Beyond Hunger_A Romantic Strip Club Encounter

by Ashley Logan

  This is the bit I like best. The kids have free reign and just move as they feel. You can learn a lot about what’s happening in someone’s life by how they move. The changes in posture, the speed, the aggression; all of it tells a story of what’s happening outside the dance.

  Watching Celia and Jace a while, I can see both their struggle and their resilience. Both are so strong, despite what’s trying to break them. Smiling, I dab the corner of my eye before a tear can fall. Blinking back more, I sniff and dance through the kids, checking out their moves, sometimes joining in when I’m invited.

  As often as I can, I steal a glimpse of Serge. He really can move, but he seems self-conscious about it when he’s not goofing around for the sake of the kids. Having lost his tie and rolled up his sleeves, he looks more comfortable than he moves, with his mussed up hair and genuine smile.

  Reminding everyone it’s the last song and their last chance to thrash out how great, or how confused, or how angry they might be, I turn the music up even louder so there is almost no way to think; only a beat to feel.

  Some kids stop, closing their eyes and bobbing their heads to the beat, before snapping into motion. Other kids, just keep doing what they were doing, but harder or faster.

  Serge watches them with apparent amazement. Meeting my eyes, he smiles. I smile back and gesture for him to join in. Holding my gaze for a moment, he takes a breath deep enough to make his shoulders rise noticeably. Closing his eyes, his shoulders lower slowly and he starts to move.

  I try to watch the kids, but can’t pull my eyes away from Serge. His body twists and turns, at times lashing out and sometimes folding in on itself as if cowering, or trying to hide. The song ends and he becomes still, breathing hard. His head starts to rise, his eyes heading in my direction and I quickly focus on the children, rounding them up into a tight bunch for our final stomping goodbye as their parents and carers begin arriving to collect them.

  Serge slips away from the back of the circle and stands at the door, all business. Making sure every kid goes with the right person, I chat with Jace and Celia while Serge speaks to a woman at the door, who I figure must be the aunt.

  Glancing in my direction and then out the door, Serge says something to the woman and nods cordially as he slips out. The kids see her coming toward them and meet her halfway with smiles and hugs. She hugs them back and makes nasty faces as gentle fingers trace their bruised faces and she pulls them into a tighter hug.

  Glad they are in decent, caring hands, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Walking over, I introduce myself and let her know how well the kids are doing in class. They leave and I pack my speakers into my bag and sweep the gym, wondering if Serge will reappear.

  He doesn’t.

  Sighing, I swing my bag onto my back and head for my bike. Serge doesn’t make an appearance along the way and I pull my bike from the rack and pedal home, ashamed of myself for having wanted him to.

  LYING ON MY BED, I stare at the ceiling, my toe tapping to the low beat pulsing from my speakers. I’m trying to figure out the choreography for that problematic GlamSlam third set, but my mind keeps reverting to Sergio Moretti. Closing my eyes, I picture him dancing in class today and find myself smiling at how goofy he can be. And how serious and emotive he’d seemed in his final dance.

  Why does he have to be so damn gorgeous? With his stupid, annoying, deliciously rugged face and his kind eyes and contagious smile.

  Rolling onto my belly I shove my groaning face into the pillows. Why am I torturing myself?

  Sergio Moretti is excellent fantasy material.

  My inner vixen brings every saucy memory and heated sensation to the surface and I clench my thighs together as I consider reaching for my battery operated boyfriend again, before scolding myself for being indulgent and weak.

  If there was any chance he wanted me, he’d have at least stayed after class. He didn’t. I’ve definitely succeeded in pushing him away.

  My phone chirps and I sit up in a hurry. Grabbing it from the bedside, I hastily check the sender of the message and find myself deflating.

  Scar: Just finished at the gym and Bruno’s game was canceled. We’re meeting Kat at the salon and going for dinner. Don’t know who else coming yet, but say you’re in.

  Me: Maybe. Not that hungry. What game?

  Scar: The one with balls ;)

  Me: You’re incurable.

