Cole steps closer, puts his hands on my shoulders and looks directly into my eyes. “I don’t believe that you really believe that.”
“Can we just watch the movie?”
Cole raises an eyebrow. “Changing the subject?”
“If I saw you out with someone I wouldn’t blow a gasket.”
“I’m not blowing a gasket,” he says. “What if I went out with a millionaire cougar who grabbed my crotch in public when she was drunk? Would that make you happy? Is that a relationship that would make sense to you?”
“If that’s what makes you happy,” I say matter-of-factly with my arms crossed.
“Bullshit.”
Cole has an impeccable memory and he’s referring to a night of partying with my stripper coworkers as well as a few clients that tagged along. Of course, this was way back when I worked at the club, before my spa days, and, of course, before I went independent.
I had suggested to Cole that he join us, not really thinking he’d take me up on it, and there he was at The Vault, waiting for me at the bar. I was late, having forgotten the time and he was already two drinks in. When I greeted him, it seemed to take him a moment to focus on me in the darkness. But typical of Cole, he stood, pulled out a stool and helped me off with my jacket.
“Why are you wearing so much makeup?”
“I just got off work,” I said, taking a sip of his drink. I was still feeling flirty from work and in the hustle. I had changed after work, but I was more done-up than usual. And based on the way he was looking at me, I knew he didn’t like it. And it hurt. “Have you forgotten that I’m a stripper?” I asked.
I felt a hand on the small of my back from behind and Hank’s booming voice, “What can I get for you, baby?”
Cole looked at Hank as if he had bad breath. He leaned around me and said, “I’ve got it,” while retrieving his wallet.
Hank looked peeved, but he probably sized up Cole and knew he wouldn’t fare well in a toe-to-toe.
“Is this your boyfriend?” Hank asked with a hitchhiker thumb. Cole caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a beer for me, then he turned back to hear my response.
“A good friend,” I said, putting an arm around Cole and giving him a quick squeeze. I was glad I couldn’t see Cole’s expression. My beer came and I used both hands to pick it up.
“Well, I’ll meet you back with the others when you’re done,” Hank said and that’s when he leaned in and squeezed my ass, giving Cole an I’m-marking-my-territory look.
Cole lifted up from his barstool, but Hank was gone. I put a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “It’s not worth it.”
“It is to me. I’ll break his arm if he does that again.”
At that point in my stripping career, I was immune to ass grabs. And it was easier to overlook when it came from a harmless, big tipper like Hank. I thought that was something Cole could understand. But like I’ve mentioned before, Cole’s old school when it comes to male/female relationships and a guy should always be a gentleman. I love that about Cole and I love that he’s protective of me even though we’re not dating, but I couldn’t have him cock-blocking future tips from Hank.
“Wanna leave?” I asked.
Cole nodded and we left together. I received hell from the girls the next day for leaving without a word, but I didn’t want Cole and Hank to get near each other.
And that is the source of Cole’s crotch-grabbing barb.
Both of us stand there awkwardly in the kitchen, waiting for the other to speak.
“Why did you have to bring up stripping?” I ask with moist eyes. Cole will never be able to separate the sex worker in me. Imagine if he knew what I’m doing now?
“I’m sorry,” he says and walks closer and hugs me tightly. My cheek presses into his chest. And I wish for him, that he felt this way about someone else.
I’m the first to let go.
“Let’s start the movie,” I say. I feel exhausted and he looks the same. We go back to the living room, sit on the couch and when he puts his arm around me and pulls me in, I don’t resist.
Thirty-Two
I’m quite skilled at pushing things out of my mind. I have zoned out on my breast diagnostic exam. It’s two weeks since my initial mammogram that discovered a mass and I’m going back today. I’ve been told to allow for three hours.
For some reason, I can’t tell Cole. He’ll worry and I’ll feel bad if it turns out to be nothing, and yet, obviously I hope it’s nothing. I couldn’t help myself from telling Jack. Obligated, was how I felt, because in a sense he’s sorta renting my body.
