by W Winters
He gets drunk and messages me that he’s sorry. It’s a pattern. One that’s destroyed the woman I used to be. My stomach sinks and my skin feels numb remembering all the times he’s done it. He says he wants me back. If I answer anything at all, I only get more messages. More and more pressure.
I stopped responding months ago on the advice of my therapist, back when I left Travis for good and moved back in with my mother. It doesn’t matter what he says. I’m not going to forgive him. I blocked him after many therapy sessions. It never feels good to block someone, to cut them out of your life with no intention of speaking to them again, but Tobias said it was healthy, that it was necessary. My therapist suggested going no contact, and setting the boundary lifted a weight from my shoulders. Until about ten hours ago.
Last night, Travis texted from a new number. I curl up onto my side under the blanket and squeeze my eyes shut harder. The sheer guilt and fear and anguish that cling to me are enough to make me wish I was dead.
* * *
I know you moved out. I just want to talk …
* * *
I know better than to think he just wants to talk. For the kind of man he is, talking is only the beginning. Give an inch and he’ll take a mile, so I simply can’t give him a damn thing.
The fact he’s aware I moved sends a chill down my spine. Does he know I’m alone? That’s the first question that came to mind. He knew enough to text me from a new number. Travis … he scares me. Even though I don’t want to admit it.
I could change my number … again. But that means spending all afternoon conversing with some guy in a red polo shirt at the phone place and probably getting upsold on a plan I don’t need. Even if I did, he might get the new number, and then what?
Travis doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let things be. I could say goodbye a hundred times and it would mean nothing. I swallow the lump in my throat and throw off the sheet entirely, feeling far too hot and far too suffocated.
I’m going to have to keep blocking him forever.
The thought of him keeping tabs on me scares me to death. It’s what kept me up at night. He doesn’t take no for an answer. It was hard enough when we broke up. It didn’t seem like there was anywhere to go, and I ended up crashing with my mom until I could sign a lease.
The damn alarm sounds off just now. The wretched beeping is my savior. It keeps me from spiraling. Slamming my hand down, I remind myself of the same thing I’ve been saying for weeks now.
I need to stay positive.
That’s what I need to do.
Breakup or not, living with my mom or not, small house or not—wallowing in those feelings won’t get me where I need to go.
On the bright side, I have a new address. I’ve got enough money together for the deposit and the first month’s rent and I’m here, I’m doing it. My life might look a little plain, but it’s mine.
I drift on the bed for a few minutes, traveling through memories and emotions, a pillow between my legs as I stare aimlessly at the wall. As my toe meets the elastic band, I seethe. This fitted sheet is a real problem. When I get everything together again, I’m going to get a set of sheets that’s the right size for the mattress so it doesn’t come off in the middle of the frickin’ night.
That’s a good goal, and simple. I visualize moving down the aisle at Target, looking at the pastel hues of the sheets, everything in a neat row. I know they’re just sheets, but it’s the little things. At twenty-five years old, I’ve never lived by myself. It was always dorms or roommates … or Travis.
Life keeps coming and coming and coming and it hurts like hell, but at least a girl can get a new set of sheets.
Letting out a huff of a laugh, I open my eyes and hop out of the bed. My phone waits on my nightstand, plugged into its charger, and I pick it up without hesitation.
I have two text messages.
My heart pounds, thinking one of them might be from him. It might be a threat even. It wouldn’t be the first time. I swipe the screen and open them up as fearlessly as I can, only to find they’re from my friend Scarlet, and my mom.
The relief is palpable and I wish it wasn’t.
Scarlet messaged at the ass crack of dawn. She’s a good friend, but also a runner who doesn’t understand that not everyone wakes up at 6:00 in the morning to exercise. She’s also my hero because she got me my new job. Today I am a cocktail waitress. Which is far better than being a cashier at Travis’s pharmacy. Worlds better, in fact, because he wouldn’t dare set a foot in The Club.
* * *
Scarlet: Reminder, don’t be late and wear something sexy!! Higher tips that way, and you might meet someone ;)
* * *
I send her back a kissing emoji and heart eyes, then open the message from my mom.
* * *
Mom: Good luck today! Te amo, Braelynn <3
* * *
Braelynn: Te amo, Mama <3
* * *
I reply immediately to my mom, even if her message brings down the corners of my lips. She begged me not to move out. She loves me, wants to be both my best friend and a mother hen, but I need out. I need to stand on my own two feet. My mom would keep me home forever if she could. Especially after what happened with Travis. My father would understand if he were still here. I need space. I need independence. I love her dearly, but I need to be okay on my own.
Even if I’m not exactly truthful about the place I’ll be working. I said waitress … I just didn’t mention it was at The Club. There are rumors and gossip about that place. But they were hiring and Scarlet said she could get me in. She said they pay well and Lord knows I need to get back on my feet. My phone vibrates and I look at the screen to see my mom’s messaged me again with a thumbs-up emoji.
* * *
I love that she’s thinking of me. I can practically feel the luck suffusing the air around me, almost like I was still living with her. My mama is my hero. Always and forever.
