by Marata Eros
Kiki relents and switches to a softer tone. “You could own something. Something nice.”
I know this. I’ve been to her condo overlooking Pike Place and Puget Sound. Her view of downtown is magnificent. And expensive. It had to set her back five hundred K. I rent my death trap for nine hundred per month, and it’s a studio in one of the tortuously small cobblestone-lined alleys of Seattle. At least it’s on the fifth floor. The stairs are murder, but if I want two windows that actually face outside, that’s what I can afford. Sometimes the freight elevator works; otherwise, it’s exercise. The location allows me to walk to my upper-scale rehabilitation clinic. No need to use my beater car. That much.
“You don’t have to give this up,” Kiki says quietly. She knows I won’t budge on that, and she of all people knows why.
Rehab’s not a well-paying profession. But there’s more than money, sometimes the soul needs edification.
I look at what Kiki has and what I don’t. I shove those thoughts away. She’s my best friend. She’s seen me through everything. Dark shadows press in, and my headache returns with a throbbing vengeance.
Kiki frowns. “Another headache?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want to argue, Faren. You’ve got to know that.” Her root beer eyes peg me to the spot. The sweep of her dark hair lays like chocolate silk past her full breasts. “But with your looks”—she throws her manicured hands in the air—“you could shake your booty a little and work a side job. Get a place in your same area… you could own something.”
It’s an old argument. Her penthouse is nearly paid for while mine’s a rental with a landlord that cares more about the rent than maintenance.
Her eyes swim with knowledge, and I set down my tea. It’s too cold to drink anyway. Her words put the last nail in the coffin of my resistance. “Something secure,” she adds in a whisper and I let her hug me. I cling to her and try to believe my financial troubles and dark secret can be erased by taking off my clothes for strangers
Kiki loves me more than I love myself.
She loves me enough for us both.
*
Sue glances up when I click off the light off. The sky is darkening as I slide my last patient folder through the glass partition. She has that look in her eyes and pushes a business card through the slot.
It bears a doctor’s name: Dr. Clive Matthews.
I give Sue a sharp look, and she shrugs, giving my hand a maternal pat. My eyes burn with tears from the spontaneous gesture.
Sue notices my emotional struggle and ignores it. “He got rid of my migraines. Miracle worker, I say.” She nods and glances at the card significantly.
I notice the appointment time and sigh.
Sue doesn’t drop her gaze. “How much longer are you going to struggle through those bone crushers?”
I don’t answer, and she nods in her knowing way. “That’s what I thought, Miss Mitchell. You’d have just come in suffering worse than your own patients.”
Sue’s right. She knows it, and I do too.
I take the card and stuff it in the pocket of my smock, Dr. Seuss cats cover it in a smear of red and blue.
“Thanks,” I say grudgingly while I grab my coat.
“Welcome,” she shoots back in triumph as I hear the door whisper closed behind me.
I look at the card again as the cars, people, and city noise encapsulate me in the comforting rhythm of downtown. The smell of fish, food, and sea mingle, and I begin the short trek to the dank alley with the entrance to my apartment.
I have two weeks to prepare myself to go back into a hospital. I hate hospitals. They’re all about death.
The thought of returning is almost enough to get a proper panic attack going.
Almost.
2
I tenderly brush the hair off her forehead, though she doesn’t feel it. She never knows when I’m with her. The rain coats the window, distorting the outside world and making this room a bubble of reality. The space is dim. That’s a must, since too much light causes her to thrash. On some level, she rebels. It’s my deepest regret that her rebellion couldn’t have been sooner, when it could have saved her.
It’s a good day when I don’t cry when I visit.
Today my eyes are dry but the next time they might not be. I squeeze her hand, speaking softly. I lean forward to press a kiss on the tissue-thin skin of her forehead. It’s translucent, the body inside, still and soft from lack of movement.
Life.
My mother lives but not as she should.
I rise like I have hundreds of times and move to the door of the clinic that takes care of catatonic, high-needs patients.
I have a new job.
I do cry then.
