Club Alpha

by Marata Eros

  What's happening is exactly what I don't need. I look terrible, I have a visit to my mom's bedside tonight, and a set tomorrow night on the lap of another stranger. I'm facing the man who is my boss, my assailant, and savior all in one chaotic package. And he's enough of a man to make a legion of panties disintegrate.

  Incinerate.

  Jared McKenna leans back, drawing his pant leg down as he crosses his knees at the ankle. His eyes are shadowed as he stares at me.

  I break the silence. “I'm Faren Mitchell.”

  I pray he has too many dancers to know who I am. I can't help my embarrassment.

  His manicured nail, blunt and perfect, flicks the clipboard with my medical chart. One corner of his lush mouth picks up in a dimpled half-smile, and I blush, glancing at my hands. Of course he knows who I am. He takes my cool fingers and frowns a little at them. My eyes are hidden, staring at my lap as my heart beats a staccato rhythm.

  He turns my palm over and talks to my hand. “I'm so sorry, Faren.”

  He says my name like a talisman, and I look up, startled by the soft way his voice caresses the syllables. I gaze at him numbly, his fingers playing over my knuckles. It's more intimacy than I've received from a human being since Mom was taken from me four years ago. It's a terrible beauty that the genuine touch of another human being moves me.

  I've lap danced with dozens of men in the last ten days, but Jared makes me feel as though I'm part of him. The light play of his fingers over my flesh creates a symphony of sensation.

  I want to snatch my hand away.

  I want him to move on to other body parts. I'm so out of my emotional comfort zone that I can't breathe.

  I say the first thing that comes to mind. “It's not your fault. I was-I was upset.” I glance at Jared again then bite my lip, casting my eyes downward.

  He squeezes my hand lightly. The callouses on his palm scrape an erotic path as they slide away from my skin.

  I miss his touch and feel relief at the same time.

  He rakes the hand that was just touching mine through his hair and exhales. “It's not your fault. I should have seen you before you were in the street.”

  I look at him without wanting to, and his deep brown eyes pull me in. They look so sincere. He doesn’t look like a rich guy who’s had it easy. There's a hardness to him, an edge. Jared McKenna isn’t accustomed to being scrutinized, and he smoothly redirects my thoughts.

  “I’ve already paid the bill for your care,” he says. A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

  Thank God! I think then on the heels of that, How dare he?

  My eyes narrow and he looks surprised.

  “What?” he asks as if he doesn't know.

  Like he doesn't realize how manipulative the whole paying it is. I don’t want to be an ungrateful wench, but I cross my arms underneath my breasts. The unattractive baby blue hospital tent covering me from knee to neck hitches up, and I watch his eyes shift to my breasts then away.

  Still a guy. An unapologetic, manipulative, gorgeous guy.

  “I have health insurance.”

  He nods, his strong chin holding a kiss from God in the center. My mind swirls with drug-induced thoughts of him as my angel, and a little smile touches my lips.

  His stare moves to my mouth. “I understand. However, I feel responsible, so I'll take care of it.”

  His words are final, said with an expression that is equal parts hard and unyielding. Jared is used to people saying yes. I wonder if anyone ever says no.

  He stands to walk away as if he expects me to roll over. Even I know I'm not being reasonable. The fault lies with him. Jared McKenna has made me forget everything but his presence, and that's not fair. I have terrible debts to pay, a short life to live, and instead of focusing what needs doing, I let a man unnerve me to the point that I forgot what's important. Not to mention he's my boss... and he did hit me with his motorcycle.

  His hand circles the doorknob, but as if he forgot something, he returns to my bedside, and slides an elegant business card into my handbag. “I don't think I'm finished with my penance just yet, Miss Mitchell.” Then he does it, a second intimacy I don't know what to do with, I can't know how to quantify.

  He leans forward and wraps his hand around the back of my head where it's snarled with asphalt and dirt from the accident. As he breathes a kiss of fragrant heat above my forehead, he whispers, “I really am sorry.”

