That night, I was going to be Dita Von Teese. I could always enjoy the dressing up—wearing short black curls and applying a fake beauty mark made me smile—yet as soon as my costume was perfected, I found my smiling stopped. The red flashing lights slipping through the black curtain, the chatter of the other girls in the change room, and the beat of Cindy’s number often made me go into a trance. A sultry exterior hid the numbness I desperately needed to handle my surroundings.
I didn’t think, I didn’t feel, and I didn’t care—not until my shift was over and I was soaking in the tub at home. Sometimes I worried that with each performance it was becoming harder and harder to snap out of the trance, to melt the hard shell that coated each muscle and hair on my body. Then I would remember Jessie’s daycare dancing, and suddenly I didn’t care if I ever smiled again as long as I was working toward that little girl remaining carefree.
“Millie, you’re up,” grunted Lucille, one of the club owners, known as Lucky to her friends and Getting Lucky to her enemies. I plastered a smile on my face, waved extra big at Lucille—even though I sort of hated that bitch—and approached the curtain. I quickly checked that my gloves were pulled up past my elbows and my sparkling silver dress was ready, Velcro tabs and all, then waited for the music to hit my cue.
Nina Simone’s “I Put a Spell on You” started and my character began. It was one of my slower, more seductive dance numbers. With my eyes closed, the music blaring, and satin beneath my fingers, I could almost pretend that this was a fancy burlesque nightclub with elite clientele. Picture someone sitting there appreciating the art form.
It wasn’t until I heard the repulsive howling from the audience as I slipped off my first white satin glove while rolling my hips invitingly that I was reminded of where I was: a hole-in-the-wall strip club called Poison. A dump that after it got shut down a couple of years ago had repackaged itself, removing the silver poles, inserting chandeliers as well as red velvet as far as the eye could see, and replacing the word ‘Gentlemen’s’ with ‘Burlesque’ on the front door. A place that could renovate the entire neighborhood, jack up their prices, and still struggle to attract anything other than truck drivers, addicts, and bored businessmen.
I turned my back to the audience and slowly undid my dress, letting it slip to the floor. While I stroked the sides of my body with my hands, I blocked out the lewd calls and prepared for the removal of my corset. Before I started counting out the steps that led to revealing the pasties attached to my nipples, I reminded myself why I did this job.
Big house.
Rooms where Jessie can dance.
Big future.
Independence.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
After hours of dancing, slinging drinks, and avoiding grabby hands, I packed up my belongings, wiped off my makeup, tied up my hair, and threw on my sweatpants. I was almost ready to swing by the twenty-four-hour supermarket on Broad Street and then drag myself home.
I took a quick look around to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything; even though I’d be back there the following night, I never wanted to leave something behind. It was a bitter pill to swallow, needing to be there to make my life happen. I wasn’t ready to ingest the thick smell of cigars and appraising looks when I didn’t have to.
As I made my final check for a possible forgotten tube of lipstick on the dressing table, I caught my reflection in the mirror. There were still hints of stage makeup near my nose and mouth, and I had pulled my hair into a tight bun. It was an old forgotten habit.
I couldn’t help but think that I looked like a normal tired dancer. No different than if I had just performed for the American Ballet Theatre.
I immediately pulled my hair out of the bun, letting the red curls tumble across my shoulders.
My becoming a prima ballerina had been my parents’ dream, born from the careless mistake of my dance teacher. She thought my parents needed to know at six years old that I was gifted. She couldn’t have anticipated how that information would change them—change us. She had no clue that their dream furniture company had burned down a month earlier and that they lived with the constant feeling of defeat by working menial jobs to pay the mortgage. Our house kept slowly falling apart around them without any possibility to fix it up. She couldn’t have understood that hearing their daughter was gifted was like a life raft to the future they had dreamed about and lost. Unlike my love of Jessie’s dancing, which had to do with the way it made her smile, their love of my dancing had everything to do with status. Money. Security.
Unlike their forgotten furniture company, they latched on to the potential of my future with everything they had; the notion that they might watch me, Camille Monroe, grace the stage in New York City invigorated them. To see me not only be good at something but to excel beyond everyone else inspired them to work harder than they ever had before. The possibility that I could have more money than I or they would ever need altered how they treated me. I believed that, once upon a time, they truly loved me; they just came to care more about the choices I made than the person I was becoming.
They ignored me when I tried to tell them at fourteen that I no longer wanted to keep dancing. When I discussed at sixteen my fear of living in New York by myself, they laughed. With every fiber of their being, they refused to believe that I just wanted to be normal. By eighteen, I had stopped talking to them, deciding I could live my dreams without needing to share those dreams with anyone.
I didn’t mention that my best friend’s excitement for college and living on campus had inspired my own curiosity to look up every community college and university in the area. I didn’t disclose how I had become so sick of bandaging and wrapping my injuries that I tended to spend more class time instructing others rather than dancing myself. I definitely didn’t tell them how helping others and choreographing routines had gradually become my passion, or when I realized that teaching kids the arts would be my future. My deep-seated knowledge that small classes and the occasional school recital—not long rehearsal schedules and tireless workouts—would lead to my happiness was never spoken of.