Padding into my bathroom to shower, I run through the pep talk I’ve been practicing.
New life.
New apartment.
New job.
With both hands on the edge of the sink, I stare at my reflection. “Today is the first day of the rest of my life.”
It’s painful to start over, but discomfort is part of growth. I can handle anything that comes my way today. I will handle anything that comes my way today. Everything that came before makes me strong enough to do this.
My hands tighten on the edge of the granite counter.
And this time, it’s all mine. This is my shampoo and my shower and my hot water. All of which I paid for. Nobody else is choosing it for me or holding power over me with it. That sick, pricking chill plays at the back of my neck remembering how Travis did just that.
Biting down on my lower lip, I feel shame. It took me far too long to realize that to him, it was his money, so he could treat me however he wanted.
That was then. This is now.
This new job, a high-end cocktail waitress, as Scarlet called it, could turn out to be great. If I can figure out how to work the system like Scarlet says, I’ll have more money in my pocket and even more freedom.
I’ll get that new set of sheets. They won’t come off the corner of my mattress. Maybe I’ll even get a cute lamp to boot. I smile into the water as I scrub down my face, thinking about it. Smooth sheets and no tossing and turning at night. That’s what I’m aiming for. Peace and freedom. You know what? I can get those things. There’s nothing stopping me now.
The bathroom is about as barren as my bedroom, but I’ve got what I need to do my hair. A blow-dryer and a curler and hair spray and hours of practice. I spend more time than usual in front of the mirror. I won’t let Scarlet down and be late, but I’m showing up as the new version of me.
With plenty of concealer under my eyes.
When my hair’s perfect, I practice my polite smile into the mirror.
They’ll fall in love with you, Scarlet promised. It’s a pity ho
w much that made me feel cherished. Just the thought of strangers loving me was enough to sway me into taking the job.
I stop my thoughts in their tracks, clicking off the curling iron. Positive thoughts only. I’m not going to think of my ex or the hard climb ahead of me, or the possibility I might fail out of this new job.
Nope. I’m going to succeed. I can’t keep running back to my mom’s house every time life gets hard. I need to build my own safety net, and it starts with this new job. It’s natural to be nervous about it. The stakes are high. Life keeps coming no matter what I do, so I just need to keep going. Day in and day out. All I have to do is survive.
I bypass the basket of laundry and stride to my closet. There’s one dress hanging inside, one that Scarlet helped me pick out. Staring at the pile of boxes, I roll my eyes. I know, I know. I need to unpack. At the top of my to-do list is the need to put away my clothes and make this place into a real home, instead of a temporary stopping place. This is my home. This is my new home, and my new life, and I’m going to be fine.
With the satin slipping through my fingers, I take in the deep red. The dress is a dark, dark red. Shivers run up and down my arms at the feeling of the fabric. This dress is my uniform for the evening.
It makes me feel like a different woman. I turn in front of the mirror, letting the cloth drape down my body. It makes my dark hair stand out, and I get a thrill of pride that I managed to make myself look like this. Sexy and mysterious and in control.
They’ll never know how scared I am, deep down. No one will ever know. Because I’ll put on a smile that goes with this dress. That reminds me of the lipstick. Scarlet inspired me to get it. She told me red is a confident color. Perched atop the worn wood of my dresser is a little striped bag from Sephora. A spray of tissue paper pokes out of the top and nestled inside is my new lipstick.
I take it back to the bathroom mirror and apply it.
The shade of the lipstick matches the dress perfectly. That’s the last piece of my uniform and I did it exactly right. It’s hard to match colors so exact, so the forty-five minutes I spent in the store going back and forth between different shades is paying off. I stare at my own face in the mirror until I look like a stranger. A beautiful stranger who could be anyone she wants to be.
My phone vibrates on the bedside table out in the bedroom, and I go back out to see who messaged me.
* * *
Scarlet: How is everything going? Just checking in …
* * *
Braelynn: I’m all ready. Heading out soon!
* * *
I can’t help the feelings that come over me. It’s comforting to have someone who’s concerned about me like Scarlet is. Gratitude is overwhelming. We’ve known each other for years, but only recently got as close as we are. Since everything started breaking down with Travis, she’s really been there for me when I needed it.
* * *
Braelynn: See you soon.
* * *
One last stop at the mirror. I’ve made myself as perfect as I could for this. Perfect red dress. Perfect lipstick. It’s the lipstick, most of all, that gives me courage. I’ll fake it ’til I make it. I’ll fake it until every dark thing that’s ever happened to me is far away in the rearview mirror. I’ll fake it until there’s more happiness than pain in my life.
Blinking away every insecurity, I focus on the comic relief: I’ll fake it until I get that new set of sheets.
With a roll of my eyes and a huff of a laugh, I focus on that one small goal to send me on my way. It’ll feel good to have those new sheets, and better to sleep through the night without worrying.
The woman in the mirror is who I’ll be when that happens. No more Braelynn who cried all the way home to her mother’s house. No more Braelynn who doesn’t want to face the day and lets her lover treat her like a doormat.
