Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “You all right?” Ellis asked.

  “Mmph,” I said.

  “Yeah. About what I thought.” My dough-faced boss tipped his head sideways at my mumbled acknowledgement. “It’s like the fourth time I’ve called you, P.”

  “I’m a little tired today.”

  He did his best to smile kindly, and failed. It would’ve been miraculous to see him succeed. On a good day, the proprietor of Tangerines resembled an angry hippopotamus. He had large, forever-flaring nostrils, and protruding, horribly gapped teeth. With exception of two tufts of hair on each side of his face, he was totally bald. Some of the girls made fun of him, but when push came to shove, he was a good boss. He was always patient with me. Even when I fell asleep on the job.

  “Your man keep you up again?”

  “Always,” I said with a forced wink. “For some weird reason he likes to sleep at night and wants to be awake during the day. And the worst part is, he wants me to be awake, too.”

  Ellis shook his head. “Mortals.”

  That was his pet name for people who weren’t directly involved in the exotic-dance business. He was proud of it, and proud of his club, and I never failed to smile when he used the word with such disgust.

  “You could always leave him,” Ellis suggested as he glanced down at my naked ring finger. “I know more than a few guys who would be glad to stick something sparkly on that hand. And not all of them are assholes, neither.”

  I sighed dramatically. “Oh, Ellis. You have such a way with words.”

  He grinned. “You gonna be okay to go on tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  For a tenth of a second, I saw doubt cross my boss’s face, and then he nodded and exited the room.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d wondered if he saw through me. I’d been in Trent Falls for nineteen months, and working at Tangerines for seventeen of them. That was longer than I’d stayed anywhere in six years, and it was the primary reason I’d been telling Jayme we had to move. It was the source of our fight. It was what spurred me into my reckless actions of the night before.

  Don’t think about that right now, I cautioned myself. Or you won’t be able to dance.

  And I had to dance well. I didn’t care about the patrons. But I wouldn’t let Ellis down. My boss took a chance on me when so many others just shook their heads and dismissed me. And surprisingly, his random faith in me worked out. Maybe it was his support that did it, or maybe it was my history, or a natural-born talent, handed down from my mother. Either way, I was doing better at this job than I ever had at waitressing, selling shoes or assembling boxes.

  Ellis understood and accommodated my need for privacy from the other girls. He didn’t care that I wanted to keep a safe distance between them and me, and he let me work out my own shows. There was something comfortable about the man, and it was almost too easy for me to be myself around him.

  Or maybe even someone more than myself, I acknowledged. Did Ellis sense that my costume was the place I felt most comfortable?

  If so, he never said it. So long as I showed up on time and did my dances when I was supposed to, Ellis treated me well and didn’t question my quirks.

  I stifled a sigh and went back to covering my face with another dab of my stage make-up.

  In truth, I had only seen Jayme briefly this morning. He’d headed out with some friends right after breakfast for an all-day event, and when he’d come home, he’d glanced guiltily at the bruise, shovelled down the dinner I’d made, and then turned to his video games. Even when I’d left for work, he’d barely glanced my way. We were long past apologies for his outbursts. Or at least he was. For my part, though…I knew my indiscretion of the previous night was something I should be sorry for.

  But I’m not sorry.

  The realization made me pause in my preparations. I felt guilty enough, for sure. But I was glad I’d gone back to Trent Falls Lodge with the man. I was glad I spent the night with him. Those brief hours had let me be my own person, and they were worth any heartache I felt about it after. Besides that, I wouldn’t ever see him again, and Jayme would never know. We’d pack our things, move on, and my life would go back to revolving around Jayme. So I wasn’t going to beat myself up about it. The black eye was punishment enough.

  I tucked my dark, shoulder-length hair into a bun, which I subsequently tucked under a blonde wig. I gave myself a satisfied nod in the mirror. I was me, but not me. Just the way I liked it.

