by Kyra Davis
“I guess not,” he says, clearly thrown by the seeming non sequitur.
“Trust me, you don’t—otherwise everyone in LA would be gagging every five minutes. But when you breathe in the air at the beach, it just feels cleaner and you do notice that. It’s like all of a sudden you realize, Oh, this is what it’s supposed to feel like to breathe.”
He takes a moment to let that soak in. “Wow,” he finally whispers.
“Exactly! And that’s what it was like. There were all these people, most of them strangers, coming together in this celebration of music, and I was giving them that music. And I was up on that stage just inhaling that experience and . . . and it felt clean.”
“It felt clean?” he repeats. “Not empowering or sexual or rebellious?”
“Oh, it was definitely empowering and sexual.” I laugh. “But being empowered and turned on by other people’s happiness? Knowing that there were men in that crowd who wanted me because they were watching me do something I love?” I shrug. “To me, that’s clean . . . in fact I would go further than that, I’d say it’s pure.”
“I never thought about it that way.” He says the words so quietly I almost don’t hear him. “What about rebellious?”
“Yeah, well you gotta have people who care about what you do in order to rebel,” I reply with a bitter laugh. “But again, that’s the thing. Those people in the crowd, they cared. And somehow I think I actually surpassed their expectations, which is not the norm for me. Trust me, my middle name is disappointment. But not this time. This. Was. Awesome!”
“Ah, there it is.”
“What?” I glance around the car, trying to spot what I’m missing.
“Your beautiful smile.”
I roll my eyes, making a show of how cheesy I think he’s being.
But the thing is . . . he’s right. I’m smiling. A few minutes ago I was Miss Morbidity, and now I’m smiling.
“This is my exit,” I say quietly. From that moment on our conversation is dominated by directions on what turns to take, but the smile doesn’t fully go away. When he drops me off in front of my apartment building, I’m not in a bad place.
“Rehearsal on Saturday?” he asks as I get out of the car.
“Yep,” I chirp. It’s not until I’ve trotted up the path to the front door of my building that I realize he’s still there, double parked, waiting to make sure I get in okay. I’m not sure if anyone has ever done that for me before, at least not since I was eight. I unlock the door and wave at him as I step inside the entryway.
What a very interesting night.
And it takes a full forty minutes before I remember to be depressed about Ash standing me up. Forty minutes . . . not bad.
CHAPTER 11
UNFORTUNATELY, MY LATENT depression doesn’t pass so easily. It’s Thursday now, a day after Ash and I were supposed to meet again, and still no word. I know I should call him, but the humiliation is too acute, the history too loaded.
If only that night with Ash hadn’t been so . . . so off-the-charts amazing. If only he hadn’t kissed me so gently and then so very passionately, his hands roving over every curve, finding the most sensitive spots on my body, all this before tossing me aside, again! And why did he have to look at me like that? Like his hunger for me could never be satiated?
Why did he have to tell me I was worth his pain?
All this is going through my mind as I walk through the employee entrance and into the dark back rooms and offices of Envy, LA’s hottest nightclub. I can hear the muted pounding of the music coming from the floor. I can picture the blue lights that I know everyone is bathed in, the artfully structured martini glasses. I can practically smell the designer fragrances of the patrons. But back here everything is brown and completely unembellished. One wall is lined with metal lockers, the kind you might find in a second-rate gym or high school. It’s like Oz behind the curtain back here.
I kind of like it.
“Right on time.” I look up to see the owner, Matt, coming out of his office, a sub sandwich in his hand. Matt’s in his late forties, but I only know that because I happened to get a peek at his driver’s license once when he left it on his desk. Botox, fillers, weekly facial—he’s done it all. And we won’t even get into the hair transplant. In the end he looks ageless but weird. Still, he owns the three most successful nightclubs in LA, so there are always women trying to get his attention. Envy is where the rich and famous come; they’re the only ones who can afford the drinks.
“Have I ever been late for this?” I ask as I remove my three-quarter-length, shaggy black faux fur coat to reveal black leather hot pants and a white metal-studded bra top.
His eyes scan my outfit dispassionately. “Hot.”
I smile and give him a quick curtsy. “I aim to please.”
“I’ll make sure everything’s ready for you.”
I shake my head as he walks away. If only he could find a med spa that could inject him with a little personality.
I find the locker Matt lets me use and start working the combination. I only work here the first and last Thursday of every month, and boy, am I glad this is one of those Thursdays. I desperately need to distract myself. Moreover, I need to be reminded that I’m still desirable. That this is Ash’s problem, not mine.
But then, what if that’s not true? What if the new Mercy is just as problematic as the old Melody? The very thought makes me want to hyperventilate.
No, no, I’m not gonna go there. Not right now. Right now I’m just gonna dance.
I go to the door that leads to the floor and peek outside. I think I see Winona Ryder at the bar. And I’m absolutely sure that’s The Rock on the other side of the room. Love me some WWF. And then I see Preston and Aaron coming toward me, both of them dressed in the prerequisite black. Their main job is to work the door, keep track of the “list,” VIPs and whatnot. But right now they have a different task, and knowing that, they have both assumed a stoic, almost threatening expression. If they were wearing black suits rather than black tees they could be Secret Service. They file into the back room, one getting on either side of me, both taking a wrist. Aaron leans close enough to my ear so I can hear him over the increasing volume of the club. “Looking good, girl.”