I brought my kindle to read and after filling out paperwork, I’m taken into a sterile room to change.
“Go to your right. Right, I said,” barks an elderly woman from behind with a badge that says, “volunteer.”
I follow her orders and find the right dressing room. She hands me a gown, tells me to undress and to leave the front open and wipe off any perfume or deodorant I have on.
I go back to the waiting room with other women, their heads are buried in magazines like People and Us. I’m sure no one is happy to be here but the other women look like soccer moms and I imagine that they won’t suffer loss of income from a bad diagnosis.
The waiting room smells of disinfectant and stale coffee. The room that I get my first films in is no larger than a horse stall and the pleasant technician pulls and tugs until she gets enough breast tissue on the plate, tells me to hold here and shift there and runs back to the machine telling me to hold my breath. Mammograms are never easy on the breasts, but this time the pain is nearly unbearable, as if a two-ton truck backed up on my boob.
The machine clicks.
“Exhale,” says the technician. I’m guided to another waiting room with a couple other women and told to wait until the radiologist has a chance to read my films. Paula Deen is cooking on TV and then an impersonator comes out and does a imitation of her that Paula finds hilarious, cackling as the other woman mocks her southern accent. More wanna-be People magazines are stacked in the waiting room and there’s complimentary coffee around the corner. Caffeine is the last thing I need.
I look down at my phone: “Thinking of you.”
It’s from Jack. He remembered even though it’s been a few days since we’ve spoken. My own mother probably doesn’t even remember that I’m here. And his text puts a smile on my face and I feel a twinge of optimism.
I read the same paragraph again and again on my Kindle but the words don’t sink in. A woman steps into the waiting room, takes me into another room and tells me it’s time to do an ultrasound. They can see the mass but they need to know if it’s solid or not-so-solid like a cyst or fibroid. At least this doesn’t hurt and it reminds me of the other time I had an ultrasound when I was finding out the sex of Analise. Despite the fact that Jared failed to show up, it was one of my happiest days seeing her little body inside of me.
The technician’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “You can go back to the waiting room,” she says.
I go back, more giddy daytime TV and after a while of waiting, I’m told that the radiologist will need to call my doctor. I try to get more information out of the technician, but she’s repeating the same thing: If you have questions, call your doctor. The radiologist is apparently here, on the premises, but is untouchable like some sort of Oz creature.
“Want to grab a drink?” Jack’s text reads.
“It’s only noon,” I send back. I don’t want him to pity me or disrupt his work.
“It’s happy hour in London,” he responds with a happy face emoticon. “Meet you at our usual?”
I agree. I had already decided I would be taking the day off. My right breast has already received enough traffic for the day. And besides, it’s time to get my dental hygiene school financial aid paperwork filled out. But hey, who doesn’t have time for a drink?
For once, I’m the first to arrive.
I tell the hostess I have a friend coming and ask for the table
by the fireplace. At this time of day, it’s free for once. The day is looking up. I can handle anything that happens, I tell myself. According to my doctor, the hospital that I’m going to has a 95 percent five-year-survival rate for breast cancer. And seriously, I shouldn’t even be thinking the word cancer right now. Ideally, I don’t want my breast opened up.
I take a seat and order a chamomile tea to unwind. Jack will encourage me to get a glass of wine when I get here but I have a stern no-drinking-during-the-day rule. I get sleepy and I think it’s a bad habit to get into.
Jack, on the other hand, can drink a couple stiff drinks and go back to work and negotiate whatever he does for tons of money.
Jack’s hand appears on the chair as he pulls it out and sits, moving so quickly that he brings the smell of the winter air outside.
“It feels like snow,” he says, his cheeks slightly reddened. After he sits, he looks at me and a smile spreads across his face.
He reaches out for my hand and asks me how it went.
