

  After another shimmy against the pole, Renata sashayed to the front of the stage. Running the tip of her tongue over her cherry-red lips, she gazed out at her enthralled audience. If she noticed two women among the horde of men, Renata gave no sign.

  She lifted the hem of her slip up an inch at a time, revealing slender thighs. She stopped just short of showing her panties and waited. And waited.

  The men went ballistic, yelling more, stomping louder. Finally, Renata inched the slip upward exposing a swatch of red satin.

  “More! More! Go for it!” screamed the apes at the table next to them.

  It seemed to take an eternity to pull the slip up enough to reveal a belly button pierced with a circle of rhinestones that glinted like diamonds. A larger stone, too big to be real, winked at the audience from the center of her belly button.

  In a split second, she shucked the slip and flung it high into the air above the crowd. Men scrambled to their feet, fighting each other for the garment. A soccer-type fight threatened to break out. A burly bouncer shoved the rowdiest men back into their seats.

  Looking mildly amused, Renata stood there in all her glory. A wisp of red satin passed for a G-string and patches of red satin connected by thin straps covered huge breasts. She slowly turned to allow the men to admire every inch of her body.

  Taylor fought the urge to run for the exit. What would it be like to have to earn your living by stripping every night? Mortified, Taylor’s stomach churned.

  How was any woman reduced to this? What had happened to her?

  Taylor thought about Caleb’s town house. It was in marvelous condition and was furnished with antiques. Why didn’t he sell something to save his daughter from humiliating herself like this?

  What kind of man was Caleb Bassett? she wondered. He was handsome and had a certain … charm, but he was odd. He didn’t seem fatherly at all.

  He couldn’t be her father, she decided, anger resurfacing again and getting the better of the analytical train of thought that served her so well in business. That charlatan and this stripper were trying to take advantage of her mother.

  “She’s good,” Brianna whispered. “It’s all about timing and she knows it.”

  Maybe Brianna really did love Doyle, Taylor decided. He’d taken her away from a degrading life like this and put her on a pedestal. Why wouldn’t she love him for it?

  Renata slowly pivoted and showed her rear end. Her bottom as flawless as a newborn baby’s. Red lips were painted on one cheek with what appeared to be lipstick.

  Renata looked back over her shoulder, her lips forming a sexy pout. “Renata has an owie. Wanna kiss it and make it better?”

  She jumped from the stage and paraded by the first row. The men took turns kissing her butt. Taylor couldn’t force herself to watch.

  Some of them smacked so loudly that the rest howled with laughter. She knew, from watching the first few, they were tucking money into the elastic band of her G-string.

  She promenaded around the room, collecting more and more bills. Circling back, Renata approached them. Taylor wanted to hide under their table.

  To quell her reaction, Taylor concentrated on the woman’s face, again checking it for something—any hint—of a family resemblance.

  Nothing.

  Renata halted right in front of Shane. She smiled and showed him the lips painted on her rear. This close, Taylor could see it had been painted on with nail polish, not lipstick.

  “Come on, big boy,” Renata purred.

  Taylor could see why she’d singled out Shane. He might have looked scruffy in South Beach, but he was GQ material in this crowd. She sucked in her breath and waited for him to kiss ass. The spotlight flooded their table with glaring light, and its heat brought a prickle of moisture to the back of Taylor’s neck.

  Shane cracked a smile and took out his money clip. He peeled a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from it. While the other men yelled for Renata to take off her bra, Shane folded the bill into a fan.

  He stuck it between her breasts and winked.

  Renata grabbed the bill and put it over one ear like a flower. She pranced over to the stage, hopped up, and stood there, smiling. With a flick of her hand, she unhooked the bra.

  Little had been left to the imagination before, but seeing those bare breasts thrust upward like some pagan offering sent the men over the top. They hooted and threw money onto the stage. Renata swung the bra in the air the way she had her other clothes and tossed it into the audience.

  It landed, the cups down like ear muffs, on Shane’s head.

  Chapter 6

  The sound of the telephone on his nightstand yanked Doyle out of a fitful sleep. His money problems had triggered another nightmare. He’d run out of money and Brianna had left him.

  The glow of the digital alarm clock told him it was after two. What in hell was Brianna doing out so late, he thought, reaching for the telephone.

  “Doyle, it’s me … Trent.”

  He sat bolt upright, thrusting the covers aside. “Your mother! Something’s happened.”

  “No. She’s fine.” There was a lot of commotion in the background. Doyle could barely hear his nephew. “It’s me. I’m in trouble.”