“Matt said I looked hot.”
Preston looks down at me, surprised. “No! I have never heard him use that word, have you?” he asks, looking over my head to Aaron.
“Only when he’s talking about chili peppers.”
This gets all three of us giggling, but then the music changes. It’s our cue. Immediately Preston’s and Aaron’s faces grow hard and determined as I go with a full-on sex-kitten pout. As we step onto the floor the spotlight finds us immediately and the crowd parts. One step, two, three, four . . . This is where we pause for a beat. They hold my arms up as I move the rest of my body to the music, slowly, sensuously, but making sure that it’s just playful enough that this little display can’t be taken too seriously. Then they pull me forward again; this time we take a full eight steps before we stop. I pretend to struggle a little more, and just when it looks like I won’t be able to get away, I pull myself from their grasp, sending them stumbling back. And then, in my stilettos, I run straight to a small platform in the middle of the floor, leap, pull myself up to the elevated surface, and get right into the gilded cage that waits for me there.
Literally. It’s a cage. For $175 a night I dance in a cage twice a month. I’m fairly sure that Matt has added the part about my locking myself in the cage to make it seem less sexist, but even so, I’m pretty sure that Gloria Steinem would not approve. Personally, I don’t see the problem with it. I like to dance, I like to be the center of attention, and really, there are only so many acceptable ways a girl can be an exhibitionist. At least this one’s legal.
I grab the bars, my body rigid and strong, and then as Destiny’s Child’s “Jumpin’, Jumpin’ ” begins to play I relax into moves that a man might expect from someone in my position. I use the
bars both as props and for support as I arch myself backward. The people on the floor have begun to dance again, but I can feel the eyes that are still on me. How many men will dream about me tonight? I smile at the sandy-blond movie star looking down from the balcony before turning my eyes to a Latino pop star at the bar. Almost everyone here is in the business. Everyone here has the opportunity to see the perfectly maintained bodies of the Hollywood starlets at work and at play. And still, right now, they’re looking at me. I am not perfect, unlike the women of their world. I don’t have a plastic surgeon on call. But when you know how to move, when you can turn your dance into a siren’s song, then flaws become assets. I don’t hide the scar under my collarbone, I leave the mole on my lower back exposed, I’m not bothered by my thighs touching when I stand. When these men look at me they don’t see a fantasy or a manufactured image. They see a woman who is touchable. Someone who will be soft where a woman should be soft, who will be sensitive where a woman should be sensitive. A woman whose lipstick will smear and whose hair will tousle. A woman strong enough to embrace imperfections and passionate enough to make her lover feel like a man.
That’s the woman they see dancing in the cage. That’s me.
I dance for forty-five minutes straight, take a fifteen-minute break, and then I’m back, locked away behind golden bars, dancing right into the witching hour. For every shift I arrive at ten, leave at one. A hundred and eighty minutes of being wanted and desired by the city’s rich and powerful.
And in the second hour, when Santana’s “Smooth” comes on, I know exactly how to personify the song. I give my dance a Latin flair, blending salsa with my own unique style. The Hollywood agent puts down his drink as he eyes me, the director in Armani takes a step closer. There’s just something about this song. Everyone feels it. Suddenly people are dancing alone without care, while couples are pressed so close only the thin layer of their clothes is keeping them from consummating this rising euphoria. My heels tap lightly against the floor of my pretty prison, my hips sway in time, I drop my head, letting my hair fall forward before tossing it back with a flourish as I look straight into the eyes of the first man who comes into focus . . .
Brad.
I almost stumble, the surprise is so great. How did he get in? Here in this gathering of agents and stars? No one I know has ever come in here!
Suddenly I’m struck with terrible self-consciousness. And for me to be self-conscious while on a stage is unheard of! But oh, the way I must look! Elevated in the middle of the room, half naked in a cage. The strangers here have never given me a moment’s pause, but to be seen like this by someone I hang out with, play in a band with, knowing he’ll conjure up this image every time he sees me! Someone who will undoubtedly mock me and laugh at me! Even in the unreliable lighting of the club I can see the shock on his face. He could not have been expecting this!
I struggle to think of words to mouth to him, some way to turn this into an innocent joke, but as I try to cook up a strategy I notice something. Something in his expression. The shock is fading and . . . and it’s being replaced by . . . something else. Something very familiar.
Ooh.
And then, almost of their own volition, my lips spread into a slow, delicious smile. Reaching forward, I wrap my fingers around one of the bars as I once again move my hips to this unique rhythm.
My eyes never leave Brad’s. Releasing the bar, I raise my arms above my head, my body moving faster. The music is affecting me in a whole new way now. It’s caressing me, penetrating me, turning me into a seductress . . .
. . . not just of the room, but of this one man.
