Club Alpha

by Marata Eros

  “Yeah!” Thorn hoots, punching the roof. “That rocked balls!”

  He decelerates, and I ask meekly, “Can I sit up?”

  “Oh yeah, go ahead.”

  I lift my head up and wilt against the seat. A leaky sound escapes, and I notice it's my breath. “God, what the hell was that about?”

  “Not what—who.”

  I look at him as he circles back toward my street. We crawl along in stop-and-go traffic in front of Pike Place Market.

  “Mick.”

  “No,” I reply in a wheeze.

  “Yeah.”

  *

  Detour

  Thorn drives past my turn off, and I say, “Hey, where are we going?”

  “You want to explain to Mick what you're doing with me?”

  Not really.

  He watches my face. “I didn't think so.”

  I look at his strong hands, the tat sleeves bleeding up his arms and ask, “So what's the plan?”

  “I'll drop you off somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  He pulls up at a building and parks.

  I see my mom's clinic, and my heart stops.

  I whip around to hit him.

  “Don't.” Thorn's eyes are hard. “I'm not a complete asshole, but I'm no punching bag either.”

  He saw the violence in my eyes that fast. Thorn is brutal around the edges, and the potential for instant physicality surrounds him.

  My breathing picks up. “How did you know I was going to hit you?”

  “You're nothing but a big tell, Faren.”

  My brow cocks.

  Thorn laughs. “Y'know, like poker.”

  I give him blank face.

  “Yeah, okay. Everyone has subtle body signals that give away what they’re gonna do next. Your tells are big.”

  Oh. “That's not good,” I admit.

  Thorn laughs. “You really wanted to give me the smack down?”

  “Yeah.”

  Thorn's humor seeps away. “Nobody abuses me. Ever.”

  I nod. Got it.

  “You knew about my mom.” I fold my arms as my eyes wither him with a glare.

  “Google. I Google every name I hire.”

  His eyes glitter in the dome light when I open the passenger door.

  Bunce.

  “Then you know I can't do that dance with Ron.” I guess Thorn doesn't know him as Ronnie.

  Thorn frowns, clearly bewildered. “I know you don't like the laps—I get that. But the dude laid down some serious cash, and you're gonna have to dance that lap. Cops breaking it up or not. He wants a big time raincheck.”

  Thorn spreads his hands. “I got a rep, ya feel me?”

  I did, but I had been hoping that Thorn’s little compassionate streak might extend to this. I hold up my palm. “He did this to me.”

  His eyes widen, and his surprise hums along with the powerful engine underneath the hood.

  He strokes the scar with his thumb, my fingers curling inward with every stroke. I want to snatch my hand away from the disconcerting intimacy.

  “Yeah?” he asks softly.

  I can only nod, my eyes are so full of tears.

  Thorn is a silhouette of muscled black, his image wavering through the water of my sadness.

  He puts my hand back on my lap and looks into my eyes.

  “I'll see what I can do...”

  “Thorn... no,” I groan. “I can't... I can't face him- that way.”

  Thorn sighs, his head slapping the back of the seat.

  “Fuck, I didn't know.”

  “It's the fucking mother of all coincidences. But... it's gotta come out of someone's hide.”

  My eyes widen. I get one leg out of the car, wanting to escape this conversation so badly the city air feels like a salve.

  “Don't freak on me,” he says. “Let me see what I can do. But, Faren?”

  I turn.

  “Maybe think about going back to poles.”

  “Why?” I ask. I only have to do one last lap auction. Then my mom will be debt free, and I'll only have to cover the monthly expenses. A couple poles a week will take care of that.

  “Some chicks can't tolerate the laps.”

  Some chicks don't need it like I do.

  “I don't think Mick will forgive ya for the laps. He might for the poles.”

  Thorn's warning me, giving me an out before it's too late.

  But I don't need Mick's forgiveness.

  There's only one thing I need from him.

  That's a secret I've only shared with Kiki; I'm not sharing it with Thorn.

  To him, I'm just a desperate girl who’s been dealt a raw hand. No bad pun intended.

  I feel a little bubble of hysterical laughter beg to escape.

  In his own skewed way, Thorn's trying to help.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  Thorn's eyes slide away, and I realize I should take his olive branch and run.

  “I don't know,” he says, carefully avoiding my eyes. “Mick would want me to.”

  “What?” I laugh. “You're doing these shitty lap venues behind his back and you're worrying about...” I lift my shoulders.

  “If he knew what you were screwed up in... hell,” Thorn hits the steering wheel of his fancy car and I jump.

  “He'd...?” I prompt, my eyes searching his face.

  “He'd kill anyone who touched you.”

  I think about how tender Mick is with me.

  “Mick doesn't do halfway. He's an all the way kinda dude.”

  “He can have anyone,” I half-explain.

  “No shit.” He jacks his eyebrows up and gives me a look that says he questions my intellect.

  “He's got history. Trust me, you don't want to put him in a position where he feels he needs to protect you.”

  “Why? Tell me about him,” I say.

  Thorn lifts his chin toward the open car door. “It's not my story to tell. And my cup of care is all filled up right now, so why don't you scoot your ass out.”

