by Zoey Parker
I can’t explain the feeling that blooms in my chest right then. It’s almost painful in its intensity. There are no words I know that capture it rightly. I’ve never felt it before.
But then the spell breaks. Her eyes do the same thing they did before, catching sight of something over my shoulder. The fear and the waves crash over her at the same time. She stands up. I try to shout, stick out a hand and warn her not to go, whatever it will take to keep her there with me.
She doesn’t look at me again. She turns, faces out to the ocean, and jumps.
I wake up in a cold sweat every time.
I look at Steezy. “Just been having a bad dream,” I tell him.
He laughs and calls me a pussy, but his voice has a soft edge. “You’ve been on edge for way too long, man,” he tells me. He stands up from the bench and stomps the cigarette out underfoot. “You need to relax. Get out of town for a little bit, maybe. You seem awfully cooped up these days.”
I follow suit, dropping my cigarette and crushing it into the sidewalk with my heel. Maybe he’s right. “I don’t see that happening anytime soon,” I tell him. “Mortar needs me here. If those motherfucking Diablos show up…”
Steezy claps a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I hear he might need a reliable man to run down to El Cruce, just over the border. We’ve got a guy there with some inside information, I think, or some shit like that. Maybe you should volunteer for the job. Hit the road, clear your head a little bit. It’s a short gig either way. Don’t see how it could hurt.”
I shrug. “Might be a good idea, I guess.”
“I’m full of ’em, brother.” He laughs. “That’s how I got my name.”
“What the fuck does ‘Steezy’ have to do with good ideas?”
“Not a damn clue. I was hoping you’d know.”
I chuckle. “You’re a dumbass, brother.”
“Careful,” he growls, flashing a hint of the blades strapped to the underside of his wrists. He raps a soft knuckle on my jaw. “I’m not too old to kick your ass.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Keep pushing, Vinny boy, keep pushing and you’ll see. C’mon, let’s go get a drink. I haven’t had alcohol in nearly an hour and my body doesn’t even know what to do with itself.” He holds the side door open for me. I duck back inside, surrendering my senses to the pounding music and the strips of pulsing lights.
But my head stays full of images that I just can’t seem to shake.
Chapter 2
Rose
“What an ass!” the man guffaws, reaching a grimy hand towards me to grab a pinch of my rear end.
I dance out of his reach, forcing a smile as I ask, “Can I get you boys anything else?”
The empty glasses stacked on the tray in my grasp are wobbling. I’m shaking, half in anger and half in fear. I hate these pigs always trying to cup a piece of something they have no right to touch. Men are all the same: users, abusers, out on the prowl for nothing but weak sluts and strong drinks. The ones here are the worst of the lot.
“Why don’t you stay and sit right here, chica?” one of them purrs, patting his lap.
My expression doesn’t change. It’s the same grimacing smile I’ve been wearing for the last few years, ever since I started working at this strip club. The faces change, but the lines stay the same. Stay here, chica. Come party with us, angel. How ’bout a dance, mi amor? As if all these gringo bastards have to do is throw out one line of Spanish and an invite to party with them and I’ll be dropping my panties right here and now. At first, I used to explain that I was a cocktail waitress, not a stripper, and that I wasn’t going to be taking my clothes off for anybody. But I gave up on that line of reasoning long ago. It never mattered. They heard what they wanted, no matter what I said.
I spin on my heel and head for the bar so I can drop off these dirty glasses and clear my tray. I hear the men hooting and hollering as I leave, but I ignore them. I’ll have to go back eventually, but for now, it feels good to get out of hearing range.
The music is thumping hard from the speaker stacks that surround the stage. Purple lights flare out from the cheap fluorescent tubes strung along the floor. I glance towards the stage as I walk by and see a topless girl suspended upside down. Her bare legs are wrapped around the pole, clinging for dear life as she uses her free hands to press her breasts together. While I watch, she extends a tongue and takes one slow lick of each nipple before seizing the pole and flipping back to her feet. The men crowded in low chairs on every side go wild, flinging pesos and dollar bills at her. It’s hard not to be embarrassed for the girl when the music ends and she hustles around stage, bending over to scrape the scraps of money from the floor.
I go to the corner of the bar and set my tray down on the countertop. My shoulder is sore from holding it over head as I wove amongst the couches. I wince as I rub out the kinks.
“You okay?” asks Tomas, the bartender. I can see that he’s busting his ass, hauling a massive crate of ice from one end of the bar to the other, but he pauses long enough to ask if I’m doing okay. Sweet kid.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just a knot in my shoulder.” He wipes sweat from his forehead, despite how frigid it is inside the club. “Need anything?”
“You mind grabbing me a fresh stack of glasses from the kitchen?” he huffs, trying to catch his breath. “We just ran out.”
“No problem, chico,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn to the dark hallway that winds from the main room to the kitchen in back. It’s a relief to duck away from the loud music for a moment. My eardrums are throbbing. It’s only midnight, but already my whole body feels brittle and sore. This is going to be a painfully long shift. I rest my forehead against the wall for a moment and close my eyes. There has to be a better life than this.