  Scar: See you at dinner.

  Me: Fine.

  Checking the time, I drop the phone next to me as I flop back against the pillows. My phone goes again and feeling around for it, I pull it into view.

  Serge: It was good to see you today. Sorry I had to bail.

  Heart beating at twice the acceptable rate, I sit up too fast and feel dizzy. Shuffling to lean against the wall I take a few deep breaths.

  Serge is texting me.

  I read the message again. Six more times.

  What do I say? I like your moves? No; too suggestive. Why’d you leave? Too needy. Why are you making contact? No; too forward and scary. Given his dancing, I understand we’re both in a vulnerable place.

  Me: I understand.

  There is a pause that feels a lot longer than the minute I watch tick by.

  Serge: Do you?

  Me: I analyzed your dancing.

  Serge: I didn’t think you were watching. What’s the diagnosis?

  Smiling, I lie back and get comfortable.

  Me: You’re angry. And hurt, and scared.

  Holding my breath, I hit send. Two minutes pass and my phone remains silent. Staring at the ceiling I begin to fidget, my legs restlessly twitching. Annoying myself, I jump off the bed and start folding laundry, just to do something more useful.

  My phone chirps and I dive at it, wondering how he’ll respond to my brutal assessment and the fact that I left out the tiny glow of hope that made the briefest appearance on his face as he finished his last movement.

  Serge: Sound familiar?

  Me: Very.

  Serge: Can you talk to me about it?

  Pausing to consider, I bite my lip and type.

  Me: Not yet.

  Serge: Will you dance for me?

  Serge: Shit. I didn’t mean that the way it read. I meant dance about it.

  Smiling again, I roll my eyes and sigh.

  Me: I know what you meant, Power Serge. And maybe. Soon.

  Serge: Good. I miss you.

  Staring at the screen I re-read his words. I’m not ready to admit I miss him too. Besides I’m sure it means something different to him anyway. Puffing hair out of my face, I skate around the notion.

  Me: Made any new friends yet?

  Serge: Yes, actually. When work not interfering.

  Me: Eating?

  Serge: When I’m hungry, until I stop feeling hungry.

  Me: Sounds healthy. How’s Gina?

  Serge: Good. Home.

  Me: Where are you?

  Serge: Work. Kids’ father showed up at the Rec. That’s why I had to leave. Better get back to it. Nice talking. Hope to see your moves soon.

  My phone chirps again before I finish re-reading his message.

  Serge: I honestly don’t mean these things to sound as pervy as they do. Sorry.

  Me: Night Serge.

  Serge: Night Vi.

  Smiling, I lie back and stare at the ceiling again. Grabbing my phone, I text Scarlett.

  Me: Can’t make dinner. Inspired. Working on third set. Old one trash, starting fresh.

  Leaving my phone behind, I grab a pen and paper and head downstairs to carve out my story on the dark stage.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SERGE

  Adjusting his bow-tie, Serge huffed as he waited for Gina to come downstairs. They were meeting Rick at the theater, but if Gina didn’t hurry up, they were going to have to sneak into their seats in the dark, pissing off every person who’d bothered to show up on time as they squeezed past their knees.

  “Come on, G!” he c
alled up the stairs. “I’m sure you look fine. Get your ass down here, or I’m leaving you behind!”

  There was the clip clop of high heels followed by a, “What the -?” as Gina came into view. “Would you calm down? We have plenty of time!” she growled at him as she finished putting in her earring.

  “We still have to get back to my building, park the car and catch a cab or the metro. What if there’s traffic? Or the train is down? Or both and we have to walk uptown?”

  Gina rested her hands on the banister and stared at him. “Then we’d still have time. The show doesn’t start for another two hours.” Her scowl softened and she sighed. “I know you’re nervous about seeing Violet, but seriously.”

  Serge bit down his response and paced the same strip of the hall he’d been pacing for the last twenty minutes. “Please just finish getting ready. If we’re early I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Smirking, she disappeared back into her room. When she finally reappeared, Serge had paced the hall sixty-eight more times. Hearing her descend the stairs, Serge rushed to open the front door.