  His eyes are softer, but that hard edge is still there, still sharp.

  “Okay.” This is all I’ll get out of him.

  For now.

  I get out and shut the door.

  His red streak of a car screams away from the curb, and the smell of rubber fills my nostrils as I trudge up the stairs to see my mom.

  ~ 3 ~

  The doctor stops me before I enter her room, and my heart drops like a stone in a lake. The ripples and splash are seen and heard only by me.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Dizziness assails me, and I remember that I collapsed with Thorn, that I'm damn lucky Matthews hadn't kept me overnight.

  I swallow against what feels like a panic attack, and when I open my eyes, I'm calmer. My mother's primary caregiver comes into sharp focus.

  “Are you okay, Miss Mitchell?”

  Hell no.

  “Yes.” My eyes move around him to my mom's door. “Is… my mom okay?”

  His face breaks into a smile, and my life changes that fast.

  A rare sunny day in overcast Seattle pierces my mom’s room with late afternoon sunlight.

  By habit, my eyes trace over the tubes that have kept my mom's meager existence going.

  But they're gone.

  Tannin Mitchell is breathing unassisted. Her eyes are shut, the withering look is there, but the bloom is back on the rose.

  Soft pink unfolds across her cheekbones as if brushed on.

  I move closer to her bed and softly stroke her cheek.

  Without warning, her eyes pop open, but they're not hers.

  “Hello, Faren,” Ronnie Bunce says, his eyes inside my mother's face, latching onto mine like a bird that catches sight of its prey.

  I pinwheel backward, screaming as I fall.

  Into blackness.

  “No!” I scream, clutching damp sheets as I sit straight up in bed.

  I'm in between, that place where a nightmare seems truly real, a dream that
still clings to me with tenacious fingers.

  My eyes search every surface of my room. I come up with nothing out of place. My personal effects mock me from their benign place in my life.

  Inanimate, unreal.

  I fall back against the bed as my galloping heart slows to a trot. I try to regain the sense of joy I felt when my mom's doctor told me she's woken up, that she lives.

  Not in that vegetative existence where she might thrash on a good day, breaking the surface of the unconscious water she drowns in.

  On a bad one, Tannin Mitchell appears as if she has already left this world.

  I sit up again and stare vacantly into the dim emptiness of my room. The clock fills the silence with its ticking.

  I feel something land on my left hand, oozing wetness into the well of my scar.

  My tears.

  I dread tomorrow. Not my day job.

  But the night.

  I turn and see the clock reads three thirty. I slide my cell off the nightstand and scroll through my messages.

  Two from Mick. My palm dampens against the hard shell of my phone.

  A soft flutter like moth's wings ignites inside my stomach.

  Mick: Faren, text me.

  Mick: Are you okay?

  I smile. No, I'm not okay. I put the cell down next to my body and close my eyes.

  It's late and I have no right to respond. I've screwed things up six ways to Sunday.

  I grab the cell and text him anyway.

  Me: I'm okay.

  I wait five minutes. I watch the numbers on my digital clock flip over into my uncertain future.

  Me: You awake?

  I hold the cell in my good hand.

  He'll text.

  I roll over and settle into the warm nest of my covers, knowing I have to be at the clinic by eight.

  I don't feel my eyes close as my hand wraps my cell.

  It sits against my chest like the teddy bear I no longer sleep with.

  What seems like seconds later, the alarm sounds. It blares its rhythmic discordance like a tortured duck. I slam my hand down on the button, and blessed silence ensues.

  Thank god.

  I sit up, wiping my eyes and feeling like shit.

  I rummage through my covers, hunting for my cell phone. I find it buried in my pillowcase. I scroll through texts from work, from Kiki.

  No texts from Mick.

  My stomach falls to my feet, and heat floods my system.

  I think of Thorn evading Mick in my alley yesterday and wonder if it was the last time.

  Maybe Mick figures I'm too much of a pain in the ass.

  He'd be right.

  I get up and stretch.

  I pad into the kitchen, make my tea, and head for the bathroom. I crank on the shower.

  When steam rises, I jerk off my pajama bottoms and cami and sink into the spray in abject relief. I think of Mick as my hands glide over my body, my slippery fingers touching every bit of me. I linger at all the places I want him to touch.

  I crank the faucet to cold, and it jerks me out of my reverie, my desire to climax so I can control myself around Mick.

  I hold myself back from pleasure. It's a savage torture of my want versus the experience I must have.

  If he gives me a chance to redeem myself, I want to be so primed for the pump that nothing can stop us.

  No excuse.

  No truth.

  Just my need to take Mick.

  Before he takes me.

  *

  I bolt my door and turn, instantly stumbling over something.

  Another card. Wrapped in elastic and attached to my mask.

  The mask I misplaced! I do a mental facepalm and cringe. How does he know it's mine? My brows come together as I rack my brain. Maybe it's an innocent “find.” One that doesn't warrant a total meltdown of my threadbare control of my emotional fabric.

  I bend over, retrieve the mask, remove it from the card, unlock my door, and throw the mask inside without a glance.

