Ripped

by Lisa Edward

  Dropping to the ground, I did my customary one hundred push-ups to pump up my arms and chest before rubbing a little baby oil over my body so it would glisten in the lights. The costume was next. I would be playing the role of a soldier, and it made me smile to think that soldiers were in Jaz’s show and it somehow connected us. Of course, her soldiers didn’t have carefully sewn seams so that pants could be ripped off in an instant, but it was still a costume, and this was still a part I was playing.

  “You’re up, Commando,” Captain called from the doorway. “They’re wild tonight. Keep your wits about you.”

  I grabbed my phone. If I was quick, I’d have a minute to send Jaz another message before I went on. It had become my ritual to send her something sweet, something that let her know I was thinking of her, and something that also reminded me of the other reason I was doing this.

  Sure, I’d been working here for nearly two years, which was long before Jaz had come back into my life. It had started out as a waiter job. Just like the guys out there, I’d walked around shirtless, serving drinks and flirting for tips and I’m not gonna lie—it had been fun. The girls had always put so much effort into their appearance and were always looking for a good time, and for a single guy it was the best job in the world. But after serving drinks and watching the guys on stage get all the attention, I’d needed more. I’d given up on dance at that stage, but you didn’t have to be a professional to do what the dancers did—all you needed to be able to do was bump and grind and flex.

  Captain was indeed the captain, of waiters and strippers alike, and one night when I’d overheard him talking about having to audition for another dancer I saw it as my chance. I’d never stripped, but I’d watched enough shows to see how it was done, and the routines were basic. He’d gathered the other guys around and I jumped up on stage, totally unprepared with just my instincts to guide me.

  As soon as I’d started to move, I’d seen Captain sit up on the edge of his seat.

  “That was amazing,” he’d said, clapping as he and the rest of the guys stood. It was my first standing ovation and although it had only been from a few guys in a seedy club, it had felt like all my dreams were coming to fruition.

  This was what I was here for. The only thing I was good enough to do was dance and take my clothes off, but at least it was dancing.

  But I was also here for Jaz. Even if I’d wanted to leave, I couldn’t afford it. Jaz was on minimum wage during the rehearsal phase of the show so it fell on my shoulders to support us. Not that I minded—I’d been raised to believe a man should do whatever was required to support his family, and Jaz was my family.

  It was time to perform and as always the nervous butterflies had me on edge and ready to go.

  I’d heard the crowd from the back room, but as I stepped out on stage amidst the smoke and swirling spotlights, the cheers escalated, vibrating through my chest like a drum. I loved this part—the excitement, the unpredictability of the crowd, the cheers and calls for more. It had my blood pumping and heart racing.

  As always, I looked around the crowd as I danced, trying to make eye contact with as many girls as I could and occasionally giving them a sly smile or cheeky wink.

  At the back of the venue, a flash of a figure dressed in a red dress raced for the exit, and I could have sworn by the body shape it looked like Jaz. For a split second, I froze to the spot as feelings of guilt, dread, and relief flooded over me. If that was her then she finally knew, and I could stop lying to her about the one thing I’d kept secret since we’d met up again. A few seconds later, the spotlight twirled into the crowd and I caught a glimpse of Tiffany leaving by the same exit.

  So this was it. Jaz knew.

  I hesitated. Every fiber of my being told me to jump off the stage and go after her. I needed to explain and to beg her to forgive the fact that I had kept this from her, but the crowd were screaming, the music blaring, and I knew I had to finish my performance. The show must go on, and this was my show and I was the star.

  The girl on stage with me was so drunk she could hardly stand, so I followed rule number one in the stripper handbook, and got her a chair before she fell down. Her dress was hitched up and her stockings had a massive hole in them. Inside the hole was a cut on her leg where blood had congealed, and I guessed she’d fallen over at some stage and not even realized she was hurt. She looked up at me as I went through the motions of a lap dance without actually touching her. It wasn’t that difficult and was surprisingly similar to professional dancing when you played a romantic lead and had to pretend to touch your partner in an intimate embrace. From the audience it appeared that I was bumping and grinding against her, but in reality there was always air between us. She leered up at me, trying to focus her bleary eyes, and I diverted my gaze and concentrated on the choreographed routine of making her feel desirable. She was so not sexy but that was part of the act—to have every woman who left the stage think she was in with a chance.