  I gulp down the luscious scent of him: male, cinnamon, and spice. Jared McKenna pulls away, pulverizing me with a stare for my ten heartbeats to his two and walks away.

  I watch his tailored navy back and deep bronze hair leave as silently as he entered.

  *

  I hold my mom's hand, as I have a thousand times before and I cry. I'll miss her. And so much else. Her prognosis is grim—maybe a handful of years or less. I can't let them move her.

  I won't.

  I swipe at the wetness on my face, listening to the clock as sunlight slants inside her room. Someone forgot to close the blinds.

  I sigh, stand, and make my way to the window. My right hand grasps the twisty plastic rod, and I turn it to shut the slats. My eyes catch sight of a familiar motorcycle. As if on some bizarre cue, my thigh throbs where McKenna hit it. His body's unmistakable. He’s large and broad in the shoulders, and the unique hair color brands him.

  Unobtainable.

  I shut the blinds with a sharp click. He ran into me. Jared McKenna paid my bill. He needs a piece of my mind.

  He held me and made me grieve for something I can't have. For that, I hate him. I stare at the louvers. I glance behind me at my mother sleeping in false peace. I turn back to the blinds and the man I know is behind them.

  I lift one of the louvers and peer out at him as he sits astride his idling bike, surfing his cell with a tapered finger. I allow my eyes to take in his all-black ensemble. Gone are the tailor-made suit, Italian shoes, and subtly jeweled cuff links. In their place is the kind of leather a girl dreams about.

  Dark.

  Black.

  Dangerous.

  I let the louver slip back into place and turn back to my mom. I gnaw at my bottom lip. Decision made, I march out of Mom's room, mad at Jared for following me as if I'm some baby. His new charity. Rich guys like him have to feel good about something they do, right?

  I don't need sympathy.

  I take the steps like a battle sergeant and swing the wide glass doors open, nearly braining an orderly.

  “Whoa! Faren, what the hell?” Barney says with a laugh as I breeze past him.

  My cup of care has runneth over, and it's spilling on everyone. Later I'll apologize.

  Right now, I'm on a mission.

  My eyes land on Jared, and I stomp over to him. The low drone of his bike makes my next words harsher. “You don't need to follow me, Mr. McKenna.”

  That small amused smile he's sported from the minute I met him widens into a grin. His teeth are so very white in his smug face.

  Gawd, he's so insufferable. His eyes move to my lips, and I realize I'm still mauling them. I let my bottom lip pop out of my mouth.

  “Just making sure my investment pays off,” he says smoothly. I am feeling the distraction of him as I see his large strong hands hold the throttle and subtly twist it as the motor give an deep appreciative throb.

  “What?” I can't believe him. I put my hands on my hips and his gaze travels in a random three point pattern. Yeah, that one. I scowl at him, my breasts and hoo-ha tingling from where his gaze just traveled.

  “Looking for bruises?”

  His smile fades.

  “No,” he says in curt answer. “Did you look at the card I gave you?”

  I shake my head. I went straight from the hospital to my place, took a hot and painful shower, and headed directly to my mom's care facility.

  “You might want to.” The kickstand taps the concrete, and then he's moving toward me in a steady stride of fluid muscle in motion.

  G
od, he's big. My heart is in my throat as his shoulders blot out the street behind us, the sun... everything. I look up as he draws nearer. His subtle smell is a memory trigger for the asphalt at my cheek, the swirling haze in my mind, the feel of a warm hand over mine.

  Safe, my memory whispers.

  I blink, and he's there, tipping my chin up and searching my face. Heat blazes in his eyes though his expression is cool. His gaze moves to my mouth, and I feel my lips part in invitation. An invitation I've expressly forbidden myself. My life is in shambles, and he's a last-minute storm driven into my path.

  McKenna bends his frame over mine. He cups my chin as his mouth hovers over the corner of mine. “Do what it says, Miss Mitchell.”

  He drops his hand from my face and I stand there, stunned. He walks away, drops one long leather-clad leg over the seat and lifts the kickstand with a practiced swivel of his black boot. He turns to me. “Call me Mick. I think we're on a first name basis now, don't you?” he asks rhetorically.

