by Portia Moore
Yep, there it is. I let out a long sigh. “I don’t date guys like you!” I tell him emphatically, laughing to underscore my point, as if I’d never even consider it. Like it’s ridiculous…which it is.
“Guys like me?” He leans closer. I can smell his cologne—it’s the first time I’ve noticed it. It’s sharp and spicy, and it sends a tingle down my spine.
Nope. Not doing this.
“You don’t know what kind of guy I am, except one that didn’t tell his friend to pull off and leave you on the side of the road unconscious. I think that gives me a few points.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Now I’m not smiling. I want him to understand that I’m serious, that we’re done here. He frowns, and I see that he’s not getting it. “You have a heart, and I’m not exactly gentle with them.” I’m as serious as a grave as I say it, and some strange look passes over his face.
“I’m not made of glass, sweetheart,” he says, chuckling.
Fine. We’ll do this a different way. “Give me your number,” I demand, rolling my eyes. He grabs my phone and calls it with his, and I immediately snatch it back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Time to get out of the car,” I sing-song, pinning him with my gaze as he reluctantly does so. I grin at him. “Don’t call me, I’ll call you,” I tell him, and then I hit the gas the minute the door closes, zooming away before he hardly has time to step out of the way.
Spoiler alert: I’m not going to call him.
3
Alana
When I get to work, the club is already packed. Well—maybe packed isn’t the right word. This isn’t some seedy red-light-district gentlemen’s club, where anyone can walk in off the street and see some girls twirl on stage for them. This is a club for real gentlemen—or at least the kind of men who have enough money to seem like they are. But it’s busy. I take a peek as the door to the dressing room opens and Diamond, one of the other dancers, sashays out to her stage. It looks like every man in the club tonight is over fifty, but that’s cool. Older men are easier to charm out of their money. Young ones think they’re owed the world, that they deserve the attention of young and beautiful women. Older ones know that their time is up. They’re more grateful.
I like the power this job gives me, the control. The ability to draw men’s eyes but tell them they can’t touch. The thrill of knowing they want me, that they’ll pay for even the slightest hope that I might give them something—a touch, a kiss, a flash. Some of them probably even hope that if they pay enough, I’ll fuck them. That a woman like me might want a sugar daddy like them.
I make my own sugar, though.
I get dressed for the night. I’ve long since been assigned a split persona—no joke—and depending on the night, the club owner tells me if I’ll be the angel or the devil. He does it with little stickers on my mirror, like it’s some kind of inside joke between the two of us. I think it’s stupid. But I play along anyway.
Tonight it’s devil. So I slip on a sparkly red thong, draw the red lace garter up over my ass, and secure my stockings. A bejeweled red lace pushup bra and a sheer black robe that shows more than it conceals completes the look—I’ll shed the robe pretty quickly once I’m out on the floor. The other girls in this club get mostly nude, but I never do. It’s a rule of mine, and while the owner protested at first, he quickly found that I don’t have to show off my nipples or even more than my cleavage and the curve of my ass to make him more money than half of his other girls combined.
I brush out my sleek and straight hair, which looks even darker in comparison to the ruby-colored getup, and freshen up my eyeliner and red lipstick. Time to make some money. A smart businesswoman knows how to diversify.
Eve, one of the hostesses, finds me before long. I’ve performed one song on the stage, and then I start to make my way across the floor, looking for a good mark—someone who will tip well. Then Eve signals to me, and I slink towards her. She’s standing next to one of the black leather booths, and the man sitting there is tall, well-groomed, and well-dressed—and a solid twenty years younger than the rest of the clientele.
“This is Dexter,” Eve says silkily. “He’d like to pay for a private show with you.”
“Dexter Jr.,” the man corrects, and I flick my gaze towards him. I don’t like him on sight. He has that arrogance that I so dislike—the sense that the world is owed to him, that I’m owed to him. I like showing men like that how wrong they are.
“I’m busy,” I say flippantly.
“You don’t have a client.” Eve’s voice keeps that seductive, silky quality, but I hear the annoyance beneath it. Most of the girls, dancers and hostesses alike, hate how much I get away with here. That I can pick and choose how much I take off, who I’ll give attention to, that I get to sing. The others have to submit to the whims of the clientele, but I call the shots when it comes to me.
“I don’t like him. Get Diamond to do it.”
“Diamond has a client and he asked for you.”
I glare at her. I can see in my peripheral vision that Dexter—sorry, Dexter Jr.—is lounging on the booth like he doesn’t have a care in the world, watching us with the kind of bored expression that suggests he already knows how this is going to play out. It pisses me off even more.
Eve reaches for my elbow and pulls me a little to the side, enough that she can’t be heard above the music as she speaks in a low tone. “Alana, he’s a black member.”
That gets my attention. Black members are the richest of the rich here and are known to tip minimum of three grand. As much as I don’t want to admit it, even I have a price. And making a couple thousand for thirty minutes of singing or a conversation is pretty close to it. It’s a lot of money more than what I’d make for Jadon.
“Fine,” I snap. “Ten minutes and I get the full amount of what he leaves. I’m not tipping the house, you’re making enough money off of him.”