  “Ahem.”

  Turning, he took in Gina’s raised eyebrow and her long, glamorous gown. Blushing, he took his hand off the doorknob and took a few steps towards her.

  “Sorry. You look beautiful, G.” He glanced at the door again and she laughed.

  “Come on then. I think you’ll have time to buy me two or three drinks at this rate, Serge.”

  “I just don’t want to miss anything.”

  Sighing, she shook her head and straightened his bow-tie for him. “You won’t. Breathe.”

  Serge took a deep breath and nodded. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I get it,” she said, gesturing out the door as she checked the contents of her purse.

  Closing the car door behind her, Serge got in the driver’s seat and started the car.

  “Have you managed to talk to her yet?”

  Serge shook his head as he pulled out to the street. “Not properly. Text messages. Nothing solid. I need to see her dance.”

  “What?” Gina turned to him, her face confused. “Why didn’t you just go watch her at the club?”

  Shaking his head, Serge stepped heavily on the brake as a car pulled in front of them. “Not that kind of dancing. Her real dancing. Then I’ll know what’s really going on in her head. She said she’d show me when she was ready, and I think she’s ready. Or nearly ready. I don’t know. I have to wait and see,” he said in a rush as he looked over his shoulder to change lanes.

  “I see,” Gina said, gripping her seat. “Better get us there alive then. Your impatience is scaring me a little.”

  “It’s under control.”

  “Real dancing huh? It’s not the first time you’ve mentioned Violet in the context of being real. Her too.”

  “Real is important. To both of us,” Serge said, not taking his eyes from the road. “Very important.”

  Gina only nodded and looked out the window. Serge wondered if she was thinking about the bizarre, imagined relationship disaster he’d had with her, and how it had almost ruined them both.

  They remained quiet until they stood in front of the entrance to the impressive Shea’s Buffalo Theater. Serge froze as other well-dressed people began to swarm in.

  “Come on,” Gina said, taking his hand and pulling him forward. Once inside the grand lobby, she turned to him. “What are you so afraid of?”

  With his pulse rushing in his ears and his mouth dry, Serge took several panicked breaths. “What if she truly believes it wasn’t real?” he rasped.

  “Jeez, Serge. When was your vagina installed?” Gina laughed, but stopped when she studied him a while. Sheepishly clearing her throat, she rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s real to you. And I hope it’s just as real to her, but you’ll never find out in the lobby. Let’s go get those drinks we talked about. Rick should be here soon and he’s convinced it’s love,” she said, dragging him by the cuff-links to the bar.

  Taking their drinks, she nudged him to the side. “I know Rick’s always been a sentimental fool, and that our job has killed any romantic notions we might have had about this world long ago, but I don’t think you’d be feeling this intensely about something unreal.”

  She placed a glass in his hand and Serge swallowed as if it were medicine. Shaking his head, he handed it back to her, his throat on fire. “What was that?”

  “Courage.”

  Serge coughed again. “Thanks. Does it come in the form of beer?”

  Rolling her eyes, Gina stepped toward the bar again, but Serge stopped her. “I’ll get it. I said I’d get the drinks. You want another?” he asked, before realizing the glass she held was still full. “Or not.” Frowning at himself, he shrugged and shot Gina a helpless look. “I’ll be better soon. Be right back.”

  The lobby was filling and he had to wait in line at the bar. Serge scanned the crowd for Violet’s face as he waited. Someone bumped his elbow and he looked beside him.

  “She’s not going to be in the lobby Serge,” Gina said, looping her arm through his as she finished her glass of bubbles. “Rick will be here in a minute. Let’s get him a drink too. I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  Sighing, Serge fought back his nerves and ordered the drinks.