  Trouble? Trent? Never. Wait His nephew had changed a lot in the past year.

  Goose bumps sprang up beneath Doyle’s silk pajama top. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’ve been arrested. Raoul, too.”

  Served the interfering Cuban swish right was Doyle’s first reaction. Then he reconsidered. No matter how much he despised Raoul, they needed Doyle’s help. Maybe he could use this to his advantage.

  “Arrested? For what?”

  “Possession.”

  “Aaah.” He fought a smile. If he played this right, he could neutralize Raoul or get rid of him entirely. Thinking, he repeated, “Drugs?”

  “Crystal meth,” Trent replied. “Would you come down to the station with a lawyer? And don’t tell Mother.”

  It was almost dawn before Doyle contacted Alan Friedman. Never having needed a criminal attorney, Doyle had awakened Ridley Pudge, the family attorney for a recommendation. Friedman was the best, and judging by the fee he demanded up front, the man had better be good.

  Alan Friedman, a short, wiry man with receding red hair and half-moon glasses, met Doyle in the lobby of the Miami Beach Police Department. The lawyer was waiting in front of the mural of fishes. Doyle wondered how many other parents he’d met in the same spot. Probably too many to count.

  “I’m Doyle Maxwell.” He stuck out his hand and Friedman gave it a quick shake. He handed over the check for the retainer, and the attorney tucked it into his pocket without looking at it.

  “You said your nephew is being held on a drug charge?” the lawyer asked.

  The atrium went to the ceiling past four floors marked with turquoise metal railings. His voice seemed to bounce off the walls.

  “Which drug?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You bet. Which drug and the amount the police found is important.”

  “Crystal meth.”

  “He’s gay.”

  It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Doyle nodded.

  “It’s the drug of choice among gay men. It goes hand in hand with unsafe sex.”

  Shane leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb of Renata’s dressing room. He ignored the hulking bouncer who was eyeing him. Not what he’d call a fun guy. The bouncer had seen more naked butts than a pediatrician, and he didn’t want another man on his turf, getting a peek or copping a feel.

  Taylor had insisted on talking to the stripper herself, telling Shane and Brianna to come along but keep quiet. Renata sat facing a marquee-style makeup mirror with several of the lights burned out. She was wearing a flimsy robe and hadn’t bothered to button it.

  Her lush breasts were half exposed, but he figured it wasn’t a deliberate attempt to be provocative. The woma
n was a stripper; being nude was second nature to her.

  “So you met Caleb,” Renata was saying. “Isn’t he a trip?”

  Caleb—not Father or Dad or Papa. Interesting, Shane thought.

  “He was interesting,” Taylor replied.

  Renata’s whoop of laugher richoted off the walls. “Yeah, ole Caleb is priceless. Bet he pulled that phony English gentleman crap on you, didn’t he?”

  “We enjoyed having tea with him.”

  “Sure you did. Musta’ been a real party.”

  Renata gathered her long, dark hair in one hand and secured it to the top of her head with a red clip. She slapped lotion on her face and began removing the stage makeup with wads of Kleenex.

  “What’s so important that you had to see me?”

  Taylor flashed a quick glance at Shane. “It’s about your claim that you’re Vanessa Maxwell’s daughter.”

  “My claim?” Renata whirled around to face them. Anger flashed in her dark eyes and Shane decided only someone with a death wish would cross this woman. “I never said I was her child.”

  “Missing! received a call,” Brianna said, and Taylor shot her a warning look meant to shut her up.

  “Ask me if I care.”

  “My mother spoke with your father, and he—”

  “Caleb—being Caleb—insisted I was her daughter, right?”

  “Yes, but you don’t think you are,” Taylor said. “Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “You aren’t hearing squat. How in hell should I know who my mother is?”

  “What did your father tell you about your real mother?” Shane asked even though Taylor was frowning at him.

  “I was adopted.” Renata turned back to the mirror and continued wiping off the makeup. “He never let me forget it. Claimed I ruined his life. If it hadn’t been for me, Caleb would have joined the Navy and seen the world.”

  Two beats of silence filled the tiny room. In the distance, the drawn-out roll of the drum and loud male hoots signaled another stripper was slowly taking off her clothes.

  Finally, Taylor asked, “Do you know anything about your real mother?”

  Renata stopped wiping off makeup that must have been applied with a trowel and stared hard, her dark eyes meeting Taylor’s in the mirror. “She dumped me, then ran off. Caleb and Mary Jo adopted me.”