  The second girl was a little less drunk and looked to be only about twenty-one. She was apprehensive, and as I squeezed baby oil into her palm so she could rub it over my chest, she giggled nervously. I preferred these girls because they didn’t take liberties. You could control their involvement, and they were more than happy to get a few seconds of the spotlight and then get off the stage.

  I finished the performance the way I always did—naked, with my helmet held over my crotch. No one ever saw anything I didn’t want them to see, but there was always the chance that maybe, just maybe the helmet would slip and expose what every woman in the club was chanting for.

  The crowd were on fire, screaming for more, and usually I would go off-stage, pull on some tiny shorts, and then come back out for a sexy-as-hell hip-hop routine, but not tonight. I needed to get out of there and get home. Racing to the tiny change room behind the stage, I pulled on my street clothes and hung up the costume with all the others.

  “Hey, man, you okay?” Captain asked. “You not going back out tonight?”

  I didn’t have time to explain. What could I say? My girlfriend who I loved more than life itself had just found out that I was a stripper and now she’d probably never speak to me again? “I’m fine.” I grabbed up my bag. “Gotta go.”

  The train ride home would take too long, so I hailed a cab. I’d dreaded this day, even though I knew it would come sooner or later. I’d formulated explanations in my mind and in my head, in those made-up scenarios, Jaz had understood that I had to dance and that this was the only type of dancing I was any good at. She would forgive me from keeping it a secret and I would tell her how it meant nothing, and that a lot of what happened on stage was smoke and mirrors. Girls didn’t really put their hands on us; we held their hands so our own fingers were what made contact. I would demonstrate, and she would laugh and eventually forgive me. She had to.

  Barreling through the door of the apartment, I knew instantly she wasn’t there. The room was in darkness, but more than that, it felt empty. It felt like no love and no warmth lived there. It was just an empty room.

  “Jaz?” I called as I flicked on the light, even though I knew there’d be no response. I could see the entire apartment from the door, but I still ran around like a madman in the hope that she would magically appear if I willed it hard enough.

  I couldn’t have beaten her home so the only place she could be was Tiffany’s.

  I called Jaz’s phone; it went straight to voicemail. I tried again and again but every time it clicked over to the same happy Jaz voice telling me she was probably dancing and to leave a message.

  I needed a minute, so I sat in the comfy chair and thought about what to say. I may only have one chance to save our relationship so it had to be good.

  Puffing out a deep breath for courage, I dialed again and waited for the beep.

  “Hi Jaz, let me start by saying I love you and I’m sorry. I know you were there tonight, I saw you leave, and I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, but I knew you would never understa
nd why I was doing it. Please come home so we can talk about it. Or call me. Just … let me know you’re okay. I love you, baby.”

  There was so much more I needed to say but I wanted to do it in person, face to face, not over the phone. Lying back on the bed, I kept the phone held tight in my hand and waited for it to ring.

  It never did.

  CARTER WAS a laidback dude, but he was perceptive. He noticed that Jaz didn’t come down the stairs to go to the theater in the morning, and he noticed that I looked like shit.

  “Lady troubles, my friend?”

  “She’s gone,” I mumbled, still gripping the phone so tight I had red indentations in my palm.

  “So go get her back, man.” He stepped out from behind the counter and gave me a hug. “She’s a good one; don’t blow it.”

  She wasn’t a good one—she was the best one, the only one.

  Knowing Jaz’s work ethic, I knew there was nothing that would keep her from the theater. Whether she was sick with the flu or injured, she had always gone to class at the conservatory and I was sure that even if her heart was broken, or she was so angry with me that she never wanted to see me again, she would be there pouring every emotion into her dance.