I can see that Eve wants to argue, but she doesn’t. Instead, she simply leads me over to Junior and gestures for him to follow us to the champagne room.
It’s not really that fancy of a room. Leather couches dominate it, with a clear acrylic stage and pole in the center. The floor is tile, the walls a glossy black, reflecting the gleaming lights. There’s a wet bar, and as we walk in and Eve shuts the door behind us, I gesture towards it. “Feel free to have a drink.”
“Aren’t you going to offer to make me one?” He smiles at me.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not a bartender. You paid for a show. Make your own drink.”
“You’ve certainly got a mouth on you.” He says it in a way that’s clearly meant to imply innuendo, but I ignore it. “Outspoken. I like that.”
“When you have a seat, the show will start.” I sit gracefully on the edge of the acrylic stage. “But the clock is ticking. Anything you want to hear specifically?”
“I’m not actually here for a show.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not a whore,” I say curtly. “I sing. Sometimes I dance. That’s the extent of it. I’m not even going to take off this lingerie.”
“If I paid you enough, you would.”
“Try me.” My eyes flash dangerously.
Dexter Jr. chuckles. “Matching wills with you would be entertaining. But that’s not what I’m here for. Not the dance, or sex, or to see you strip or sing. Trust me, when I explain, you’ll see why none of those things interest me.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my tone showing how bored I am. But I’m sort of intrigued now. He’s paying me thousands to what, then? Talk? I never get that kind of luck.
“Sit. Please.” He gestures to the couch. “I won’t lay a finger on you.”
Hmm, maybe this will be easier than I thought. I sit beside him and he reaches for a briefcase at his feet and produces a file. “This is what I want to talk to you about.”
I immediately flinch, tensing up all over. My first thought is that some of my extra curriculars has caught up with me. Has he been a mark before? No, I remember mostly all of
them. But then wouldn’t I just be arrested? Black mail maybe? Either that or it has something to do with my past—and that almost seems worse.
He opens the file and I see a picture of me. Well…not really me. Sort of me. The me that goes by a different name and has never even thought about going to the part of town that would have a club like this, let alone working in one. I see a name that I recognize, and a lot of other things that I don’t. I feel my stomach churn, turning over on itself.
“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, my voice tight.
“I want to talk to you about your past. About who you used to be—who you are now…and who you might want to be in the future. If you were given a chance.”
“My past is my own business,” I snap. “Why would you care? What does someone like you give a fuck about someone like me?”
“Because…” he hesitates. “Megan—or Alana, whichever you prefer—I think you may be my sister.”
I stare at him for several seconds. My head swims a little, and I snatch the file out of his hands. I look down at it, trying to absorb the information contained there, but it might as well be Greek. I can’t seem to make sense of any of it. I might have a brother? Family has never been important to me. That’s Megan’s hang-up.
“How…how do you know about Megan?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking. Megan is never supposed be connected to me.
“I know a lot more than you realize. It’s all in there. The foster homes. The group home after you started having ‘episodes.’ You’d be surprised what I know, Alana.”
“So, what do you want from me?” My heart is pounding. Who is this man? How can I be who he says I am?”
“My family is important to me. If you’re my blood, then that matters. And I think you may be.” He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a card—it’s slim and expensive-looking, embossed with black script. “We weren’t introduced properly. My name is Dexter, Crestfield Jr..”
I stand up abruptly, clutching the file. “I don’t feel well,” I say hesitantly, and it’s not really a lie. I don’t feel good at all. “I got to go.”
“I really would like to talk about this…”
“Not now!” I exclaim, backing away from him. I don’t know if it’s true or just my mind playing tricks on me, but I need space. I need fresh air.
I push my way through the club, the file clutched in my hand. I hear Eve calling out to me, but I ignore her. I don’t even bother getting dressed when I reach backstage, I just throw my long coat on over my lingerie, grab my bag, and rush out into the alleyway, sucking in long breaths of air that isn’t exactly fresh, but is at least outside.
For a minute I think I’m going to vomit, but the urge passes. The drive back home is a blur. Once I’m safely in my own room, I look at the file again—at the pictures of me: then, now, of me and her. Pictures taken without my knowledge, without my permission. Documents, typed neatly up. And a name: Dexter Crestfield, Jr.
With trembling fingers I call Beth, my old foster sister. She answers, sounding exhausted—she works as a waitress, and I’m surprised she answers.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask. My voice must convey how anxious I am, because she agrees without really asking any questions.
“I need some information on a person, a family I guess. Do you think your boyfriend can find out some things? They might be pretty easy to find. I think they’re loaded.”
She pauses. “Yeah, send me what you have. It’ll cost though.”
“I don’t care, just see if he can do it,” I tell her.
I set the file on my nightstand and tell myself that I won’t look at it, that I won’t read it, that I’ll just go to sleep. But even once my light is off, I can’t help but stare in the direction of its thin shape, thinking about the information in there, and what it might mean for me.
For Megan.
For us.