In my final year of high school, I hid in my best friend Parker’s bedroom for as long as she would let me, gossiping about boys and eating chocolate. If I had to go home, I would drag Parker with me. My parents never voiced their disapproval about missed dance rehearsals around company; in front of Parker, they acted like we were the perfect family.
I didn’t reveal my complete rebellion to them or Parker until I graduated and sold my small car. My parents had bought me the car as a birthday present, which allowed them to boast to other parents about my ability to go to early morning dance classes. I used it to buy college courses.
My parents were furious, claiming I didn’t learn a single thing from their struggles, yet they remained steadfast in the belief that I would see the light. They thought I would get through the first semester of college, find it completely unchallenging, and change my mind. They even told me they had a small bank account ready and waiting for the day I decided to move to New York.
The looks on their faces when I finally sat them down at nineteen and said the words “I’m pregnant” instead of “I’m ready to become a prima ballerina” were worse than I could’ve imagined. They were gutted. With two words, I destroyed their delusions.
I watched the color bleed from their faces. I watched them cry.
It was more than just the usual parental disappointment.
I’d killed something in them.
Still, I hadn’t anticipated coming home from my second ultrasound to find my bags packed for me, the two people who always said they had my best interest at heart handing me a new ultimatum: home or baby. Unlucky for them, they timed it poorly. They should’ve challenged me when I was crying on the couch after hearing from Parker that Nate was gone. I was scared out of my mind then, but after hearing my baby’s heartbeat, I had new strength. New determination.
I didn’t even say goodbye as I grabbed my
bags and walked out the door. They were trying to kill something in me, and unbeknownst to them, they were successful. I no longer gave any thought to their pain. My love for them was gone. I used the number Tahnee had programmed in my cell phone during Nate’s funeral, straight after our first awkward introduction, and never looked back.
I knew Tahnee occasionally sent them photos of me and baby Jessie. I think as a parent who lost a child, she couldn’t imagine voluntarily missing out on the future of your child and grandchild. I didn’t bother trying to explain to her that my parents were a lost cause. Photos wouldn’t change their insensitive beliefs.
I couldn’t help but imagine what they would’ve said if they could see me now. Tahnee knew what I did to make my money. She disapproved, but instead of voicing her concern, she just kept reminding me that she would support Jessie and me no matter what. I chuckled when I thought about sending my parents a photo of me on stage with my tassels spinning in the wind. It shouldn’t surprise them, because as far as I was concerned, my parents got their dream. I was now on stage every night, under the spotlight with adoring fans cheering my name.
I grabbed my bag and headed toward the exit, knowing I would still rather be dancing on this stage every night than in New York City.
COOPER
LUNCH WITH THE BOYS WAS okay, but after leaving campus, I decided I shouldn’t do that shit too often. If I sat with them every day, I’d fuck something up. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from saying something I shouldn’t.
I was way out of practice for that sort of thing.
Where I came from, there weren’t too many guys my age wanting to come hang out at a group home. When I was a junior, there were some guys I threw a ball around with and they seemed friendly enough, but it was short-lived. I got involved in some petty fight over a girl, and the next day my foster parents were calling me “troubled” and I was moved.
I never did graduate to drinks by a bonfire with the boys. I certainly didn’t shoot the shit with anyone the first time a girl let me touch her. Al bought me condoms when he found a bra in the workshop, and Lizzie made jokes if she saw me look at a girl a second too long.
Before today, they were the only ones I’d ever sat down with long enough to eat a sandwich.
Which was why I found myself walking into the supermarket past midnight following my late-night shift at the butcher. If I bought my own food, I wouldn’t need to step into the college cafeteria for the rest of the week. I also liked the fact that none of the streetlamps worked in a five-mile radius around the store, and the only thing that shone in the darkness was the crappy neon sign that hung above the door. It meant less people went here late at night. Grocery shopping over the past few months, dealing with aisles of food going to waste and bickering customers complaining about a thirty-cent price increase, almost made me miss prison food.
I was just able to make out two other trucks in the parking lot when I stopped my bike. I could handle two people. It was unlikely that either of those guys will bother me.
I turned down the first aisle, making my way toward the bread, when I saw her.
I was stuck staring at the way her sweatpants hung low on her hips, exposing her lower back. and how her long red hair almost touched her ass as she reached for a bag of chips on the top shelf.
I couldn’t help but take a look around to try and spot the boyfriend. She was alone. And I was pissed. She had a fucking death wish. Again.
“You think this shit through?” I asked her loud enough to be heard from the end of the aisle.
“Excuse me?”
Turning around, her eyes widened in surprise as I strolled toward her. I could tell when she recognized me though, as I was soon glaring into suspicious slits. I found myself unable to ignore her complete disregard to safety, even with the fire in her eyes. Fuck if I hadn’t heard inmates joke about hunting grounds and empty parking lots. Her walking off into that dark lot without a clue was something she’d soon realize was a shit idea, even if I had to be the one to point it out.