  As soon as I arrived, I felt an uneasy chill in the air. Was I imagining it? Did everyone already know what had happened? Not wanting to draw any more attention to myself than I already had, I quietly walked around the outer wall and slid into my usual row of seats. Tiffany, Becca, and the other girls in the chorus were on stage, laughing and joking around, but as Tiffany turned in my direction, the smile left her face and her body tensed. If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead on the spot as her stare speared straight through me. Okay, so this was bad. If Tiffany was that angry then it had to be a direct reflection of how hurt Jaz was.

  Not knowing what to do, I gave her a wry smile and mouthed ‘Where’s Jaz?’

  She shook her head, the disdain never leaving her eyes, then strode off stage left.

  So, that went well. Was she going to get Jaz, or just to warn her that I was here so she could prepare herself for the confrontation that was sure to ensue?

  It felt like an hour that I sat there, not knowing if I should stay put or try to sneak my way backstage to find Jaz before she finally stepped through the wings and onto the stage. My heart broke at the sight of her, and I hung my head in shame for being the cause of her pain. If I looked like shit from not sleeping, then she looked worse. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, her hair pulled back with at best a finger-comb to tame it. Her usually straight as a board posture was slumped, shoulders rounded, eyes downcast.

  “Ah, there’s my little dove,” Pierre said with an exaggerated pout as he met Jaz center-stage. “Are we feeling better? We are ready?” He pulled her into an embrace and my blood boiled, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t even know if we were still together at this point, so to race up there and beat the crap out of him probably wasn’t the best move. Besides, Jaz wasn’t pulling away—she was hugging him back as her shoulders shook with a new flood of tears. Pierre cupped her cheeks in his hands and brushed away the dampness with his thumbs. “You must dance.” He touched his fist to his chest. “Take all the pain from here and use it.”

  His words were like a punch in the guts, knocking the wind from me and making my own eyes blur with tears. I had caused that pain. I was the reason she was standing there in front of everyone, sobbing so hard her body shook. It was me and no one else who had hurt Jaz so badly that she needed comforting from the person who made her skin crawl.

  She took a few deep breaths and pulled her shoulders back, straightened her spine and raised her chin. “I’m ready.”

  Everyone left the stage and made their way to the seats across the aisle from me. I tried to catch Tiffany’s eye so I could call her over and sound her out on my chances of even talking to Jaz, let alone reconciling, but she ignored my attempts, deliberately turning her head as she passed my row of seats. I wished the others had. Tiffany may not have wanted to look at me, but every other girl who passed made a point of glaring at me disapprovingly. All except Louisa—she practically purred as she looked me up and down, undressing me with her gaze and seductively licking her lips. It was too much. I may have seen it a million times at the club from other girls, but that was different; I was in character there and it was expected.

  The stage lights dimmed and a spotlight that shone from above, found Jaz, standing in arabesque, perfectly balanced and poised. She looked like an angel, adorned in a white dress with silver beading. Her golden hair, although messier than I’d ever seen it, still shone as the white light cast an aura around her.

  I hadn’t seen this piece performed before, and I realized it must be the pivotal solo for Jaz that she had learnt only a few days ago. I’d missed so many of her rehearsals lately. Between working at the record store during the day and racing to get to the restaurant or club at night, our time together had been reduced to a rushed dinner together or a few hours in the evening when Jaz was already in bed.

  The music was beautiful, delicate and enchanting. With just the slightest wave of strings it pulled you in, and I physically felt myself being drawn forward in my chair. Jaz hadn’t moved yet, her position grounded and unwavering even though she sniffed back the tears that welled in her eyes.

  And then she began to dance, the music flowing through her from core to fingertips. She expressed every sound and every emotion that I was feeling. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. She had always been captivating but the heartbreak I had caused was coursing through her and she danced it. Every tear that had been shed, every feeling of betrayal I could see as she leapt higher than I’d ever seen her leap, the anger powering her to greater heights where she then touched down without a whisper of sound.