No one notices my tears anymore. They’re used to them, and I don’t bother to see their sympathy.
I have a date with Kiki.
*
Kiki swivels in front of her makeup table and smirks at me. My trench coat drips water onto the floor.
“Gawd!” Her full lips pout as she swipes another layer of sparkly crap on her lips. “You look like a drowned rat.”
Her face softens. “See your mom?”
I nod. Kiki knows it always sucker punches me to visit. It kills me not to. I face the evil I can bear.
“Well, let’s get you in the slut suit, baby.” Kiki moves through the hanging costumes until she gets to my size, and she frowns slightly. “I don’t know how I’m going to stuff that gazelle body in the average getup.” She taps her nail against her glossy lip and scowls when some of her handiwork comes off.
“Damn,” she swears softly, making the hangers move with an angry swish of her hand.
“No.” A blue outfit sails to the end of the size eight rack.
“No.” A glossy green spandex number with a painful looking strip of butt floss floats past.
Her eyes narrow to slits as a beige ’20s flapper-style dress with cut outs at the nipples appears. “Fuck no!”
I laugh, and Kiki glares at me. “It’s not funny, bunny. You need to look spanktastic this first time out of the gate.”
She’s so serious I giggle again. “I’m not a damn horse!” I hold my sides as laughter peels out of me, and I feel closer to normal. I’m so grateful for the levity she brings that I don’t know what to say. Even if I’m about to strip down to nothing in a roomful of strangers, Kiki makes it better.
She finally grins as her eyes light on something red.
I mouth no, and she says, “Hell yes!” She tears it off the rod.
I don’t think it’s a real outfit. Actually, it’s more air than cloth.
“I can’t wear that!” I stutter, backing away as if it’s the plague instead of a skimpy costume.
Kiki’s brows come together in an adorable frown. “Ah… we had this discussion dollface. You won’t be wearing this for long.” Those perfect brows rise and I blow out a frustrated huff.
Right. No clothes. Well, this is a “classy” club, so only titties. No frontal nudity down there. They can’t touch, and I have to wear stockings for some reason. City ordinance. So basically my butt and boobs will be bare to the world, but somehow that’s okay because a small triangle of cloth will cover my front and some super-sheer stockings will encase my legs. Yeah.
Kiki pats the stool in front of a huge mirror, lit all around its square perimeter with Hollywood bulbs. Big ones. They glare at my pinched and pale face. Her mocha arm comes around my front and she begins to scoop and fix my hair. It is neither blonde or brown, but a rich honey color. It’s never been dyed or bleached. I just didn’t want any more attention when I was at home.
My idea of girly-ness is wearing a pair of high heels, tight jeans, and a top with sleeve cut-outs. I watch, mesmerized, as Kiki hikes my thick hair into a loose topknot, anchoring it with about a hundred bobby pins. She pulls a few tendrils loose to cascade halfway down my back. No matter what anyone says, long hair is easier than short. However, Kiki convinced me to take off five i
nches before I met with the manager a few days ago.
So far, meeting Ty has been the creepiest part. I remember exactly how he’d looked at me. It was eyeball rape.
“Hi, Faren,” Ty said, shaking my hand.
His large dark hand engulfed my smaller one. I’m surprised. I have long fingers that match my height. My hand never feels swallowed by a man’s.
“Hi,” I said.
His eyebrows rose, and he spread his arms as he stepped back. “Kiki told me you know what to expect.”
I did. I felt like crying, but I took off my clothes. The heat of my embarrassment crawled across my skin.
My skirt pooled at my feet. My high heels and thigh highs don’t impede its crumpled slither down my legs.
Next, I unbutton the scarlet blouse Kiki had picked out, revealing an inky bra and panty set. The bra is demi-cupped and holds my full Cs high and tight, my pink nipples hidden by a strategic strip of ebony satin.
I made the mistake of looking at Ty. He licked his lips, his hooded eyes roving my body like a starving man. My palms begin to sweat.
“Turn,” he said quietly, and I do. He’d been looking at my bare ass, only a strip of lace bisecting my butt cheeks.