4
Kam
Katie is hanging out in my room while I’m getting ready, perched on the edge of my bed. I’m glad she’s here, because I can’t decide what to wear. I don’t know why I’m so nervous but Katie can tell. She’s not above making fun of me for it, either.
“Gosh Kam, you act like you’re about to meet the queen,” she teases, leaning forward as I come out of the bathroom wearing the third shirt I’ve tried on.
“Shut up,” I tell her slightly annoyed. “Should I wear jeans? Or slacks?”
“Are you going to a business meeting or on a date? Of course you should wear jeans, Kam. Just wear nice ones. Those ones Mom bought for you last week when she and I went shopping. And get rid of that red shirt, you look like a Christmas ornament.”
“What about a black shirt?”
“Are you going to a funeral?” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile playing on her lips. “I hope this goes well. Then we can finally say good riddance to Blair.”
“Katie…” I warn, fishing another shirt out of my closet and heading for the bathroom. “Let’s not start this.”
I see her roll her eyes, and she keeps talking, raising her voice so I can hear her. “Kam, she broke up with you. Is she still insisting on trying to be your friend, after all of this?”
I sigh as I emerge again, this time in a white t-shirt. “What about this? Simple but effective?”
“Much better than the last thing,” Katie promises me. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, she still wants to be friends. And I am trying to be her friend. I owe her that.” I shake my head, feeling some of the hurt well back up again. I don’t want to think about this tonight—I want to think about Megan. “She thought we should see other people. I didn’t. I’d rather her break up with me before she decided to, and I respect her for that.”
“But you haven’t been seeing anyone,” Katie points out. “And it’s been four months, Kam.”
“Well, I’m seeing someone tonight,” I remind her with a smile as I head back into the bathroom to put on a little cologne.
“When she finds out you’re seeing someone else she’s going to change her tune!” Katie shouts. “And she’s going to want you back!” She glares at me as I re-emerge. “You better tell her no.”
“Katie, do we have to talk about Blair tonight?” I avoid the clear question in her statement.
“What was it about Megan that made you ask her out?” Katie asks curiously. “It’s just…you’re around beautiful girls all of the time. They love you. Hell, they practically throw themselves at you, and you’ve hardly noticed. You definitely haven’t made a move. So why her?”
I glance away for a moment, and then back at Katie. “She has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” I tell her honestly. “They’re innocent…but there’s something haunting there, too.” I shrug, trying to deflect any teasing heading my way. “I just want to know more about her.”
I’m surprised that Katie doesn’t make fun of me at all. “That’s really sweet, Kam,” she says, smiling at me. “I hope this works out. Where are you taking her?”
“A cooking class,” I say cheerfully. “A couples cooking class, to be specific. I thought it would be fun…we can talk to each other but also there’s something to do at the same time. Not just staring at each other over a dinner table..”
“Sophie’s huh?” she asks knowingly. I nod. “She’s going to love it!” Katie grins at me. “You’re good at this. You’re going to sweep her off her feet.” She hops off of the bed and pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck, big brother. You got this.”
---
On the drive over, I can’t help but worry if I do, in fact, “got this.” I don’t want to screw it up. I have no idea where I went wrong with Blair, exactly. Katie and Blue keep telling me I didn’t do anything wrong, that she just wanted to explore and there’s nothing I could do to stop that or change it. But that hasn’t stopped me from wondering if I didn’t love her enough, was attentive enough. If I didn’t do enough creative things to keep her interested.
&nbs
p; The neighborhood where I’m supposed to pick Megan up is a world away from the one where I live. Lawns are overgrown, there’s a man sitting sprawled on the sidewalk, cigarette clamped between his teeth. I passed at least three stores with bars on the windows. I can feel the eyes on my Porsche as I roll by.
But the minute I see her walk out the front door of the apartment building, the surroundings disappear and all I can see is her. She’s wearing skinny jeans with a dark green top that has soft fluttery sleeves, and I’m glad Katie talked me out of the red shirt. We really would have looked like Christmas ornaments. Her hair is curled and she’s wearing makeup and wedge heels, and I realize that she’s put all this effort in for me. It makes me feel good, especially since she was so hesitant about the date in the first place.
“Hi beautiful!” I say meaning it. “You look amazing.” She really does, and once again, all thoughts of Blair leave my head the minute I see her. Only she exists.
She blushes and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear as she takes in my appearance too. She looks a little embarrassed, and I see her swallow hard as she looks at the car. “So do you…um…nice car,” she says, glancing back at me.
“It’s my dad’s,” I explain. “My truck was having engine issues.” I’ve never been so grateful for car problems in my life, since it gave me an excuse to pick Megan up in this. I open the door for her, and she smiles a little as she slides into the car carefully. I can see her looking over at me shyly as I get in on my side, settling in and putting on my seatbelt. I let out a breath. Here we are. We’ve gotten to this point—now I just have to hope I don’t screw up the date.
“Can I be honest with you about something?” I ask, glancing over at her. I don’t know what it is about her that makes me want to be vulnerable, but I want to tell her what I’m thinking. What I’ve worried about, so that maybe she’ll do the same.
She breathes in a little shakily. “Yeah, shoot.”