  My vision blurred as my breath hitched in my throat, and for the first time since the night before when our world had crashed down and disintegrated into rubble, the tears flowed and I let them roll down my cheeks and collect on my top lip before landing in my lap. This exquisite interpretation was how Jaz danced when her heart was breaking, but she should have been dancing like this when her heart was filled with love. I had crushed her and she had risen above the pain, using her emotions to fuel her.

  As the piece ended with Jaz crouched down on the stage, her character broken, her shoulders shook. The small audience applauded loudly and rose to their feet, and I joined them. Whether she wanted me there or not I felt privileged to have witnessed such brilliance.

  Jaz stood gracefully and took her bow with a small smile gracing her lips. Her eyes scanned the audience and found me, immediately welling with salty tears again before she raced from the stage back the way she’d come.

  Tiff jumped up and sidestepped through the seats to the end of the row.

  “Let me go after her,” I told Tiffany, meeting her in the center of the aisle. “I have to talk to her.”

  Her arms crossed over her chest as she did her best to block my path. “No fucking way. You’ve done enough damage. Leave her alone; she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “I need to hear that from Jaz. I can’t believe after finally finding each other again that it’s over.”

  She shook her head. “If you’re going to see her then I’m coming, too.”

  “No, you’re not. This is between us.” I pleaded with my eyes. “I have to fix this, Tiff.”

  She threw her hands to the side in surrender. “She’ll be in the first dressing room on the left. But so help me if you hurt her again …”

  Jaz was in the first dressing room, sitting at the makeup mirror, dabbing at her swollen eyes. The moment I entered the room, her gaze met mine through the reflection and her image blurred.

  “That was amazing, Jaz,” I croaked as I tentatively entered farther into the room. “Absolutely mesmerizing.”

  Inch by painstakingly slow inch I crossed the room, fearful with every step that she would demand that I leave, or worse, tell me it was over. />
  When I placed my hand gently on her shoulder I allowed myself to breathe, then squatted down beside her. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Jaz.”

  After running these lines in my head a hundred times as I lay on the bed the night before, I now had no idea what to say.

  “How could you?” she blurted out. “All those women touching you while you take your clothes off for them …” She shook her head. “I can’t even begin to understand why you would do it.”

  There was a two-seater gray couch in the corner. I took her hand and led her over to it. It was cozy and we had to sit close but she pressed into the arm as much as she could, as if touching me would burn her.

  “I started a few years ago as a waiter at first, but I wanted to dance.”

  “You wanted to dance there?” she said incredulously.

  “I wanted to dance anywhere, and nowhere else wanted me.” I knew I was doing a terrible job of explaining but pressed on. “I crave the spotlight like anyone else who was born to perform, but this is the only type of performance anyone wants to see from me. Without this, there would be no dance in my life.”

  “There are other types of dancing, Bax. I mean …” She waved her arm, searching for answers. “You could do theater restaurants for goodness sake.”

  “Really?” I cocked my head. Theater restaurant had always been considered a bit of a joke. “I don’t think singing ‘Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat’ while wearing a bowtie is really my style.”

  “And taking all your clothes off is?”

  “It’s just a part I’m playing. It’s dancing, it’s an act. When I’m on stage, it’s not really me; I’m portraying a character. You must get it—you’re playing a part in When the Ship Comes In. It’s the same thing. I play the part of a soldier—”

  “Who takes all his clothes off,” she finished. “It’s not the same thing. That was you up there. Every ripple, every body roll—it was you they were touching and it was you they were seeing … and I can’t unsee that.” Her hands flew to her face. “I wish I could unsee every hand reaching to touch you. I wish I could unhear every cheer for you to take more clothes off, and I wish I could erase from my memory the look on your face as you lapped it up.” Her elbow rested on the arm of the couch. Her head sat heavily in her palm. “I can’t be with someone who sells his body for a living.”