  My phone chimed then, signalling an incoming text. It was from Misty.

  I think the cops are looking for you.

  My friend always knew how to brighten my day. I laughed out loud for the first time all day, and fired off a reply.

  Yeah. They’re arresting me for public indecency. Oh, wait. Nope. They’re here, paying to see it.

  I grinned as I waited for her answer.

  “Polly?”

  I looked up and realized that my boss was behind me again. He was tapping his watch emphatically and he wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “You’re on in five.”

  “Shit.”

  My phone beeped again and Ellis whipped it out of my hand before I could read the message.

  “I’ll guard this for you until you’re done.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Keep it. But if I catch you sexting my friends, I’m quitting.”

  “Your friends couldn’t handle me.”

  “True enough.”

  I kissed his cheek, then made a last-minute adjustment to my wig and to my dress. I got three steps from the door before I heard my boss’s voice again.

  “Polly?”

  “Yes?”

  “That man of yours…”

  I stiffened, unsure what he was going to say, or ask, and even less sure how I could possibly answer his questions without digging myself into a lie.

  “He seems a bit controlling, is all.”

  Ellis had never met Jayme, nor was he going to. I wanted those two parts of my life kept separate.

  I held the older man’s gaze steadily. “If he was really controlling, would he let me dance here?”

  Ellis sighed. “I s’pose not.”

  “I love him, Ellis. And he loves me. Our relationship is complicated, but not a day goes by that I’m not grateful for it. I promise.”

  The rare moment of absolute honesty made me shiver apprehensively.

  “All right then,” my boss relented. “On in one.”

  I hurried out of the room and readied myself for my performance.

  Me. But not me.

  * * *

  The phonograph in the middle of the main stage captured and held the attention of the entire audience. It didn’t matter that the tinny, old-time music was actually playing over the club speakers. The sight of the music player up there in place of a girl made everyone stare.

  I smiled at the tow-headed bartender and he scowled back.

  He’d bet me an hour’s worth of tips that I couldn’t distract the rowdy crowd long enough to get from the dressing room to the row of reserved seating directly in front of him. But no one even glanced my way as I snaked along the edge of the crowd and seated myself demurely at the bar.

  “Amaretto sour, please.”

  He rolled his eyes as he handed me the drink. It was actually a prop—water, tinted with juice and served over ice with three maraschino cherries on an extra-long swizzle stick.

  The two-minute jazz tune ended, and every light in the bar went out abruptly.

  The few seconds of absolute darkness were greeted with some typical hollers.

  “Hey! Who turned out the lights?”

  “What the hell?”

  “Do we still have to pay for our beer?”

  I wanted to laugh at the last one, but I made sure my face was relaxed and impassive as the spotlight clicked on, illuminating me and my bar stool.

  There’s something to be said for a girl who smiles at a man the first time she meets him. She’s approachable and likeable and there’
s nothing wrong with that. But I prefer the seductive curiosity that goes along with a girl who’s not smiling. The kind of girl who makes a man earn it.

  Except in this case, the men are paying to see it, of course.

  I pushed down the thought as I clinked my swizzle stick against my glass. The next song—still jazzy but a little more modern—started up, and I tapped my foot in time with the snare drum. The music picked up even more, and I shook my shoulders just a little bit along with the beat. I twisted in my chair, flashing some leg and the briefest, close-lipped smile before popping the maraschino cherries into my mouth, one at a time.

  I lifted my glass in the air as if to say, “Hello, boys”—and slid my feet to the floor. I arched my back lazily before I brought the drink to my lips. Or rather, almost to my lips. Then I let go. The glass slipped from my fingers and I bent down quickly, catching it a millisecond before it hit the floor. I paused there, letting the audience get a tantalizing view of my lacy crinoline and seamed stockings. When I stood up, I made an “Oh, my” face as if just realizing I’d exposed myself.