  He doesn't wait for an answer I won't give. Jared pulls away from the curb, and I walk forward like a zombie. I sway as I watch him, and something startling occurs to me.

  The past day has been the first twenty-four headache-less hours I've had in months.

  Maybe Jared “Mick” McKenna is my medicine?

  Or my drug of choice. Either way, I'm an addict.

  ~ 8 ~

  I walk through the narrow front door of my apartment building. My eyes travel the stairs, and I sigh with irritation. My gaze shifts to the rickety old freight elevator, a soothing form of transport—if it works.

  I'll take my chances. I press the old push button that slides the elevator doors apart. I shove the metal gate away, step through, close the woven metal behind me, and latch it with my right hand. I press the lit number 5. With a lurch, the cart lumbers up, grinding and clattering the entire way. It stops just short of the fifth floor. I open the heavy metal, and it slides away with a rattle. Gripping one side, I hike myself up to floor level and grimace. My body doesn't like being tossed on a street, I guess.

  I close the door and walk the short distance to my apartment. I slide the key into the bolt and turn it, opening the door with my hip, and drop my keys in the bowl on top of a small table from my mom's house.

  I spread my fingers, feeling their stiffness.

  I put on the kettle and watch the burner turn red as I grab the edges of the stove. I lean against it, chin brushing my chest, and cry.

  I don't want to die. I want to see Jared McKenna again. I want to know the secrets of my body before I no longer exist to experience them. I lift my head and walk to the sink, turning on the tap, wallowing in the comfort of my familiar routine. The water steams as it hits the white porcelain basin and I splash hot water on my face and it feels good – normal. Breathing deeply, I try to bring myself back to whatever center I can find.

  I stare off instead, thinking about nothing. The card. I remember and lurch to the couch. My normal grace is gone in my rush to retrieve the card he slid inside my purse. My body squawks, aches and pains springing up like unwanted weeds. I reach in my pink purse, the fake diamonds winking at me.

  The card will say something like: I know your secret.

  Though he can't know.

  Or: You work for me, pay up—on my lap.

  That elicits a shiver. Not one of revulsion either. I'm pretty sure Jared hasn't put it together that I was the girl picking up money at his feet.

  Or my personal favorite: You're fired.

  He won't give a shit that my mom is two weeks from being put into one of those places.

  I shudder thinking about the care Tannin Mitchell would receive in a state facility.

  I push it out of my mind as my hand closes around the heavy paper. The square fits into my palm perfectly, luxuriously. Nothing but the best for Jared.

  I move my hand away from the front. In black foil lettering, it reads: Jared McKenna. Tiny upper case letters spell out a web site address.

  Well, that was lame. I suppose he wants me to become a follower? My thumb glides across the deeply embossed letters, shining like ink on the deep cream card. With a sigh, I place it on the end table and turn to move back into the kitchen.

  My eyes hit on the slanted script on the back. I read it twice.

  Streetside; 1920 1st Ave. Seven o'clock. Black tie.

  I stare at the deliberate handwriting, and a nervous laugh shoots out of my mouth. What is this?

  Then it comes to me. Jared McKenna, a.k.a. Mick, feels guilty. He wants to make sure that he ties the bow just right on the package of his conscience. Once that's done, he can move on and be free of me.

  I feel a smile bleed across my face, and I don't need a mirror to know it's not pleasant.

  I have nothing to lose. Kiki is doing my laps tomorrow night too. I have a full twenty-four hours without worry.

  You're dying, Faren, my mind reminds me in an evil whisper. I decide to seize the moment.

  Nothing to lose.

  Except my virginity.

  *

  I walk outside my apartment building, and the cool air nips at my exposed legs. The nude stockings are so sheer they let the wind have its way with me. My platform pumps match my hose, and the chill works upward underneath my silver dress. It's short and elegant, unlike the costumes I wear for the laps of strangers. The clothes hide both the bruise from Mick's Harley and the fading cylinder from riding erections. Gaining experience while losing my innocence, one lap at a time.

