by Bec Linder
“Old boyfriend?” Scarlet asked. “Jilted ex-lover? Long-lost cousin?
“It’s nothing,” I said again, grinding out the words. I had no desire whatsoever to hash out my complicated history with Max. Especially not to Scarlet and Mike, who couldn’t keep their mouths shut if their lives depended on it.
Mike shook his head at me and went down to the other end of the bar to make a drink for Keisha. As soon as he was gone, Scarlet turned to me, a serious expression on her face, and said, “Beth, this guy isn’t, like… He isn’t stalking you or anything, is he?”
“No,” I said, surprised and touched by her concern. “It’s not that. It’s just—it’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always,” she said. “Okay. Well. You’re tough. I know you’ll be smart about it. If you need help with this guy, I mean—you know Javier would wrestle bears for you, and Germaine won’t put up with anyone hassling her employees. If he’s bothering you, we’ll help you deal with him.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling at her, genuinely moved. As irritating as I sometimes found my co-workers, most of them had their hearts in the right places. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So, do you want to see Sassy’s wedding announcement?” she asked.
I was so grateful for the subject change that I could have kissed her. “Scarlet,” I said, “I would love to.”
CHAPTER TWO
Beth
Thursday was my day off. I woke up with a cold knot of dread in my belly that dissipated when I opened my eyes and realized what day it was. I didn’t need to go to work that evening. If Max was there again, I wouldn’t have to see him.
Not that he would be deterred by my absence. He would just keep showing up until I agreed to speak to him. I knew him.
Or had. Past tense. A lot could change in eight years.
I got up and made myself a cup of coffee, watered my houseplants, and sat down at my laptop for the day’s writing. The scene I had been struggling with yesterday stared back at me, the cursor flashing, waiting for me to finish my unfinished sentence.
Dusk rose from the ground.
I erased the words and typed them again, on the off chance that my fingers would keep moving and produce something that I wouldn’t, for a change, end up deleting. Dusk rose from the ground. It seeped up from the concrete, black as coal dust. The sun’s last light gleamed orange in the west. My hands were chapped raw from sitting outside all day in the wind blowing off the East River. I had lost my only pair of gloves. Max, beside me, lips chapped—
Stop. Go back. This book wasn’t about me. There was no I. There were no missing gloves.
There was no Max.
My Max, my first love. My first everything. Max the thief, the golden-tongued liar, the best pickpocket I ever knew. And I had known a lot of pickpockets.
Dusk rose from the ground…
I took every Thursday off work because my writing group met in the evening at a coffee shop near my apartment. When it was time to go, I went down the street to print copies of my recent work and then walked the few blocks to the cafe.
Someone’s French bulldog was sitting on the sidewalk outside, leash tied to a table leg. I paused for a moment to pet it. I liked dogs. Maybe I should get a dog.
The coffee shop smelled like freshly-roasted beans and, weirdly, cinnamon. I bought a cup of coffee and made my way to the back of the building. We always met in a small room in the back filled with an assortment of armchairs and weird outsider art. A few people had arrived already, and were chatting and taking off their jackets. I took a seat in the corner and shuffled through my stack of papers. Everything was stapled and collated properly. I was just nervous. Letting other people read my work made me feel exposed, like they were peering into the most vulnerable, secret portions of my heart. But I needed the input if I was ever going to finish this novel, let alone publish it.
A few minutes later, Claudia arrived in a cloud of patchouli and good vibrations. She ran the writing group, and she was a little… earthier than I would have liked, but she had a sharp literary mind and kept the ten of us more or less on track. I had tried four writing groups before this one, and despite Claudia’s New Age touchy-feely earth mother routine, her group was by far the best. I actually got useful feedback most of the time. The demographics didn’t hurt, either. It was a diverse group: a roughly equal mix of men and women of all ages and colors. That was another part of why I liked this group so much. I wasn’t overly fond of being the only black person in the room.
“Good evening, everyone,” Claudia called out, waving with both of her hands, her crystal earrings swinging as she took her seat. “I can sense that this is going to be a very productive meeting.”
“Good evening, Claudia,” we all chorused obediently.
She took her notebook out of her bag and looked around the room, beaming at all of us. “Well,” she said. “How is everyone’s week going so far?”
“Long,” Dan said, the standard response, and people laughed, probably relieved that they hadn’t been the ones to say it.
“Almost over now,” Claudia said. “So. Who are we hearing from tonight?” She consulted her notebook, and my heart beat a little faster. Two people shared their work each week, and we rotated through a schedule. This week was my turn. “Beth and Evan,” Claudia said. “Evan, why don’t you go first?”
“Sure, throw me to the wolves,” Evan said, to more laughter, and passed around copies of his latest chapter. He was a muscular Asian guy with bright scrolls of tattoos down both forearms, and he was writing a science fiction novel that I actually found pretty enjoyable. It was set on a space station and was an incisive commentary on the human condition, plus aliens. I always looked forward to reading his chapters.