“Fine. I won’t know anything until I hear from the doctor, who has to speak to the radiologist.” My voice trails off at the end and I look down at the menu. I don’t really want to replay the whole thing. I basically know nothing more than I did this morning. And yet I had been told I’d probably find out what was going on before I left.
Jack gets it and moves on. “Don’t forget about our date next Saturday,” he says.
“Of course not,” I say, head tilted to the side. “It’ll be the highlight of my week,” which is actually true, although meeting his coworkers is somewhat terrifying. I want to ask him if he’s afraid word will get back to his wife, that he’s taking me, clearly his non-wife to a function that requires dressing up. All then men in his industry, specifically the oil industry, are men.
“If you want to have a spa day beforehand, let me know,” he says.
Jack’s generosity floors me.
I put up my hand. “I already have the dress.” I know it’s technically a working date, but I’m looking forward to it. At times Jack intimidates me because I think he could have his choice of any women, because his looks, charm and money. And I don’t know why he’s chosen me. “And you didn’t even need to do that for me.”
“My pleasure,” he says, putting down his menu and looking around for the waitress.
“So, um, do your friends know that you’re bringing me?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And do they know about me? About us?” I ask. I know I probably shouldn’t bring this up, but I wonder how Jack speaks of me. Am I his girlfriend? Hooker? Friend?
“Trust me, they all know who Alexa is.”
The waitress comes and rather than press him, I’ll wait until next Saturday.
For now, I’m satisfied with sitting across from an attractive man who clearly cares about me. It might not be the perfect relationship, but it still feels good.
Thirty-Three
“Why’d you run out so quickly?” I ask Aubree after we take our usual spots in the pedicure chairs at U Got Nails.
“Can you make this warmer?” Aubree asks the Vietnamese woman at her feet. Aubree turns to face me. “Damn, you never let anything go, huh?”
“You’re up to something,” I say. I still have some reservations working with Aubree and so I can’t help but be suspicious. And in an odd way, she intrigues me. She has more guts than me.
“Remember Al from the Cabaret? The big guy who always wore the suspenders.”
“Ew.”
“Shut up, he’s a nice guy. And he was always very generous with us. He’s got a new gig that he wants me in on.”
She’s turned the back massager on high and her body is thrusting forward as if someone is punching her back.
“What is it? Something illegal I assume? He was generous but sleazy,” I say.
“Whatever, I can make a killing though. Way more than stripping or escorting.”
“That leaves drugs or running guns and I hate to tell you which one I’m guessing.”
“Bingo,” she says, looking proud of herself. Our pedicurists are speaking in rapid Vietnamese at our feet, not paying attention to our conversation.
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Getting arrested for drugs is way serious. And besides, I thought you left that whole thing behind when you left the club.”
“It’s not what you think,” she says. “I fly to Miami and basically get a guy to fall in love with me. And then I tell him I was just offered a bunch of money to go to Peru to smuggle cocaine back. If he doesn’t want to deal with the drugs, I’ll tell him that I’ll carry it.”
“And what happens when you get caught? I’ve never been overseas but I can’t imagine what they’d do to you.”
“There’s no way I could get caught. I convince the guy to come with me and then Al will tell him that we need to go back separately and I need to go back first with the drugs. Then Al will come back and tell him that I ditched so now he has to bring the drugs back. I’ll be back in Miami with $15,000, according to Al.”
It was a lot to process. Even coming from Aubree’s mouth. “Yeah, according to Al.”
“It’s worth a try. There’s no risk for me because I won’t be carrying the drugs. And I’ve never had a hard time getting a guy to fall in love with me.” She gives me a sideways glance for reassurance.
“True.” Once Aubree gets an idea there’s no changing her mind.
I had a million questions for Aubree. The plan seems horrendous and a great way to get killed or imprisoned. What if she actually liked the guy? What if he wasn’t willing to go to Peru? Aubree assured me that Al had girls who did this con all the time and had no problems. If the guy wasn’t interested, she’d just move on to the next one. Meet him in a bar or a park and play the damsel in distress.