  Closing my door, I lock it again and turn the card over.

  My heart thumps harder.

  Came by to see you. Out of town for a few days.

  Mick

  I run my thumb over the deep, hastily scratched cursive. I feel each indent.

  I caress his signature twice.

  The rasp of my flesh over his penmanship evokes a sharp pang of lust mixed with longing.

  I slip my phone out of my smock pocket and look at the texts from Mick.

  They're from before Thorn and I almost blew it in the alley.

  Just the thought of any kind of collusion with Thorn sets my teeth on edge.

  I still can't get a feel for him.

  But I have different things to consider with his new information. Mick doesn't know about the laps. It doesn't get him completely off the hook with me though. I mean, he's still okay with making some of his money off pole dancers.

  And I'm hypocrite enough to be pissed about it. In a roundabout way, he's providing for my mom's care.

  I cringe and put my cell inside my pocket, along with the card.

  My fingertips linger on the thick paper.

  Can I afford my pride anymore?

  What kind of game is Mick playing?

  What kind am I?

  I move into the freight elevator and slam it shut. It lurches down and lands at the bottom with a teeth-slamming crunch.

  I flinch, step out, and high tail it to the door.

  I look left and right, letting the building door close behind me. I notice my VW is sandwiched between two cars.

  My off-street parking is not-going-anywhere parking today. I can't back out without ramming the yahoos who take parallel parking to a new level.

  Shit.

  I guess I'm going to get some exercise. I know it's not part of the protocol Doctor Matthews has in mind.

  I imagine him saying, “Brain tumor patients shall not run to work.”

  Well fuck it.

  I run.

  *

  I grab Trixie’s thigh hard as she does a particularly good hamstring extension. I feel for the proper lift, hardness of muscle, and method.

  It's perfect.

  She grunts, staving off another with five seconds of unapproved respite.

  “Come on,” I encourage, “one more.”

  “It's killing me!”

  I know. “Give me one more real one. Otherwise you're just going through the motions. I'd rather see five real than twenty fakers.”

  “Gah!” She bellows like an enraged cow and pushes through the last set. She collapses against the weight bench underneath her, arms dangling like limp noodles.

  I pat her leg.

  “Don't touch me,” she barks.

  “Grumpy,” I answer in a neutral tone, though I can feel the smile in my voice.

  Trixie whirls around, her mousy hair and thin body like a whip that doesn't sit still.

  “Where am I at, Faren?”

  I hate to say, but I know what she's asking. “There's still a good amount of atrophy.”

  Trixie's hazel eyes narrow at my evasion. “How. Much.”

  I fold my arms. “You're organic, Trixie, not a robot. Each patient is different. I'm not here to defeat you, but to encourage you.”

  “With pain?” she asks, disbelieving.

  My lips twitch. I've heard that so many times I've lost count.

  “Yes. We don't call this ‘the torture chamber’ for nothing.”

  She stands and looks up into my face. “What do you estimate?”

  Her shoulders droop, her mouth a grim line.

  Yet, I deliver news that makes her face fall further. I never lie to my patients.

  Only myself.

  *

  I slide my patient folder through the glass slot and meet Sue's eyes.

  “How's Doc Matthews?” she asks, flicking a finger through the sheets page by page, swiping stickies away where they're not needed.

  I say nothing at first.


  Sue looks up over her eyeglasses. The bottoms of her eyes are magnified, and the tops are sharp.

  Focusing on me.

  Those two words—brain cancer—stick in my throat like a burr, and I want to spit them out.

  Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile.

  “He's great.”

  Sue exhales in obvious relief. “So you're feeling better?”

  I nod, also true.

  Except for the terrible headache attack yesterday and fainting, I've never felt better. I smile at how easy it is for me to dismiss the horrible incident when the little ones are becoming less frequent.

  Of course, it could be the calm before the storm. My smile fades with my pessimism.

  I turn to go, hiding my face to shroud my thoughts.

  “Oh, Faren!” Sue calls out and I turn back.

  She waves a mask at me.

  The twilight doesn't fail to catch the refractions the Swarovski crystals fling around the room like tiny diamonds in flight.

  I can't speak. I left that stupid thing inside my apartment.

  I know it.

  The mask that I had misplaced, that Mick found and used as a handy message-holder. My belly does an unwieldy flop.

  “Who... what?” I ask.

  Sue is obviously pleased she’d remembered to give it to me. She slides it through the slot.

  It sparkles as it moves. “He said it was yours.”

  “Who?” I ask again, my voice fragile.

  Sue's brows draw together, and she shrugs. “Some man. He says you dropped it outside the office.”

  I stand there like a zombie, and my bad hand gives a vicious jerk. My good one is softly fisted around the damning mask.

  “Is something wrong?” Sue looks as if she's about to dive around the partition and tackle me in full-on mother hen style.

  “No!” I say, a little more harshly than I mean to.

  “It's mine. Just a little leftover Halloween stuff still running around in my purse.”

  Sue nods, but her eyes track me in a way they never have before.

  I'm getting more attention than I want from a co-worker. But that's the least of my worries.

  My stepfather has been in my house.

  ~ 4 ~