We read his chapter in silence. The hero had just found out about a subversive plot to take control of the station, and this latest chapter dealt with his reaction to that information, and his growing role as unwilling revolutionary.
When everyone had finished, even the slow readers who always held us up, Claudia said, “Who would like to start?”
Naida raised her hand, and Evan groaned and said, “She hates science fiction!”
“Yeah, and that’s why you should listen to me, because I don’t get all caught up in your laser gun sleight of hand,” Naida said, and shook her sheaf of papers in Evan’s direction. He grinned. “I think your characterization is a little off in this chapter,” she said. “He hops on the revolution bandwagon too quickly. He’s spent the entire book complaining about how he wants a simple existence, and now he’s all gung-ho to overthrow the government? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, and that’s why I put in the scene with his mother, to show why he feels like he doesn’t have a choice,” Evan said.
“Wait, is that what that scene was about?” Colin asked. “Because it seemed like a complete red herring to me…”
They were off. I listened, periodically scratching notes in the margins. Claudia sat benevolently and asked questions from time to time. A consensus emerged that Evan’s attempts at foreshadowing weren’t always successful, and that some scenes consequently took the reader too much by surprise. It was a classic case of being too close to his work to see the flaws. He agreed that he would rewrite portions to make his intentions more clear. Everyone was satisfied.
And then Claudia turned her gimlet eye on me and said, “What do you have for us this week, Beth?”
I swallowed hard, and passed my papers around.
I tried not to fidget while everyone read through my chapter. Sharing my writing was like taking my clothes off and standing on top of a table in a crowded room. Everyone could see my soft underbelly, and every instinct told me to cover myself and hide. It was an act of will to hold fast, strong and brave.
Maybe this was how the dancers at the club felt all the time.
One by one, heads came up as people finished reading. Darya caught my eye and smiled at me. I smiled weakly in return. I was too nervo
us to show much enthusiasm.
Claudia said, “Who would like to start?”
Silence. People glanced at each other, clearly hoping that someone else would speak first. I shifted in my seat, mortified. Was it really that bad?
Finally, Samuel raised his hand and said, “Isn’t this the same chapter that you brought last time?”
My face burned. “I’m still working on it,” I said. “I made some changes. I re-wrote parts of it…”
“You’ve been bringing us versions of this same chapter for the past six months,” said Naida, who was never one to mince words.
I wanted to disappear. “This is what I’ve been working on,” I said, pathetic, whining.
“Beth, I get the impression that this scene has some personal significance for you,” Claudia said. “Would you like to talk about it with us?”
I would rather have clawed out my own eyeballs. “I just want to get it right,” I said. “I want it to be good.”
“It’s just the first draft,” Evan said. “It’s supposed to be a mess.”
“I agree,” Maggie said. “You need to get the words on paper. Beth, you’re a good writer. I want to read the rest of your book. So I think you need to stop stressing out over every sentence and, you know. Write it.”
I looked around the room. Heads were nodding. They were all ganging up on me. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and said, “I don’t want to write something crappy just so I can say I’ve written it.”
“That’s what editing’s for,” Maggie said. “Shit or get off the pot, you know?”
More nodding. In desperation, I looked to Claudia for support; but she was nodding too, with a thoughtful look on her face. “It’s important that we, collectively, push each other to become better and braver artists,” she said. “Beth, the next time you bring us some work, I’d like to see something completely new that you haven’t shared with us before. That’s my challenge to you.”
I wouldn’t argue with her—not here, with everyone looking at me, all of them agreeing with her, agreeing that what I was writing wasn’t good enough.
I took a deep breath. That wasn’t true: they were trying to help me. They wanted me to succeed. And feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t get this book written. “Okay,” I said. “A brand new chapter. I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful,” Claudia said, beaming at me, and everyone else murmured their approval. “I’m truly looking forward to reading what you come up with.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, embarrassed by all of the pairs of eyes on me.
The meeting was over. People began gathering coats and notebooks, chatting to their neighbors, asking about plans for the weekend. I gathered my things in silence, feeling ashamed but hopeful, eager to get home and start writing.
Darya came over to me while I was putting on my coat. She was very quiet, and she wrote dreamy, elegant short stories that usually made Claudia cry. “Hi, Beth,” she said.
I smiled at her. “Hi.”
“I was wondering,” she said, toying with the end of her ponytail. “I was thinking of going out to get some dinner. And I wondered if you’d like to go with me? I’m really interested in your book.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind of you. Tonight isn’t good for me, though. I have things I need to do, so. Maybe next week.”
“Sure,” she said, and tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “Any time.”
Walking home, I wondered if I had hurt Darya’s feelings. She was trying to reach out, maybe trying to make friends with me, and I had turned her down cold.
I shrugged it off. What did I need friends for? I had my book, and my job.
That was more than enough.
* * *
I arrived at work earlier than usual on Friday afternoon because I wanted to speak with Germaine before the club opened. She was in her office, as always, going through paperwork.
“Hi, Germaine,” I said, rapping lightly on the doorframe.
She looked up. “Beth,” she said. “Of course. Come in.”