  I force my thoughts back to the outfit I've chosen for McKenna, the salve to his guilt. The silver of my dress makes my eyes look like shiny coins. I've tacked my hair up in an elegant loose coil at my nape, abandoning informal bands, barrettes and hair jewelry in favor of honey-colored bobby pins I use to artfully arrange my hair into a knot at the base of my head.

  But my mind revolves around Doctor Matthews's words and the card he gave me with my appointment about management. I find myself dismissing his cautions as a limousine pulls up at the curb. I clutch my small silver purse and bite my lip not to laugh.

  This can't be happening to me. I'm a physical therapist and part time exotic lap dancer. Girls like me don't go out with billionaires. Especially terminally ill girls, even if it's only to dispel his feelings of responsibility.

  Of course, nobody would know I'm living on borrowed time from looking at me. The girl in the mirror stared steadily back as I had glammed up for tonight, healthy as a horse.

  But that's not what the damning photo of my brain has proven to me.

  Was that just a day ago? I wonder. A day ago when I was breezing through patients, grinding through lap dances. Before my life dumps upside down forever. But I've made a promise to Mom. A promise I can't give up because my circumstances have turned dire, permanent.

  I will keep it. She gave her life for mine. I’ll do anything it takes to give her dignity. Because that's all I can do.

  The driver comes around to the curb and discreetly glances at my outfit. A slim smile courses across lips accustomed to just that expression. He probably smiles like that when he's sleeping.

  “Ms. Mitchell?” he inquires in smooth American English. He's a stooped, older gentleman, maybe close to mid-seventies.

  I think of him driving with old man reflexes in the heart of Seattle. I hesitate. Actually, the whole situation makes me hesitate, and I have a crazy urge to run off in the opposite direction.

  I don't.

  “Please.” He sweeps an arm forward and guides me by my elbow to the back of the limo.

  I'm so glad for my ten years of ballet before height stole my dreams. I glide down off the curb into the street and fold into the limo easily.

  It's empty. I turn to the limo driver. “Where is...” I don't know how to refer to him.

  The little old man inserts my missing moniker smoothly, “Mr. McKenna?”

  I nod.

  “He awaits you at our destination,” he replies and softly shuts the door.
/>   I survey him as he leisurely strolls around the front of the limo and opens the door to slide in.

  I realize I don't know his name.

  I lean forward and tap the glass partition, my rear in the air and my knee planted on the seat across from me.

  The glass opens, and his watery blue eyes meet mine. “Yes, Ms. Mitchell?”

  “What is your name?”

  A genuine smile spreads the deep folds of his cheeks to smoothness.

  “I am Henry.”

  He extends a palm through the open glass, and I take it. He gives my hand a brief squeeze before he lets go to turn back to the wheel.

  I settle again in my seat and smooth my dress down to mid-thigh. “Thank you, Henry.”

  His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “You are most welcome.”

  The glass closes with a silent hiss, and our eyes meet for a moment more. I think I see something in them that gives me pause.

  A sort of wise sadness remains as his eyes shift to the road. We’re on the same page but put in the book for different reasons.

  Henry pulls away from the curb. I watch him expertly navigate the busy lower streets of First Street. He avoids the storefront of Pike Place Market, still jammed with tourists. It's been dark for an hour as we close in on the restaurant. My face breaks into a grin. Thoughts of bucket lists crowd my head, and I remember I can take whatever is I wish for. My life is mine in a way I've never thought of before. There is no precedence for this night.

  For what might come next.

  We park at the base of the Space Needle, where Mick waits five hundred feet above the ground. Henry slips out of the limousine and walks to my door. I bend my legs in unison, tap my heels on the street, and take the hand he offers me.

  Henry lifts his chin infinitesimally, and I look where he indicates. People are walking toward the doors of the Skycity Restaurant and their dress code is not formal as Mick has told me. He requested I dress black tie formal, even though it's not required, and I frown as the mystery of Mick deepens.