  TAKING THEIR SEATS, the three of them made small talk about how well they could see the stage. The premium tickets they’d purchased had them surrounded by the upper class. Serge slid a little lower in his chair, wondering if the tiara on the lady next to him was made of actual diamonds and how much something like that might cost. As she talked to her friend about redecorating her holiday home in the Hampton's, Serge rolled his eyes at Gina and tried not to say anything at all, lest he be found out as the commoner he was.

  Gina tried to hide her smile and held her head a little higher, as if trying to blend in. With his restless leg driving up and down like a piston, Serge waited for the show to begin and looked for other distractions. On Gina’s other side, Rick had sparked up an animated conversation with the man next to him. With his top hat resting in his lap and an actual monocle, the man looked hilariously familiar and Serge turned his eyes to the pulled curtains of the empty stage to keep from staring. He wondered if the man had based his look on the Monopoly man, or if he was the property tycoon that had inspired the images on the game. He looked old enough to be.

  Adjusting his monocle, the old man studied what looked like a program. Serge looked around him and saw the ladies next to him each had one. How had he missed those?

  Looking under his butt and on the floor, he pointed to the little booklets as Gina asked him what on earth he was up to. Coming up empty handed, he cleared his throat and put on his snootiest voice.

  “Excuse me ladies, but I must have rushed right past in my eagerness to see my friend in the show. May I please have a quick peek at your program, Madam?” he asked the lady closest to him.

  Pulled from her conversation, the tiara-toting Madam looked down her nose, taking him all in. She mustn’t have disliked what she saw, because she blushed a little and fanned herself with the program. Glancing at her friend, she must have made a face, because the other lady looked him up and down and smiled.

  “I’m sure Estelle and I can share, young man,” she said, passing over her program and hesitating a little before retracting her hand. “Always nice to meet a fine young man with manners.”

  Blushing himself, Serge thanked them, shifted in his seat and tried not to damage the program in his haste to get it open.

  The lights began to dim and Serge sat forward in his seat, eyes pinned on the stage. Gina patted his leg and leaned in. “Just try to enjoy it.”

  Nodding, he sat back in his seat, squinting as he reviewed the program. The Beyond Dancers held three spots in the lineup and he’d have to wait for two acts before their first set even started.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced his shoulders to relax as it became too dark to read. The host appeared in th
e spotlight and began his welcome with a few jokes, a serious note about the cause and an introduction to the first act as the curtains opened to reveal the small orchestra about to play.

  When the Beyond Dancers hit the stage, Serge couldn’t help but scoot forward to watch. Straining his eyes in the dark, he’d managed to glean from the program that their first set was described as a condensed burlesque-meets-ballet conversion of the opera Carmen, choreographed by Alexa Carrington and Violet Wheeler. Serge tried to watch the gypsy girl seduce the soldier, but his eyes were glued to Violet. She wasn’t dancing the lead, but with her impeccable, seemingly effortless grace, she probably should have been.

  “Is that Violet in the blue?” Gina whispered as she leaned in.

  Serge nodded, vaguely aware that she passed on the information to Rick before moving forward in her seat too. “She’s very good.”

  Nodding again, Serge watched Violet like a hawk until she joined the others in surrounding Benji as he whirled in a jealous rage before leaping out and dramatically killing poor Alexa. Violet leapt from the stage with the others as the dance ended and the applause boomed around Serge, reminding him to breathe again.

  Looking to Gina, he found both she and Rick watching him, their eyebrows raised, waiting to see if it had meant anything to him. Shaking his head, Serge sank back in his chair. He’d felt sure he’d learn something tonight, but as time moved forward, he was less convinced tonight’s dancing would tell him what he needed to know. He needed more clues. Opening the program again, he wished he’d brought his glasses as he peered at the small print to check the upcoming performances for the Beyond group.

  The next one they’d perform was described as a hip-hop piece, expressing the impact of domestic violence both within the home and in the broader community, choreographed by Violet Wheeler and Scarlett Warner. The final piece by the Beyond dancers was also the last performance of the night and the contemporary dance was choreographed solely by Violet. It was called Kryptonite.