I closed the door behind me, and her eyebrows crept up. Surely she knew why I wanted to talk to her. “That guy who was here on Wednesday evening,” I said. “He was looking for me, right?”
Germaine leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her waist. “He said he was,” she said. “And it seems he wasn’t lying about knowing you. You certainly knew him.”
“You didn’t tell him I worked here, right?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said, frowning at me, like she was offended I would even suggest such a thing. “I would never give out that sort of information. We were at something of an impasse when you came in, actually. I wouldn’t tell him anything, and he refused to leave.”
“So you wanted to see if he recognized me,” I said. “To see if he was lying or not.”
She nodded. “You answered that question for me quite effectively.” A small smile crept across her face. “I must say, that was one of the more impressive slaps I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I guess.”
“Should I blacklist him?” Germaine asked.
That was an option available to every woman who worked at the club, dancers and waitresses alike. If a man bothered one of us—if he touched us when we didn’t want to be touched, persisted after we asked him to leave us alone, or even looked at us in a way we didn’t like—we could tell Germaine to blacklist him, and he wouldn’t be allowed near us again. Repeat offenders were banned from the club. Most of the dancers had blacklisted at least one client. Xanadu held the record at six.
I had only ever blacklisted one client, a man who had never learned to take no for an answer. Germaine no longer permitted him in the club.
I didn’t want to blacklist Max. History and curiosity overcame my innate caution. I sort of wanted to know what he had to say to me. So I said, “That won’t be necessary.”
Germaine was watching me very closely. “Please let me know at once if you change your mind. Blacklisting is no reflection on you as an employee, Beth. I do everything in my power to ensure that the club remains a comfortable working environment. Say the word, and Javier will turn this man away at the door.”
“I know,” I said. “Thanks, Germaine. I think I’ll be able to deal with him.”
“As you will,” she said, and nodded her dismissal.
I went back out into the main room of the club. Workers had started arriving—waitresses and security guards, a few dancers, a busboy—but it was early, still. I wished I still smoked. I could go out back with the dishwashers and forget all my troubles until the cigarette burned down to the filter.
I hadn’t smoked in years. I hadn’t even thought about smoking in years.
Friday night was the second busiest night of the week, topped only by Saturday. Clients began arriving as soon as the club opened, a slow trickle at first, but by 5:00 there was a steady stream of men coming through the door, stockbrokers cutting out early, investment bankers with potential clients, business magnates looking for an hour or two of fun and relaxation before they headed home to the wife and the kids. I did my best not to judge the clients—they were my livelihood, after all—but I couldn’t help thinking it was sad and a little pathetic the way they paid women for attention and sex. Maybe it was really about power: that they could get the dancers to do anything, say anything, and smile the whole time.
I tried to stay away from the men like that, the ones with shiny teeth and greedy eyes. Not all of the clients were like that. Many of them seemed to treat the club as a nice place to have a drink and talk business, and the dancers were a pleasant bonus. Some of them, older gentlemen, had grandfatherly relationships with the dancers, and tipped well and urged them to go to college. Those men were my favorites: the regulars who showed me pictures of their grandchildren, played a few rounds of chess with their friends, and happily went home to their wives.
The evening went smoothly. All of the waitresses who were schedule
d to work had showed up on time. The dancers were in peak form, eager to rake in their Friday night tips. And the clients were drunkenly content, and all more or less behaving themselves, at least for the moment.
And then, around 8:00, I turned from the bar, a tray of drinks in my hands, and Max was there, seated at a table like one of the clients.
I didn’t stumble, or give up and run for the hills. I moved smoothly forward. It wasn’t a surprise, I told myself, that he had showed up again. I had been expecting it.
And still the sight of him set me reeling.
He was wearing that same suit, which convinced me that he really had stolen it. None of the clients wore the same suit two days in a row. One of them had explained to me that the wool needed to “breathe.” I didn’t necessarily believe that—it seemed more likely that wearing a different suit every day was a signal that you had enough money to afford all of those suits—but either way, Max was even wearing the same tie. I had a good eye for menswear after working at the club for so long.
His hair was styled differently, though: parted on the left, and combed away from his face.
He had always been good-looking, even as an awkward seventeen-year-old, but now he was handsome. Solid. He looked like a man.
Tubs, passing by with an empty tray, said, “That guy’s here again.”
Great. All of the waitresses would be watching me, then, to see what I did.
This little tête-à-tête wouldn’t benefit from an audience.
I delivered my drinks to Mr. Miller and his friend, a Mr. Nguyen who was visiting the club for the first time and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dancers. Understandable: they were really a sight. Mr. Miller smiled at me as I set their drinks down, winked, tilted his head toward his friend, and said, “I think we’ve got a convert.”
“I heard that,” Mr. Nguyen said, without looking away from the stage.
“I’m glad you’re both enjoying your evening,” I said, smiling, polite, a shiny veneer of friendly interest drawn over me like a second skin, when inside I was roiling with doubt and confusion, and painfully aware of Max staring at me from across the room.