“And I’ll get to go to Machu Picchu,” she says, looking down at her toes to monitor the progress. Machu Picchu is apparently a breath-taking Inca ruin high in the mountains. Aubree hasn’t been to anyplace without a strip club.
“Take pictures for me,” I tell her.
“Wish you could come,” she says with a wistful half-smile.
“I’m going to worry about you. For the record, I think this is a terrible idea. Do you really need the money?”
“One can never have too much money, particularly easy money. I want to buy one of those Mini-Coopers.”
“I’m going to worry about you everyday,” I say.
She pushes me in the arm. “Seriously?”
I nod.
“Nobody ever worries about me,” she says.
I don’t want her to leave. If she goes to Miami, I know she’ll get caught up in the party scene and likely stripping, maybe escorting, and not come back until she burns out. But I’ve learned that’s part of making friends with other girls in the business. It’s a transient group.
“By the way, can you drop me off at Home Depot?” I ask. “I’m meeting Cole.” Aubree had picked me up for our pedicures.
“Cole? The Cole?” she asks, jerking her head back.
“Yep.”
“Isn’t Home Depot where married couples shop?” she asks.
“He wants me to help pick out cabinets for his new house,” I say, matter-of-factly, hoping I can get a ride from Aubree without her grilling Cole. She’s aware of our relationship and is like that fifth grade friend who passes a note to let everyone know you have a crush on the quiet boy in class.
“A new house?”
“He just bought one,” I say.
“Cole is straight-up husband material. He’s a homeowner, has a job, never patronizes girls like us, and goes cabinet-shopping with the girl he wants to screw. Most guys would just try to get you drunk.”
“I agree,” I say. “And that’s exactly why I wouldn’t date him.”
“It’s not like he has to know,” she says.
“Yes, but I would know what I’m doing.”
“So?” she says. “Have you learned nothing from being a stri
pper? Treat him like he’s the only one, your big hero and don’t mention what you really do.”
“Are you going to drop me off or what?”
“I’d love to. But seriously, give it some thought. All you have to do is get knocked up and I’m sure he’d marry you. And then you could claim that you have to quit working because you can’t be on your feet all day while pregnant. And besides, it sounds like he makes enough. If he can buy a house, he can afford to buy you.”
Aubree stops and looks at me, waiting for a response.
“That’s genius. I never could’ve thought that one up. A tad manipulative, don’t you think?”
“Exactly. Like I said, didn’t you learn anything from being a stripper?”
“Are you going to drop me off?”
“Of course, I haven’t seen Cole in forever, probably since that night at the strip club.” Aubree had been at the notorious ass-grab evening. I quickly introduced the two, but I’m guessing he doesn’t remember her. I talk a lot about Cole to Aubree, but haven’t yet mentioned to Cole that Aubree and I are hanging out again.
“You don’t have to come in,” I say. The Vietnamese ladies are removing the paraffin wrap from our heels and putting on the disposable flip-flops. With newly lubed-up heels, we shuffle over to the toenail dryers.
“Does he know we’re hanging out?” Aubree asks as she pulls a Glamour from the magazine rack next to the dryers.
“Can you pass me a People?”
Aubree drops the magazine in her lap. “You don’t even mention me? Are you afraid I’m going to steal him from you?”
“Of course not! It’s not like I’m embarrassed of you either,” I say, feeling bad. “It just brings up a whole lot of questions.”
Aubree shakes her head, “That’s fine, but I don’t think you’re being very honest.”
Since when has Aubree been all about honesty?
“I can’t be honest, right now. Seriously, do you want me to tell Cole that we started hanging out so that we could do four-handed massage? How well do you think that’d go over?”
“You can lie to clients, but not friends. And that is why this is not going to end well,” she says.
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