by Marata Eros
His eyes linger on mine then scan to where my coat is cinched at my waist. “There's more where that came from.” His eyes hold some kind of question I don't understand. I don't want to.
I ignore the overt innuendo. “Let me go.” All I want to do is whimper like a scared little girl. Because I am. I’m so scared. I've been doing this job for a week. The money I hold is enough to pay for half of my mom's care for the month. The entire month. It sits in my bad hand. My pinky finger pokes straight out, unable to bend correctly, and sweat dampens the dirty money.
“No,” he says
He squeezes imperceptibly harder, and a low sound of pain escapes my throat.
He smiles, and I realize he's a predator. Like my stepfather. The saliva in my mouth disappears as my breathing picks up.
The door opens, and he drops my hand as if it burns. The money floats to the floor because my hand can't hold it.
Ty says loud enough for whoever walks in to hear, “You're such a graceful dancer, but you can't hang onto your money.” He chuckles at his joke.
I don't think it's funny. I scoop up the money with my good hand, and the bad one throbs where it's been held too hard. Too long. I know from experience it won't work well for a solid hour.
“Hey, boss.” Ty sounds nervous, and that makes my heart lighter.
“What's happening here?” a man asks, his voice a deep rumble. Melodic. It vibrates through my body though my bare knees are planted on the plush carpet. My bones thrum with it as though it’s a tune that sings without permission inside the recesses of my soul.
I don't lift my face. I don't want anyone to witness my misery as I stuff the bills in my purse. I begin to rise as a large hand cups my elbow. Warmth leeches through my thin coat and flows through my body from his touch. I gaze at the beautiful leather shoes that shine in the soft light. My eyes rise to his wrist. Vintage cuff links wink back, a sapphire the only witness to my insecurity. My desperate need for indifference.
However fleeting, however untouchable.
I turn without offering thanks or a reply. His hand releases me, and I grow cold from its absence. I nearly run from the office, but I hear Ty comment about how strange I am, how all dancers are.
The only reply I hear before that burning gaze leaves my back is, “Shut up, Ty.”
The door clicks and I leave as quickly as I came.
The heat from that stare follows me.
Kiki's curls dance as she moves her head to the music in her ear buds. She looks like a duck, her head jutting and retracting to some awesomeness only she can hear. Her long nail scrolls down the screen of her cell.
I plop down across from her and heave a sigh of relief. I heft my bag across my legs and against the corner of the seat of my favorite diner. I don't branch out much. So sue me, I love the view. That's a bit of the reason why I live where I do, why I shell out nine hundred bucks a month on a studio dive. Well, that and Mom's terribly expensive care center is blocks away, like my job.
Both jobs, actually.
Kiki catches my eye and smiles big, her grin infectious. I smile back. She pops an earbud out, and I hear the singer, Sully Erna. Hottie. I feel heat fill out the cool paleness of my skin.
Kiki lights up at my expression, never one to lose out on an easy excuse to tease me. “Sully Erna's coming to town. Saw him when he was touring with Godsmack. He's dee-lish, baby!”
Kiki gives a little hip gyration on the seat as the waitress comes up, pen poised. She looks at Kiki with clear amusement and gives me a knowing smile. The that girl can't be contained look passes between us before we look back at Kiki.
“What?” she asks, laughing. Her hand sails out dramatically, her tips bright red this month because Christmas is coming. God knows, she can't not celebrate something.
I look at my own bitten fingernails and put my elegant hands with their stubby tips on my lap.
Arlene takes our order and saunters away, no doubt chalking up our goofiness to our age. I'm not goofy, but it's part of her charm I siphon.
“So tell me what's going down, girl,” she says without preamble. Now that she's here I don't know if I can say it all.
My hands sweat, and I fight to keep them on my lap. Arlene comes over and slaps two waters on the table. Her eyes flick to mine briefly, see something that makes her pause, but she must think better about getting involved because she leaves us to our conversation.