  I heard a few low, appreciative laughs and one wolf whistle, and I finally offered the crowd a toothy grin and a raised eyebrow.

  But I wasn’t done being coy quite yet.

  I took several dainty steps, weaving through the close-knit tables, swishing my hips and my dress at each turn. I was almost at the stage when the hem “accidentally” caught on the edge of one of the chairs. I pretended not to notice as the entire dress came unbuttoned and landed silently on the floor. I shimmied a little as I strutted up the four stairs that led to the main dancing area, dropping the crinoline a few inches with each step. By the time I reached the phonograph, I was clad in nothing but the stay-up stockings, a baby-doll negligee and my underwear.

  And my kitten heels, I reminded myself as they clicked across the wooden floor. But those won’t last long.

  A carefully timed, terribly grating record scratch cut off the music, and I made a pouty face at the phonograph. I put my hands on my hips and gave the poor old music player a choreographed kick.

  A resounding horn blared over the speakers in response, and I jumped back from the phonograph as if startled. I tapped my foot thoughtfully, then walked to the edge of the stage. I leaned down and removed each shoe as quickly as I could manage without losing the sensuality of my performance. My forward bend gave the men a brief glimpse of my chest before I strutted back over to the phonograph.

  I knew if I were willing to spend a little more time near the front, I would earn more tips. But shoeless…I couldn’t do it. It made me vulnerable and it brought back some of the most terrifying moments of my life.

  Under the harsh light, I was just another body. No one would recognize me if they saw me in the street. I could take off my clothes all day under the pretence of my job. I could prance around nude for money and never really feel worried about it. But I hated taking my shoes off with a passion.

  A hand gripped my ankle suddenly, and I tensed as the horrible feeling of being rooted to the spot threw me back twelve years.

  “Who the hell is this and why is she in my office?” The angry voice made me cringe.

  Another male voice —shaky and nervous, but somehow soothing anyway—answered. “Security found her hiding out in the club.”

  “Why the fuck does that make her my problem? Drop her on the curb.”

  At the long pause following the order, my eyes flicked up to the man who’d dragged me gently from my hiding place. He gave me a reassuring half smile and ran a hand over his creased brow. He turned back to the cruel-sounding man.

  “She’s the dancer’s daughter,” he said. “And I figured…”

  “Figured what?”

  “That you might want to keep her. Since the dancer owed you money.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. They were talking about my mother, and I didn’t want to think about her. Eighteen days ago, she hadn’t come home from her job as an exotic dancer. Sixteen days ago, I’d started my search. And just twelve days earlier, I’d found her at a halfway house, face down in her own vomit, not breathing and unmoving. I’d scooped her wallet and her ID and watched the papers for notification of her death. Jane Doe. Drug addict, found dead.

  “She owes me twenty-five grand,” the angry man stated. “How will this kid ease the debt? She looks like a little boy, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’m nearly thirteen.”

  Two sets of eyes turned toward me. One set, blue and a little bloodshot, looked worried. The other, steel grey and cold, gave me an assessing once over.

  Run! shouted a voice in my head. Run now!

  I started to move. Then stopped. My feet were bare and I was in my pyjamas. I’d come to the club in desperation, seeking anything my mother might’ve left behind before she died.

  “If she was eighteen…” said the cold-eyed man in a tone that made my skin crawl.

  “If she was eighteen, she would make terrible collateral. Because you’d want to keep her for yourself. Anyone can see that one day she’ll be beautiful.”

  The strange, cruel-looking man weighed his words and looked from the other man to me before sighing.

  “Fine,” he agreed at last.

  My head thumped.

  You should’ve gone when you had the chance, scolded my internal voice.

  But it’s much, much harder to run away when you’re barefoot.

  I shook off the hand on my leg just as an orange T-shirted bouncer moved toward the offending patron. I gave him a quick head shake. I didn’t want to be remembered as the girl who got a too-friendly fan kicked out of Tangerines.