Then I remember that Tomas needed glasses. I stand up straight and hustle down the hall. I hold my breath as I slink past the open door to the manager’s office, hoping not to be noticed.
“Rose!” barks a raspy voice from inside. “Come here, darling.”
I sigh. I was counting on avoiding this conversation. I pivot and head back to the office.
The lamp throws bright light right into my face. I see flies buzzing around the bulb and hear the electric zap of one that went too close. A hot sizzle follows as the insect’s body roasts. I raise a hand to shield my eyes, squinting at the squat man behind the desk. He juts a finger at the chair in front of me.
“Sit, por favor.”
I sit. I don’t want to be here, and, in fact, I’d just as soon have joined the man who wanted me to sit on his lap, but this is my boss, and I don’t really have a choice. I start to interject, “Eduardo, Tomas needed me to get him some glasses,” but he cuts me off with a dismissive wave.
“No, no, it can wait.” He leans forward and rests his chin on his tented fingers. The bristly mustache that sits above his lip is greased with spit and leftover food. Each finger is adorned with a glistening metallic ring. It’s hard to say for sure whether they’re real, but I wouldn’t put my money on it. The only consistent bet with Eduardo is that he’ll suggest what he’s about to suggest, just like he’s done for every shift since I started working here.
“You are a very pretty lady,” he begins. “I do not understand why you refuse to do the dancing.” He raises a hand over his head and twirls. It’s a bizarre imitation of the kind of dancing he’s suggesting, enough to make me wonder whether he’s ever actually watched his own employees strip. I don’t think so. He seems more like the kind of man to enjoy his sexual deviations in private places. Like the office he has me trapped in, for instance.
I try to control my voice. “Like I’ve said before, I prefer to be just a waitress,” I say. Good job, I think to myself. As badly as I want to sprint out of this room before Eduardo can request again that I take my clothes off and beg strangers for their money, my job depends on me keeping him happy. I’ve walked a fine line in rejecting
his suggestions over the last few years, but lately it seems like his patience is growing thin.
“Don’t you want the money?” he asks me. He rubs his grubby fingers together. The rings shine in the harsh lighting.
I don’t know what to tell him. Of course I want the money. I want to get the hell out of my roach-infested apartment, to buy new clothes that don’t require me to stitch the ruined seams back together every night. Who wouldn’t want that?
But what I don’t want is to stand on stage and be exposed. I can’t bear the thought of taking my clothes off and leaving myself vulnerable to people I don’t know, people with malicious intentions who want only to milk me for what I’m worth to them and then cast me aside. Carlos did that. I don’t need it to happen again.
I shift in my seat and feel my shoulder pang again. Eduardo must see the pain in my face, because he tuts and gets up from his seat with a groan. Waddling around the desk, he comes to stand behind me. I try not to recoil as he begins massaging my neck and shoulders with his fingertips. It takes a big gulp and breath not to move away from his touch.
“Relax,” he mutters. “Let me help you.”
I can’t stomach any more. I jump to my feet. “I’m sorry, but Tomas really needs those glasses,” I say with as much of an apologetic tone as I can muster. “I’ve got to go get them.”
Eduardo sucks his teeth. There’s a flash of anger in his face, but the overall expression of lip-licking hunger never really leaves him. He eyes me for a moment, then shoos me away. He returns back to his desk. “Fine, whatever, go.”
I thank him and turn towards the door. “But, Rose,” he says, “I need you to do me a favor.” He chews on the end of his fingernail, which is already bitten down to the quick. Suddenly, he’s giving off a skittish, nervous vibe.
“What is it?” I ask cautiously. I’ve never seen Eduardo so frantic before.
He doesn’t say a word, just hustles out of the office and waves for me to follow him. I almost collide into his fleshy back when he stops suddenly at the corner where the hallway spills out into the main room. He turns back into the shadows of the hall and looks at me. “There is a group of men on the couch over there.” He jabs a finger towards the far corner. “Look, but be very careful.”
I crane my head around the corner. It’s hard to make out much, as other waitresses and patrons keep zig-zagging between me and the men I’m supposed to be looking at. From what I can tell, there are two Mexican men lounging on the rounded couch pushed up against the wall. They are all dressed head to toe in black. Their hair is all the same, oily and slicked straight back from their foreheads. Something is off. Even from here, I don’t like what I’m seeing.
Eduardo seizes my shoulder in a vise grip. “Be very careful with them, Rose,” he warns. His breath is rancid, but his voice is laced with concern. He seems genuinely afraid. “They are not nice men. Give them whatever they ask for.”
“Who are they?” I try to ask, but Eduardo shakes his head firmly and presses a finger against his lips. Without another word, he turns and scurries back into his office. The door slams shut. I can hear it lock behind him.