I felt the heat climb higher, infusing my neck to the roots of my hair. I count inside my head, praying for it to end.
“Walk,” he said.
I do, knowing I’m naturally graceful and balanced. The deep lace of my stockings whispers as I move away from him. Grace is the one thing that has never been taken from me, and I’m grateful for it now.
“Turn,” he said. I don’t miss that his voice is somewhat hoarse.
I pivoted in a smooth motion, and I can’t help but notice I’ve affected him. Shame flares anew, riding high to mortified.
“Walk.”
I inhaled deeply and draw nearer. I stop about three feet from him, and we stare at each other. I’m so tense I could’ve screamed.
“You’ll do,” Ty said in a sarcastic drawl.
I looked into his dark eyes and see desire there. I swallowed so hard my throat clicks. Silence fills the space uncomfortably. “So when can I start?” I hate how timid my voice sounds.
Ty smirked as though he understands how desperate I am. I know Kiki didn’t tell him my reasons. He assumed a lot. It must come with the job. “Tomorrow.”
“Okay.” With shaky fingers, I’d put on my clothes, fighting tears so hard that my eyelids burned with the need to cry. My mind filled with all my defenses. I’m a respectable girl. I pay my bills. I don’t party, have boyfriends, goof off… I’m a physical therapist, for God’s sake! But when I get the last button done, the words die. Ty sees me as commerce, and I sighed, feeling defeated. I can’t even make the proper ending salutation.
I made my silent way to the door and almost escape before he’d asked “Have you ever had sex?”
I turned slowly, my heart hammering. What kind of effed up question is that? I gathered my courage, knowing I could lose this chance to clean up my fiscal problems with the wrong words.
“That’s none of your business.” I’d hated myself, but I had to ask anyway, “Why? Why does that matter?”
Ty walked around his desk and shifted papers, his interest in me clearly waning. He’d been silent so long I opened the door and began to walk through it.
His words caught me before I closed it, “Because you walk like a whore.”
I stiffened. The tears that threatened earlier? Yeah… those fall.
I had softly closed the door and moved through the crowded, dark hallways of the strip club. My coat is secured around the outfit that’d cost me almost a week’s pay.
I hated what Ty said.
I hated it because it felt true.
Kiki shatters the foul memory of meeting Ty when she asks, “You ready?”
I look back at the girl in the mirror that’s me. Her eyes are so pale a gray they would look almost white if it weren’t for the lightning strikes of bronze that streak the irises, a warm brown ringing the outside. Right now, they’re wide and ghostly in my even paler face and Kiki stares back at me in the mirror. Her darker skin and complexion contrasts with mine in the reflection. She draws me in as I lean back against her.
“You don’t have to, Faren.” She gives me an out as I stare at her dark arms wound around my neck in an embrace of solace.
But we both know why I have to.
I nod. “Yeah I do.”
She kisses my coiffed hair and backs up. I slip into the ruby red heels and try not to take that final glance in the mirror.
A tall slim girl stares back at me. Her hair looks like caramel, eyes like ice. Her creamy skin looks like milk against the deep red of the outfit. A glittering mask that is part of the act. It surrounds my silver eyes in secrecy. I’m glad for the anonymity. The glittering v between my full breasts needs only an inch to reveal my nipples. The waistband is Velcro.
Meant to be torn.
Kiki does a little spin, hump-hips, and throws her head back, keeping a death grip on the doorjamb. “Every time you come down the pole, ‘kay?”
I nod as the music begins for my set.
“Use your good hand, hon,” she reminds me.
There’s no way I could use the bad one. It’ll be the wrist for balance and faking using both.
I don’t fall apart until it’s over. Then I’m at the commode throwing up my meager lunch.
I don’t notice anyone watch as I race out of the club.
3
The hundreds fan out like a deck of perfect cards, and I move as though I’m in a dream. I scoop them up from Ty’s desk, and he stays my hand by wrapping my wrist with his large hand. My eyes skitter up to his, and I blink.