No more Braelynn who’s so afraid she can’t even sleep at night.
Declan
The office door shuts with a quiet thud and I lock it as I always do. The keys clink as I test the lock.
It’s only as I turn that I realize I’ve forgotten my tie on my desk. Pausing, I gaze down at my attire: gray slacks, a black leather belt that matches the onyx of my oxfords and a burgundy button-down. The din from up the iron spiral staircase tells me The Club is already bustling with clients.
Fuck it.
I drop the keys into my pocket and then run my hand along my jaw. Stubble lines my chin, but that’s how I prefer it. I’m not interested in the typical dick-measuring contests men tend to have at nightclubs. Every other man who walks through those doors can feel superior behind the closed doors of this establishment. The liquor flows for them in the private dining areas. Women dance in burlesque shows and provide … other entertainment.
Most importantly, they’re comfortable conducting business here. Upstairs is for deals. Handshakes are exchanged, money is passed under tables. All arrangements are dealt with discretion.
And we remain aware of every business transaction and affair that matters in this city and the four corners beyond it. Ever since Marcus left, we’ve taken the role of providing communication efforts for men in our profession. With the clank of my shoes smacking against the iron, I peek down the hall from my office.
If everyone knows upstairs is where major deals on the East Coast are done, they know downstairs is where people go for not holding up their agreements. The private rooms are mostly furnished for all manner of sin. If ever the police raided, which they have before, there are plenty of women who escort the men in here to testify that they enjoy their partners in the privacy of those rooms. In fact, there are only two that are concrete from wall to wall with a drain in the center of the room.
As I push the door to the main floor open, I smirk, remembering the latest officer’s brow cocking as I described what “water sports” were and that our club doesn’t judge kinks so long as men clean up after themselves. Every so often the cops make a pathetic attempt at shutting us down. As far as the authorities are concerned, I run a gentleman’s club with playrooms in the basement. Everything is consensual and the books are clean. The numbers are balanced when it comes to what we show.
It’s easy to pass money through, moving around whatever amounts are needed for certain deals. The devil is in the details, as they say.
The majority of our guests are on the up-and-up. There may be whispers of what occurs, but they’re all rumors. The most perverse allegations that have been proven are politicians who’ve brought their mistresses to The Club. There is no exception to what manner of debauchery we allow, so long as phones are left at the door with their coats and every check is paid.
The Club is my creation, my contribution to my family and the only way I’ve been able to stay on top of things while my brothers have stepped back.
They’ve moved on in life in a number of ways. They have children and lives I’ve never imagined for myself, let alone for them. I’ve taken on more of their burdens and more of what comes with this line of business.
Even Seth, my best friend, is no longer available like he used to be. His son is almost two now. My godson.
I do every damn thing I can for all my family, including maintaining our ruthless reputation.
The music is alluring, a downtempo mix that offers the same ambiance as the dim lighting and lit candles on every table. The white wax provides a stark contrast against the black linens.
From this entrance, the stage, which is empty at the moment, is to my right. In front of me are the folding seats, separated into isolated sections, with the bar behind it. The hall leading to the entrance is to my right. It’s private and discreet, although the tables are full of unsuspecting patrons at the moment.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cross,” Scarlet greets me, tipping her chin down as she passes by. Her lips pick up into a simper, but her eyes don’t reach mine. As she slips past, balancing the silver tray in her left hand with empty wineglasses and stacked plates, I peer across the room.
There are a dozen tables filled, another dozen empty. A few tables consist of men in sharp suits toasting, while a few have groups of women, dripping of wealth in designer dresses and handbags. Most tables are occupied by couples, though, preparing for a night out and having chosen this destination, more than likely, for the rumors of what’s happened behind these closed doors.
Scarlet and Angela are working the floor, both in short, deep red dresses. We allow black, white, or a specific shade of red. It’s an unwritten rule, one not explicitly stated anywhere. But the colors have distinct meanings.
White is worn if a staff member is interested in playing, but has limits. Hard limits. It’s often soft touches, or heavy petting at the most. It’s a tease, nothing more.
Black indicates the waitress, server or anyone wearing the color is off-limits. No touching whatsoever.
Mia, the bartender currently occupied with cleaning the necks of the liquor bottles, has always worn black. She’s slim and tall, with a deep V-neck dress that displays her cleavage generously. Her jet-black hair is twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She never wears an ounce of color, not even in her makeup.
Once a patron assumed the uniform color had no meaning. He quickly found out he was wrong and that when she said no, it meant no.
The security who stood at the curtained entrance was useful that night in coloring that gentleman’s eyes black also.
Glancing toward my left, I note Jeffrey and Nicholas are working tonight as well. They’re nothing but muscle, disguised in black suits and polite nods.
“Good morning, sir,” Angela greets me as I get to the bar, a smile playing on her lips.
My eyes drift down her dress, a tsk at my lips. “It’s well after noon, Angela,” I say, correcting her with a playful tone.