“Your choice to do some midnight shopping in this place makes me think you’re looking for trouble. You’re not even trying to blend in. You should wear a coat and a hat, hide your hair and body. Do something to disguise that you’re a woman all by herself, for fuck’s sake.”
“Look, Simon Says, I love that you feel like we have this relationship where you can walk up and start spouting shit about my outfits. But let me remind you, we don’t. I don’t know you. All I do know is that you were much more attractive when you were talking to yourself. Please, let’s go back to that,” she snapped before turning back around and scanning the lower shelves.
“Flash, if you think turning your back on me is going to get me to leave you alone here, you’re wrong.”
“I cannot believe this,” she muttered before she turned toward me, her red hair flying. “Give me your jacket.”
“Huh?” I’m too distracted to realize what she said. The heat in her face made her look amazing. Her rosy cheeks, sparkling blue eyes, and wild hair flying around her face resembled a mermaid coming up for air. I could almost lose myself in imagining her in a tiny shell bikini.
Then she tugged on the corner of my jacket and I remembered. It was late. She was not a fictional character. She was a serious danger to herself. She might even be deranged.
“You’re telling me—a grown adult, mind you—that you won’t leave me alone until I’m safe. Apparently you also think that if I hide my hair and my body, people will think I’m a man and leave me alone, so hand me your jacket. I’ll return it in class and you can leave me the hell alone. Now.”
“No. I’m walking you to your truck.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You might not be putting on a show, babe, but that doesn’t mean people haven’t been watching. I’m not taking any chances. You can keep calling me Simon instead of Coop and lecturing me if it makes you feel better, but tonight I’m walking you to your truck.”
“You do realize that you are the scariest thing in this supermarket, right? And the idea of you walking me into a parking lot with no light isn’t exactly a comfort.”
“You got mace?”
“What?”
“Mace? Pepper spray? A pocketknife? Some form of girly protection?”
“No, I don’t carry an arsenal in my purse.”
“Then we go by the cutlery aisle before we leave. You buy a fork. You feel afraid of me, go ahead and stab me with the fork,” I told her, smiling.
“I think I’m feeling scared right now,” she replied, arching her eyebrow.
“Funny. But Flash, just so you know, no matter how many times you stab me with the fork, I am walking you safely to your car. Tomorrow you buy an arsenal and a coat, and you can walk yourself.”
“I can walk myself tomorrow? Gee, thanks." She sighed. “Look, I don’t even care anymore. I’m tired. I ducked in here to grab milk and cereal on my way home. You want to follow me around, fine. Just stop talking.”
“Done.”
It was the longest grocery shopping experience of my life. And I didn’t even buy anything. I just watched and followed her stubborn ass in silence.
After her taillights faded off into the distance, I decided to go for a ride. Groceries could wait. Sleep could wait. Consumed by my frustration over things I couldn’t change, I needed to forget. Just forget who I was, where I was going, and focus on the air, my bike, and the road.
I cruised past trash cans that had been picked at by the desperate, ignoring the homes that only housed the hopeless, and the harsh looks from the few who lurked in nearby alleys eager for a fight.
My motorcycle was good for times like this, when I needed an escape, when I just wanted to ride and not have to listen to anything or anyone. A limitation of my parole and future plans was that I couldn’t pop a pill, couldn’t turn to the one thing that helped me silence the screaming in my head while in prison, which meant my bike was more than just a means of transport in my
life. She was my lifeline.
The moment I saw her in the junkyard, I knew she had to be mine. I wasn’t allowed to travel too far, but that didn’t meant shit. On the back of my bike, I was happy to ride around aimlessly.
On Jake’s birthday, I did twelve laps around the same block.
After following Flash around all evening, pretending like smelling her faint perfume wasn’t one of the best things I’d ever experienced, I figured I’d probably need to do ten laps at least, until I forgot the challenge I saw in her eyes. Overlooked the desire I had to show her how much she liked having me standing close. Made myself numb to the fact that I couldn’t touch a dream I had before everything went to shit.
I had to remember that cold air and speed were all I needed.
MILLIE
I told myself that I didn't find the fallen angel attractive anymore. His clearly psychotic “me Tarzan, you Jane” tendencies far outweighed how well his jeans clung to his ass. His outspoken critiques of my outfits definitely tarnished the seductive tone of his voice. Not to mention his completely overbearing presence was without a doubt the most painful and unwanted aspect of my evening.
So I felt a little safer walking to my car. That wasn’t that big a deal. I also might have realized that maybe his personality wasn’t as shitty as it came across in our last class. He just had a hero complex. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t need a hero.
And as soon as I told him to stop talking, he followed me through each aisle in silence. He didn’t even laugh as I spent the longest time deciding between Cocoa Puffs and Lucky Charms. But even with the gorgeous way his lips twitched in amusement, I’ve decided he was no longer going to be someone I sought out with my eyes. He wasn’t starring in any more of my daydreams, and I would not be thinking about how it might feel to run my fingertips along each of his tattoos. Nope, I wasn’t even going to let the fact that I now knew he rode a motorbike influence me. I was completely prepared to forget that when he straddled his motorcycle, he looked just like Jax Teller, ready to make all my fantasies come true.
Flash (Penmore #2) Page 6