“What?” I feel filthy every time I’m near him. He seems to know it by some pervert instinct and capitalizes on it by treating me like dirt whenever our paths cross.
I’d tried to tell Kiki, and she flung her hands up dismissively. “No touchie!” she said and sashayed off. It’s easy for her to say because he doesn’t watch her.
But he touches me now.
It’s easy for her to say because I don’t see him watch her.
He tightens his hold to just shy of bruising, and I fight my natural urge to pull away.
Ty has a hold of my bad hand, and anything can happen. As it is, my heart tries to escape my chest. I can’t stand for a man to touch me. Every time it has happened in the past, it ended one way.
His eyes linger on mine then scan to where my coat is cinched at my waist. “There’s more where that came from.” His eyes hold some kind of question I don’t understand. I don’t want to.
I ignore the overt innuendo. “Let me go.” All I want to do is whimper like a scared little girl. Because I am. I’m so scared. I’ve been doing this job for a week. The money I hold is enough to pay for half of my mom’s care for the month. The entire month. It sits in my bad hand. My pinky finger pokes straight out, unable to bend correctly, and sweat dampens the dirty money.
“No,” he says
He squeezes imperceptibly harder, and a low sound of pain escapes my throat.
He smiles, and I realize he’s a predator. Like my stepfather. The saliva in my mouth disappears as my breathing picks up.
The door opens, and he drops my hand as if it burns. The money floats to the floor because my hand can’t hold it.
Ty says loud enough for whoever walks in to hear, “You’re such a graceful dancer, but you can’t hang onto your money.” He chuckles at his joke.
I don’t think it’s funny. I scoop up the money with my good hand, and the bad one throbs where it’s been held too hard. Too long. I know from experience it won’t work well for a solid hour.
“Hey, boss.” Ty sounds nervous, and that makes my heart lighter.
“What’s happening here?” a man asks, his voice a deep rumble. Melodic. It vibrates through my body though my bare knees are planted on the plush carpet. My bones thrum with it as though it’s a tune that sings witho
ut permission inside the recesses of my soul.
I don’t lift my face. I don’t want anyone to witness my misery as I stuff the bills in my purse. I begin to rise as a large hand cups my elbow. Warmth leeches through my thin coat and flows through my body from his touch. I gaze at the beautiful leather shoes that shine in the soft light. My eyes rise to his wrist. Vintage cuff links wink back, a sapphire the only witness to my insecurity. My desperate need for indifference.
However fleeting, however untouchable.
I turn without offering thanks or a reply. His hand releases me, and I grow cold from its absence. I nearly run from the office, but I hear Ty comment about how strange I am, how all dancers are.
The only reply I hear before that burning gaze leaves my back is, “Shut up, Ty.”
The door clicks and I leave as quickly as I came.
The heat from that stare follows me.
*
Kiki’s curls dance as she moves her head to the music in her ear buds. She looks like a duck, her head jutting and retracting to some awesomeness only she can hear. Her long nail scrolls down the screen of her cell.
I plop down across from her and heave a sigh of relief. I heft my bag across my legs and against the corner of the seat of my favorite diner. I don’t branch out much. So sue me, I love the view. That’s a bit of the reason why I live where I do, why I shell out nine hundred bucks a month on a studio dive. Well, that and Mom’s terribly expensive care center is blocks away, like my job.
Both jobs, actually.
Kiki catches my eye and smiles big, her grin infectious. I smile back. She pops an earbud out, and I hear the singer, Sully Erna. Hottie. I feel heat fill out the cool paleness of my skin.
Kiki lights up at my expression, never one to lose out on an easy excuse to tease me. “Sully Erna’s coming to town. Saw him when he was touring with Godsmack. He’s dee-lish, baby!”
Kiki gives a little hip gyration on the seat as the waitress comes up, pen poised. She looks at Kiki with clear amusement and gives me a knowing smile. The that girl can’t be contained look passes between us before we look back at Kiki.
“What?” she asks, laughing. Her hand sails out dramatically, her tips bright red this month because Christmas is coming. God knows, she can’t not celebrate something.
