Remember Me: Music For The Heart: Book 4

by Starr, Faith

“Do you want to put these in the same—”

  “We don’t need a bag, thank you.” I cut her off. Hopefully, Smurfette could read my expression, telling her to keep her mouth shut.

  Lizzie’s brows drew together, probably because of my rude behavior.

  The woman rang up the waters and gave them to us, without a bag. I paid and nodded in thanks.

  Lizzie and I exited the store, both of us drinking from our bottles on our way out.

  We continued to walk. Then I stopped. Noticing my stillness, she did too.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “More than okay. Give me your wrist.” I tipped my chin in the direction of her free hand. The other one was holding her drink.

  “Why?”

  She probably thought I was crazy.

  “Just give it to me.”

  “But that would leave me with one.”

  The seriousness of her tone caused me to burst out laughing. One thing about Lizzie, she was a smartass like myself and made me laugh—a double bonus. And now she was quoting movie lines. What a gem.

  Still chuckling, I flipped her left hand over.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Reading your palm.” With my water bottle tucked under my arm, I slipped the bracelet out of the bag I had crumbled up and shoved in my pocket and clipped it around her thin wrist. Her eyes lit up with more than their usual degree of sunshine.

  “This is the bracelet from the window. Please don’t tell me you’re a secret kleptomaniac?” She eyed me in a teasing manner.

  “Shhh. Keep it down. I’d hate for the media to get hold of that information.” The Ritz incident with the robe had been a single-occasion deal.

  Smiling, she inspected the small globe. “I love it, Ryan. Thank you so much.” She pulled me in for a hug. “I’m going to wear it every day.”

  “Not sure how great the quality is so it might not last long.”

  “I don’t care. The thought was priceless. If it breaks, I’ll fix it.”

  “Or I can buy you another one.”

  “No. This one is special.” She continued to admire it.

  Talk about not being high maintenance. I had ever met a woman so appreciative of the most minuscule gestures.

  “I’m glad. Enjoy it.”

  And that was it. We strolled hand-in-hand until I had to drop her off.

  We stood at her front door. Her clothes from the previous night along with her strappy sandals were shoved in the Fields bag I had carried to the door. I handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She took it from me.

  “I plan on visiting my grandfather tomorrow. Will you be at the center?”

  “Sure will.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks again for the wonderful night, and day. Oh, and for the clothes, the shoes, the bracelet. All of it.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to let me take you out.”

  She smiled warmly. “Bye, Ryan.” She reached up and kissed my cheek.

  A simple peck and I felt giddy as shit. I strolled to my car, contemplating the absurdity of how one little kiss had affected me on such a deep level.

  16

  Lizzie

  It took all the energy I had to get dressed for work. I dreaded Sundays like most people dreaded Mondays after having a relaxing weekend. I had a completely different reason for doing so. It wasn’t because the following day was back to the grind. It was because it was Staffer Sunday at the club—an awful experience I had to endure every week and hated with a passion. One I accomplished wearing false pride because that particular shift brought in more money for me than any other night of the week. It was pretty much the sole reason I stayed at the club.

  Staffer Sunday was the day management thought it would be fun for the dancers and servers to switch places. The key difference was the staffers didn’t have to completely undress. It did mean we had to strip down to a G-string and bra. It was both mortifying and humiliating, especially when done sober.

  The place was standing room only. I couldn’t understand why the men loved Sunday nights so much. Maybe it was because on all other nights the servers were considered off-limits, even though some of them got hefty tips by going into the back rooms—myself not included. It could also have been because we weren’t dancers. Most of us were uncoordinated in our strip-down actions. The customers ate it up. Or it could have also been the novelty of it all. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter because I knew I’d go home with a wad of cash in my purse.

  With my hair slicked back into a tight bun, full makeup, and butterflies swirling around in my stomach, I positioned myself behind the stage with some of the other servers. Thankfully, we didn’t have to go at it alone.

  Let’s hear it for small miracles.

  We performed in small groups of two or three.

  Erin and Michaela, Micki for short, were fidgeting behind the curtain. They dreaded Sunday nights as much as I did.

  My shell bracelet dangled from my wrist. It made me think of Ryan. If he knew what was about to go down on the stage, he’d probably never speak to me again. The thought alone made the butterflies in my stomach rebel against each other.

  Closing my eyes, I said a silent prayer: Remember, in the scheme of things, this is fifteen or twenty minutes of my life. It is a necessary evil that I must do. It is temporary. I can do it and still respect myself. God, please give me the courage and strength to get through another Sunday night of madness.

  “You girls ready?” Robert tipped us off that the MC would be announcing us shortly.

  “Here’s to another week.” Micki pulled the shot glass she had been hiding behind her back from Robert in front of her and chugged down the contents. “Wow.” She blinked a few times. “That’s strong stuff. I hope it kicks in fast.”

  Erin had a different vice. She puffed on an E-cig. Something not permitted in the club. Then there was me, continuing to pray in silence.

  And then the train left the station. The MC spoke to the crowd.

  Music sounded.

  The curtain opened.

  Micki, Erin, and I waltzed onto the grand stage. Micki assumed her position in the right corner. I strolled to the middle. Erin sashayed over to the left.