I was born and raised in El Cruce. It’s a border town, which means that a lot of the goods headed to the States come through here in one form or another. Drugs, prostitutes, weapons—you name it, it’s been here. And where those things go, violence is not far behind. Some truly bad men walk the streets. I learned long ago to stay away from them. So what is Eduardo doing inviting them to the club?
I’m still pondering these thoughts when a barback comes sprinting around the corner and runs headlong into me. “Oof,” I gasp as the wind is knocked from my lungs.
The teen apologizes profusely. “Sorry, Rose, didn’t see you there. I was just going to get glasses. Tomas is getting slammed.”
Shit. The glasses. “I’ll get them. It’s my fault,” I say. He nods and runs off again back where he came from. I hurry into the kitchen, one hand rubbing my bruised ribs where his elbow had crashed into me. Snagging a stack of glasses from the dishwashing station, I head back out to the bar.
“I’m so sorry, Tomas,” I pant as I set the glasses down in front of them. “Eduardo called me into his office and I totally forgot.”
“It’s okay,” he says, before a customer waves a handful of money down at the other end of the bar. “Gotta go. Oh, wait, Rose.” Tomas turns back around. “Lucila said she wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s she want?” I ask. He gives me an uncertain shrug, then moves down to get the impatient man what he wants.
I frown. Lucila is a stripper, and it’s fairly unusual for the dancers to interact with the wait staff while we’re both working. They’re drugged out most of the time, anyway. I would be, too, if I had to do their job. There are half a dozen tables that need attention, but curiosity gets the better of me. I decide to go see what Lucila wants before I go make my rounds.
The dancers’ backroom sits at the end of a poorly lit hallway on the other side of a beaded curtain. I push through, beads jangling, and step around a puddle forming under the leaky roof. Picking my way around the debris littering the corridor, I reach the room and stick my head in.
Lucila is the only one in there. She’s wearing a tiny, sheer bikini that is doing a horrendous job of providing any coverage whatsoever. I see the brown rim of her nipple sticking out from beneath the top. She’s bent over, touching up her makeup in the mirror, when she hears me come in.
“Rose!” she says as I stand in the doorway. “Come here, baby, sit.” She pats the stool next to her. I tread over and collapse into the seat, happy to rest my aching ankles. I always liked Lucila. She was one of the few dancers who bothered even saying hello to the other employees at the club.
Lucila checks the corners of the room to make sure we’re alone before leaning forward and asking me in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, “Have you been waiting on those men dressed in all black?”
“They’re in my section, but I haven’t been over there yet. Why? What’s going on?”
She sits up straight and looks into the mirror, using one long fingernail to scrape away a rogue stripe of lipstick. “They’ve got the look.”
“The look?”
Lucila gives me a pitying, ‘c’mon’ glare. “The look, baby. You know the look.”
I did know the look. It was technically against the house rules to turn tricks at the club, but a few of the dancers did it from time to time and nobody was the wiser. As long as they kept things hushed up and gave Eduardo his cut, then everyone was willing to turn a blind eye to the whole affair. The look Lucila was referencing was the kind of hungry, vacant expression given off by a man—or in this case, two men—looking to pay for the pleasure of Lucila’s company.
“I wouldn’t,” I start to say.
“I know, I know,” she coos. “But I need the money, doll. Rent is due, my baby needs milk, and I didn’t get enough good shifts this week to cover everything.” I see a tiny tear start to well up in the corner of her eye, but she sniffles and brushes it away before I can say a word.
I open my mouth to tell her that it’s a bad idea, but I let it fall closed without saying anything. It’s not my place. If she needs this, then who am I to tell her differently?
I stand. “I gotta go. I haven’t checked on my tables in way too long. Just be careful, okay?” I beg. “Eduardo warned me to be extra good to those guys. You know their type.”
Lucila nods. Like me, she’d been in this town long enough to know that there are some people you just did not want to mess with. “I’ll be careful,” she promises. She grabs the back of my head and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. “Thanks, babe.” She picks up a clear platform heel from the ground and starts fiddling with the straps. Sighing, I walk out.
I scoop my tray from the server’s station behind the bar and rove around taking drink orders from the patrons seated in my section. It’s getting late enough in the night that most of the men are verging on catatonic was
ted. Half of them are slumped out in their seats while a dancer grinds on their laps, happy to keep dancing until the man comes to his senses enough to tell her the ride is over.
I leave the men in black for last. I’m watching them out of the corner of my eye as I move back and forth between the bar and the couches arranged in concentric circles around the stage. They are all relaxed and leaned back, not drinking or paying for lap dances, merely watching the girls on stage with a ferocious appetite in their eyes.
Lucila is right; they definitely have the look. But it’s not quite the same look I’m used to seeing on men eager to pay for sex. With most johns, I can sense a kind of shameful, sweaty desperation. They’re either cheating on their wives and girlfriends and therefore terrified of getting caught, or they feel guilty about the whole transaction for no reason at all. It doesn’t matter either way. At the end of the day, someone gets their rocks off and money changes hands. No harm, no foul.