Kiki knows I owe money for my mom's care. I take a deep breath then another. I meet her eyes. “It's fifty K, Kiki.”
Her eyes bug comically, and her hand flies to her chest. “Jeee-sus! Faren...” she exhales in a contrite burst.
We stare at each other while Arlene delivers our coffees. She looks from Kiki to me, probably wondering what stole my friend's good cheer. One guess.
She leaves and Kiki leans forward, her hair sweeping in a black veil that brushes dangerously close to the steaming coffee. I calmly add cream and sugar, making it something that's not coffee anymore. She searches my face for the Swiss cheese of emotions leaking out and I nod. “Yeah, it's that bad,” I say.
She gives a low moan of outrage. “That bad? So fucking bad!” Kiki hisses. “No wonder you finally caved about shaking your tail.”
My shoulders slump a little at her words. An image of Ty's hand on my wrist like a vise bubbles up. I let it pop inside my mind, hoping it'll evaporate and knowing it won't.
“How long will it take me to work off that debt?”
Kiki's face smoothed out, her thinking face set into motion and I can tell she's adding stuff up. “Well... to be honest, most good nights you can make up to five hundred...”
We're doing the math, and I'm hearing years. My soul can't take it. The pole and the men... it's already eating at me. Then there's Ty. I want months. Hell, weeks.
A moment around him is a lifetime.
Kiki reads my face and sighs. She lowers her eyes and stirs her coffee. “I wasn't going to tell you, but there’s another option. It's kinda risky. It's not like the Black Rose.”
“What could be worse than dancing at the Black Rose?”
Kiki sighs. “Listen, BR is the classiest of these types of establishments. The men have to behave themselves, not touch the girls and you don't have to show your kitty.”
I'm so grateful. I give her an exaggerated eye roll. “What about Ty? He's like some kind of pimp!”
Kiki rolls her big eyes, her false eyelashes nearly reaching her brows. “Ty is Ty. He's great at sniffing out innocent girls, and he thinks you're skittish. He wants to scare you a little. No big thing.” Her eyes meet mine. “Listen, he's all bark. Don't let him spook you.”
Right. I feel I'm a good judge of bark versus bite, but I say nothing.
The food comes, and I look at the chef's salad with fresh salmon and wonder if I can eat it. My stomach's in knots. I feel the beginning of a fresh headache come on. I rub my temple before taking a small bite.
Kiki grabs a greasy fry and swirls it in some ketchup while taking a sip of Coke. No burger. She lives on about a thousand calories per day. I don't know how she stays alive, but she explains that she's not doing drugs to stay thin like the other girls. The whole scene makes me want to cry.
Then I go visit Mom and go right back to the pole anyway.
Kiki dips another fry and meets my eyes. It hangs there like a limp noodle, dripping ketchup that reminds me of blood.
I swallow. “How long?”
She stares at me for a heartbeat then beheads the fry. She talks through the food, “What are you willing to do?”
Oh gawd... Nothing more. Instead, I say, “A lot.”
She nods, gives a sad little shake of her head, and tells me. There's a cavernous silence as the last word drops out of her mouth. I know she hates herself for telling me.
I know she loves me more.
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Acknowledgments
I published both The Druid and Death Series, in 2011 with the encouragement of my husband, and conti
nued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.
There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support.
I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.
You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~
Tamara
xoxo
Special Thanks:
You, my reader.
My husband, who is my biggest fan.
Cameren, without whom, there would be no books.
About the Author
www.TamaraRoseBlodgett.com
Tamara Rose Blodgett: happily married mother of four sons. Dark fiction writer. Reader. Dreamer. Home restoration slave. Tie dye zealot. Coffee addict. Digs music.
She is also the New York Times Bestselling author of A Terrible Love, written under the pen name, Marata Eros, and over ninety-five other titles, to include the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial/African-American TOKEN serial and her #1 bestselling Amazon Dark Fantasy novel, Death Whispers. Tamara writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in the midwest with her family and three, disrespectful dogs.
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