  We had our normal server uniforms on. I usually focused on one person throughout my routine. Doing so helped me lose sight that others were watching me. But at some point, I had no choice but to act flirty with others if I wanted to earn tips. Men and women alike wanted to be acknowledged if they were going to fork over their hard-worked earnings.

  A drunk overweight man with a mustache and beard was my target tonight. He had a handful of bills and couldn’t take his eyes off me.

  Britney Spears “Baby One More Time” played on the overhead.

  My hips rotated in small circles. I allowed myself to get lost in her voice, mouthing the words to Mr. Moneybags in the front row.

  After she sang, ‘Hit me, baby, one more time,’ I slapped my ass, bent over, and gave him and those in his vicinity a sneak peek underneath my skirt.

  Ms. Spears sang about her loneliness and how it was killing her. While she did that, I hugged myself and shimmied to my knees. Wasn’t sure how graceful it was but Mr. Moneybags was dancing in front of me, clapping his hands, and waving bills. I took that as a positive sign.

  On my hands and knees, I crawled toward the edge of the stage. I kneeled and raised my shirt up and over my head. I tossed it on the stage at the end of the song.

  Robert had a thing for playing Britney’s music during Staffer Sunday shows. He believed it went along with the whole amateurish theme of servers dancing.

  Next up was “Oops!... I did it Again.”

  By that point, men were piled up in front of the stage, shoving bills into my bra. Wearing a coquettish smile and raised brows, I accepted their generous offerings—whatever it took for them to give me higher denominations than singles. Meanwhile, my stomach wanted to hurl. The entire situation went against ever
ything I believed to be right.

  You’re almost finished. You can do this.

  I swallowed hard.

  Micki, Erin, and I switched places, our cue at this point in the song.

  I strutted over to Erin’s corner and squeezed my breasts together. It created a decent amount of cleavage in my underwire push-up. I circled my hips, throwing my head back. I gave the crowd a pretend climax for added effect. That move never failed to bring me in extra tips and an even bigger urge to spill my guts.

  “‘I’m not that innocent.’” I mouthed Britney’s words to the man in the front row from over my shoulder. I also inched my skirt down then bent forward. It gave my audience a view of my ass. The disgust in my stomach tripled. To tell you the truth, it quadrupled.

  Ugh.

  Swallow.

  Breathe.

  “Crazy” came through the speakers.

  During this song, my skirt disappeared altogether. I dreaded every second of removing it in front of people I didn’t know. I did so in slow motion, holding the fabric in the air and swinging it around. My usual move afterward included me strutting to the side of the stage to give those on my far left some attention.

  I had a lot of interested parties feeding me money. It was the main thing getting me through the horrific experience. It never failed.

  The guy in front of me tried to grab my ass. Dave, one of the bouncers, stepped in and physically removed him.

  My attention floated toward the table behind the one the jerk had been sitting at.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I almost stumbled over myself. It couldn’t be. My eyes had to be deceiving me. I deeply inhaled and exhaled then checked again for confirmation.

  Crap!

  My vision hadn’t played tricks on me. My teeth dug into my lower lip so hard it would probably draw blood.

  Finish the act. You can do it. Focus elsewhere.

  At least this was the last song. Still, as a result of my discovery, my moves became a jumbled mess.

  This isn’t happening.

  Sadly, it was.

  Never once in the years I had worked at the club had I seen someone I knew. Until tonight.

  The haze of men in front of me became a blur. As much as I tried to concentrate on everyone else, my eyes disobeyed my orders and centered themselves on him. He watched intently, his lips drawn tight, his eyes narrowed. Anger seethed from his pores. I felt the heat deep in my core. Could I blame him for being so upset?

  Tears rolled down my cheeks. I couldn’t let the audience see me falling apart. I faced the curtain, which made me feel even more vulnerable because my ass cheeks were on full display. Men were sliding bills into the band of my G-String. The contents of my stomach rose to the point I was afraid I’d lose it right then and there.

  Swallow it down!

  The song came to an end and the exit song played. I dashed off the stage, almost tripping in my spiked heels during my mad sprint.

  Erin rushed over to me. Micki joined her. “Are you okay?”

  Holding my abdomen, I tried to slow my breathing. “I saw someone I knew.”

  “Ugh. That’s happened to me before. It sucks. Which is why I get loaded first.” Micki spun on her heels and darted off to the dressing room area.

  “Sometimes it can be a good thing.” Erin’s attempt to try and turn this into a positive wouldn’t work. Not in this particular case.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. If you’ll please excuse me, I have to use the restroom.” My stomach could only behave for so long. The contents in it wanted up and out. I bolted for the bathroom wearing my G-string and bra. Dressing would have to wait. Puking my guts out couldn’t.

  The plus side was I hadn’t eaten dinner, so the vile process didn’t take long. I remained in the stall, dry heaving and sweating profusely. It took a few minutes to catch my breath and settle myself. When I did, I washed up at the sink, splashing cold water on my face and rinsing my mouth. A woman next to me checked me out but didn’t say a word about my pale complexion. Smart gal.