The crowd is now in a complete frenzy. They’re dancing, drinking, laughing, and Brad . . . Brad is staring. And just by the way he tilts his head, the way he’s hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, I can tell that he knows this dance belongs to him.
I run my hands over my skin, my chest, my stomach, the length of my thigh. Santana’s guitar is building in intensity, melodic, lustful, hot with passion and life. I lift my hair up, exposing the nape of my neck, and the whole time my body never stops moving.
Brad is the drummer in my band. I have to play with him, work with him, and part of me knows this is a bad idea.
But a bigger part of me simply doesn’t care.
Again I grab the bars, this time bending my legs, letting the metal just barely brush the inside of each knee as I get lower and then lower still, inviting him to imagine me lowering myself in front of him, practically forcing him to think of all the things I could do to him at this level.
To broadcast that image across a crowded club is almost enough to scandalize me. But the thing is, the people here only see a woman dancing the way a woman in a cage is expected to dance. Only Brad knows that this is more than an obligatory performance. Only he suspects that this just might be foreplay.
When I rise, I allow myself a spin, whipping myself around; the music is getting faster, Santana is on fire. There’s no point even feigning control anymore—the music, the lust, these are the things that have the power now, they’ll do with me what they will.
And maybe, just maybe, Brad will, too.
Oh, the things you discover while dancing in a cage.
Even after the music changes to an Everclear remix, our game continues. It stays like this for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. Each song bringing forth a new seduction, a different way to tempt and taunt. And Brad barely moves, his stillness offering an odd allurement of its own. His eyes never leave me, our connection is never broken.
And when it’s finally time for my break, I step out and into the room. I’m supposed to go right into the employee area. I am not to fraternize with the guests.
But this is not a night for rules. As I walk past Brad, I make a small gesture with my hand, looking at him and then pointedly toward where I want him to meet me. When I step into the back area, I leave the door a little more ajar than usual. Matt isn’t around; no one is. I’m here alone.
And now, ten seconds later, I’m here with Brad. He’s walked into this space with the confidence of a man who belongs here, even though we both know that he absolutely does not. I curl my finger, beckoning him. My back is pressed against the bare wall. And when he steps closer, I see the strength in him in a way I didn’t before when I was trying to reconcile his chiseled form with his mild temperament and conservative clothes. Now his strength and his power doesn’t just fit him, it is him. He’s standing less than four inches away, not touching me, but everything about the way he stands, the way his eyes slowly move up and down my body, tells me that everything he can do to me he wants to do to me. He can lift me up like a feather, carry me like a princess, have me right here, right now, up against this wall.
“I don’t understand,” I say, a little breathless, a little awed. “If you’re not on the list it’s almost impossible. People wait in line for hours—”
“I know the doorman.” His gaze moves slowly up my waist, across my chest.
“Preston? Aaron?”
“Oscar.”
Oscar? Oscar isn’t the doorman, he’s the bouncer, a bookie and gambler during the day, and he does not seem like the kind of guy Brad or anyone who gravitates toward legal activities would hang with.
He reaches forward and places his left palm against my waist, his fingers spreading to the curvature of my hip. His touch practically burns through the leather I’m encased in as he adds just a little pressure, just enough to arch my back toward him, so now there’s not much space between us at all. “I like the way you move.”
I swallow hard, realizing for the first time just how big his hands are. I have a small waist, but still, I gasp when he puts his right hand on the other side of me and I find that they almost wrap around me completely. They’re not calloused, but they’re not soft, either, and as I tremble in his grip I imagine those hands crushing me to him, holding me as close as possible as he lowers his mouth to mine. I let my lips part, just a little, inviting him to do
just that.
But wait, there—a flash of doubt in his eyes. A hesitation. And then, to my screaming disappointment, he pulls his hands away, his thumbs go back into his pockets, his eyes drop to the floor as he seems to consider something before taking a rather significant step back.
It’s enough to make a girl cry.
“You’re too talented for this,” he says, his voice low, maybe a little hard.
I look at him, bewildered. “What? What are you talking about?”
“To be dancing in a cage,” he says, finally looking up at me again. “Too talented to be a living, breathing adornment of the parties of the rich.”
“I’m not an adornment,” I hiss, indignation edging out some of my desire. “I’m a performer.”
“You’re a singer, a musician,” he corrects. “You shouldn’t be doing this. You should be in front of a microphone. You should be recording an album. You should be doing something that will advance you, because, trust me, this won’t.”
My mouth goes slack for a moment, and then suddenly, just like that, my indignation is gone. It’s been completely replaced by straight-up rage.
“You don’t get it,” I say, my voice shaking with barely restrained emotion. “I’m not trying to be better anymore. I’m just trying to be me!”
“This is you? The girl who dances in a cage while—”
“Excuse me, but I don’t have to live up to your standards of success!” I interrupt. “I don’t have to live up to anyone’s standards. I own my life now, got it? I own it!” With those last three words I reach forward and smack my hands against his chest, shoving him, although he doesn’t budge. “I choose what I do, and you know what else? I choose who I want to spend my time with, and I don’t choose to spend my time with privileged assholes who like to stand in judgment of me!”