  I smiled down at the man who had touched me, waggled my finger back and forth and mouthed the word naughty. Then I sashayed lightly back to the centre of the stage. I took a tiny, calming breath when I got there. I buried the memory that threatened to overwhelm me and tapped the phonograph with my stockinged toe.

  A double-time riff blared over the speakers, then cut off.

  I spread my legs hip distance apart and bent my body in half so I could examine the old-fashioned music machine. The action flipped my negligee up over my hips. The crowd had a perfect view of my lace-trimmed, full-bottomed underwear. I fiddled with the phonograph for a second, and a languorous, sensual beat filed the club. As I stood up slowly, my negligee hooked onto the phonograph and slipped over my head. I swayed in time with the music, rocking my hips and closing my eyes.

  Glitter and racy thongs be damned.

  My undergarments—circa 1950—covered more of my body than an average swimsuit, and excited the crowd more, too. I could hear the men breathing as I raised my hands over my head and arched my back. I could feel their desire. In a few moments, I would give them a little more, but for right now, they were content to look at me. I didn’t need a pole or a raunchy routine to command their attention.

  Maybe it was what made me good at this job, that awareness of power.

  I opened my eyes so I could watch them, watching me.

  And I froze.

  A pair of intense green eyes stared up at me from the front row.

  He came back.

  For a second I was pleased. But it didn’t last long.

  The man was alone, and the expression on his face was filled with something more than lust. Yes, the want was there, but it was secondary. It wasn’t the enthralled awe of last night. It was far more frightening.

  He’s looking at me like he wants to own me, like he’s calculating my worth.

  My heart seized and my head pounded at the realization that he was there for more than a follow-up to our one-night stand.

  Misty’s text.

  It wasn’t a joke. This man wasn’t a cop, but he was the kind of man who would say he was to get what he wanted.

  The man’s asshole boss.

  He worked for Cohen Blue.

  Six years of fear crashed through me as I dragged my gaze away and stumbled slightly before recovering.

  Quickly, quickly
, I urged myself.

  I ditched my plan to get unclothed and did a syncopated version of my dance moves. It didn’t matter if the customers complained, because they would never see me again. I wouldn’t even be giving Ellis a chance to scold me.

  I have to get away.

  But my shoes were just out of my reach, and damned if I could run fast enough.

  Chapter Five

  Painter

  I’d been searching the crowd for Jayme, but no longer.

  The music started and I was stuck to my seat, mesmerized by the girl in the charming polka-dotted dress.

  My girl. The thought came, and I couldn’t shake it off.

  She looked different and it wasn’t just the wig and the make-up. She was self-assured and calm and sexy as hell in an entirely different way.

  Her presence was agonizing.

  Every hip jerk. Every tiny smile. Every move.

  Each one filled me with a deep longing. Every bit of me was on fire with it.

  In a vague way, I knew that every man in the audience quite possibly felt the same. It was the goal of her dance, after all. That was the goal of this club.

  I don’t like it one bit. I felt weak, admitting it, so I tried to placate myself with another reminder. Those other men…they didn’t take her home last night.

  But maybe they had, on another night. It was irrational to feel sick with jealousy the way I did. We’d spent one night together, and she had run out without a word.

  Still, my gaze was riveted to the girl. She slid past my table and her dress caught on my chair then fell to the ground at my feet. She glided up the stairs, losing the bit of puffy lace she’d had wrapped around her waist.

  I had to beat down the urge to rip her from the stage, toss her scantily clad body over my shoulder, and drag her forcibly to my car.

  Just as I was thinking about doing it, a man did grab her, and I came to my feet, ready to defend her. She brushed him off and went straight back to her act. I swallowed thickly, noting which man it was in case he caused any more problems later in the evening, then brought my eyes back to the girl.

  She moved in time to the music, not quite oblivious to all the panting, leering men around her. Something nagged at the back of my brain, something important, but all I could do was will her to notice me.