  Feeling somewhat better—an exaggeration because it was a Munchkin-sized donut better—I returned to the dressing room to put my uniform back on.

  “You sure you’re okay? Green isn’t your best color.” Micki adjusted her boobs in her top.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” Far from it.

  “Your complexion says something different. Why don’t you go get something to drink?”

  “I think I will. I could use some iced water.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of an alcoholic beverage, but I guess water could do.”

  Micki always thought along the lines of an alcoholic beverage. She was a functioning alcoholic, throwing back drinks whenever management wasn’t around.

  With my uniform intact, I did my best to get to the bar unnoticed by the crowd and asked Nina, one of the bartenders, for a large glass of water loaded with ice.

  “Back to work. Break is over.” Lee, Robert’s partner in crime and possible partner in the sack—the jury was still out on that one—gently shoved me toward my station. Dick.

  My hands trembled so hard I didn’t know if I’d be able to carry a beverage tray. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it beating in my ears. Merely walking to my station was a struggle because I knew I’d have to pass his table. But lo and behold, he wasn’t sitting at it. Neither were his friends. Had they left? Could I blame them if they had? If I had been in Ryan’s shoes, I sure as hell would have.

  Tears continued to fall as the night dragged on. How I managed to function, I had no clue. I was all thumbs, spilling drinks left and right.

  “What’s going on with you tonight?” Lee intervened when he noticed what a mess I had become.

  “I’m not feeling well. I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances.”

  “Well, your best isn’t good enough. Customers aren’t paying to see you staggering all over the place unless it’s on their laps. Have you been hitting the booze or something stronger?”

  Both he and his possible partner repulsed me.

  “Excuse me? I’ve had water. Nothing else. And I don’t use drugs if that’s what you were insinuating. I apologize for being off tonight. I’ll try harder.”

  “You do that. And if you can’t get your act together, I’ll have one of the other servers cover you, and you can take off.”

  Leaving wasn’t an option. When Robert or Lee saw weakness, it was usually followed by a server or dancer getting fired.

  Swallowing down my sorrow I replied, “I’ll be fine to finish out my shift.”

  “Then do it. Now. Customers are waiting.”

  Push me, why don’t you?

  Asshole.

  How I got through the next few hours was a miracle in itself. It wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination.

  Crawling into bed later that night and snuggling under my covers posed a major problem: so many emotions crawled into bed with me that I couldn’t hold them back any longer.

  Nikki opened my door. She had the room next to mine. I had tried to keep quiet. But not quiet enough for her to hear. Dammit!

  “What’s wrong?”

  The worst part was I couldn’t tell her. Everything in my life at the moment was a big lie. Secrets upon secrets that were eating at me. I didn’t know how much longer I could continue the façade I had going.

  She sat on my bed and smoothed my still damp hair from the shower. “Is it your grandma? Is she sick?”

  Define sick.

  “I’m just tired. Mentally spent.” That said enough without stating specifics.

  “I know the feeling. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  The pathetic part was there was nothing anyone could do. This was my problem and mine alone.

  “No. But thanks for offering a shoulder to cry on.”

  “Anytime. We’re all in this together.” She squeezed my hand.

  My guilt about being dishonest multiplied by ten.

  She hugged me the
n left the room.

  “Stronger” by Britney Spears had been our cue to exit the stage earlier tonight. The lyrics came to mind. I had always considered myself to be a strong person. I hadn’t been given a choice but to rise to the occasion due to life circumstances, but right now I felt anything but. And worse, I felt lonely. Rather, alone. My grandma was the only person who knew my truth. And she couldn’t support me now either.

  The bracelet Ryan had given me jiggled on my wrist. I removed the delicate piece of jewelry and held the mini-earth next to my heart, simultaneously repeating the phrase, “This too shall pass.”

  God, please let it be so.

  17

  Ryan

  It was one of those mornings where nothing went right. I did the one thing I could think of to relieve my tension: I kicked and punched the shit out of my bag.

  Sweat dripped in puddles underneath me. I could barely breathe but kept moving around the damn thing. Left hook. Right hook. Left uppercut. Side kick. Switch sides. Repeat. Again, and again, until I couldn’t stand upright any longer.

  My cell buzzed.

  Mason:Call me.

  What the fuck did he want?

  Ryan:Why?

  Mason:Just call.

  I so didn’t want to. I dialed his number anyway.

  “What do you want?” Shit. I couldn’t get enough oxygen in my lungs fast enough.

  “Good morning to you too.”

  “It’s noon. What’s up?” I panted.

  “Did I interrupt you jerking off?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Why are you so out of breath?”

  “I’m working out.” Not that I had any energy left to expel.

  “Someone’s in a mood. You bolted last night without a heads-up. If you hadn’t responded to my text, I would have become the search and rescue party. Not cool, man. What gives? Why did you take an Uber home? If you wanted to leave the club, we would have left with you.”

  “I didn’t want to ruin the party.”

  “It sucked anyway. At least I thought it did. Besides, after you left, we did too. Mainly because we were concerned about your disappearing act. You didn’t answer our calls or respond to our texts, until I threatened you. I gave you space, but you’ve had enough.”