by Nyla K
Lazarus secures the chain in place, his fingers brushing gently through my hair for just a split second. But it’s long enough for my eyes to flutter shut on their own, and a soft hum to flood my throat.
He moves in front of me and looks down at his gift, eyes shining bright with something I’ve only ever seen when we kissed months ago. It bounds heat to my core like an inferno.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, blinking over the shimmery gray.
“Thank you so much, Lazarus.” Clutching the pendant in my fingers, I gape up at him in awe. “This is so thoughtful.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice is deep, and smooth, like creamy caramel dripping over a triple fudge brownie. “Congratulations, Tracien.”
My breath hitches in my throat and I so badly want to ask him if we can do what we did on his wedding night again. I know he regrets it. I think that much is obvious by now, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t enjoy himself while it was happening. The fact that he got hard while we were kissing has to mean something.
I part my lips to tell him just that when I hear his phone buzzing in his pocket. He snaps out of the reverie and removes it, his eyes dancing over the screen. I stand there, fidgeting with my new necklace while he types out something quickly, then tucks the phone away again.
“Gotta go. I have a date,” he says, with the sort of nonchalance one would give to discussing the weather. “Tell your dad I’ll see him tomorrow.”
And with that, he’s off. Walking casually to his car, sliding in and driving away.
Leaving my heart pumping nothing on the ground in the middle of my driveway.
Chapter Twenty-One
Traci
Three weeks before my eighteenth birthday, I pack a suitcase and Merci picks me up from my house while my dad is at work.
Driving over the bridge, with the window down and the breeze blowing through my long, shiny blonde hair, I feel something I’ve never felt before in my life.
Freedom.
It’s not all great. My stomach is in knots, despite the lines of Xanax I’ve ingested since I woke up. I’m scared that my father will hate me for leaving.
I’m afraid I’ll never see Lazarus again.
But I need to give up those worries and focus on living. I left my cell phone behind, my car, all my electronic devices… Anything my dad could potentially track.
I’m moving in with Merci in Little Haiti. I’m going to get a job at The Boom Boom Room with her, but I’m also going to the yoga studio later to apply for an apprenticeship, or really anything they’ll give me. I know I have no experience, other than that my mother taught me yoga when I was six and we used to do it outside every morning. I still do. But hopefully they see past that and give me a chance.
I have no real qualms about working at a strip club. Sorry… Gentleman’s club. There’s a difference, as Merci informed me. But either way, I don’t care much.
I guess talk to me after my first day.
When Merci parks in front of a building, I take a large, silent gulp. I don’t want her to think I’m judging her neighborhood, but… Yikes.
This place is a little scary. My dad would freak his shit if he found out I was living here.
Stop. I shake my head and hop out of the car, helping my best friend with my stuff.
This is it. This is my new life, right here.
On our way upstairs to the third floor, we pass several large men with tattoos, a few tired-looking women, half-naked toddlers running through the halls crying - none of them even glancing at us - and open doors to other apartments, the scent of some delicious-smelling Latin food drifting into my nostrils and reminding me I’ll probably be hungry soon.
I wonder if this is the kind of place where the neighbors bring over pots of leftovers. I’ll have to ask Merci after I get settled.
“Here we are!” She cheers, plopping everything on the floor. “Home sweet home.”
I look around, and my lips quirk. It’s perfect.
Small, pretty cramped, actually. It’s a two-bedroom apartment, but my room is the size of my walk-in closet back home. The living room area is spacious, and decorated with a cozy vibe, accents of neon pink and leopard scattered about, since this is Merci’s place. The kitchen is tiny, and appears sparsely used, and the bathroom tiles are cracked and chipped.
But it’s clean, and it’s my own. That’s all I could ask for.
It’s not really mine. The lease belongs to Mercedes Huntington. But my best friend has assured me I can live here as long as I want to. I can either start saving for my own bachelorette pad, or we can be roomies forever. We’ll see where things go, but as of right now, I’m glad to have Merci. I’m not sure I’d have the courage to be doing this if she weren’t backing me up.
I know I’ll get homesick soon. It’s already sort of happening… Just because I’m nervous about what Dad will think. I don’t want him to worry. I mean, I know he will. When he gets home and eventually finds the note I left on my bed, he’s going to lose it. I just hope he takes me at my word that this isn’t his fault. This is just something I have to do.
I need to spread my wings and seize the day. That’s what I wrote to him in the note.
Carpe Diem.
I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks, and shortly after that it’ll be fall. And I won’t be going to college.
I’ll be taking my clothes off for money. But Dad’s never gonna know that part.
I do still need to be smart here. There’s the likely possibility my father will try to find me. He could track me down. He is rich and well-connected, after all. And if he manages to locate me, I’ll just reiterate to him what I said in my note…
I’m basically an adult, and I need to do this. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. The opposite is true. I love you so much I can’t stand the thought of staying and breaking your heart by living a life that would slowly kill me.
Please. If you love me at all… Leave me be. I’ll see you soon, I promise.
A loud pop distracts me from my thoughts and I almost dive onto the floor, assuming it’s gunfire from the Kings down the hall.
“Pop bottles!” Merci squeals, spraying me in the face with the champagne she shook.
I scream out loud, but I can’t help the laughter fluttering from my belly as I run away from her.
“What the hell?!” I shriek. “I’m soaked!” I pull my white t-shirt away from my skin, which is now showing right through the material.
“Don’t worry, baby T,” she grins wickedly. “Soon we’ll all be seeing you in a lot less.”
She winks and I shake my head, though I can’t help the smirk edging over my face.
Becoming a stripper at seventeen should be depressing, but I don’t see it that way. First of all, age to me is just a number, and I feel like twice my age inside, if we’re being honest. Second of all, I’ve never been in a position to own my sexuality like this before, and use it to my advantage. It’s not what I want to be doing for the rest of my life, but while I’m young and hot, I don’t see any reason not to be the little vixen I know men, and women, see when they look at me.
Sex is power. Anyone who disagrees is wrong.
Wiping the bubbly out of my eyes, I gawk at the bottle in Merci’s hand as she pours us each a glass.
“Is that Dom Perignon?” I blink. That stuff is like three-hundred bucks a bottle.
“Yes!” Merci answers with a little shimmy. “The bartender at Boom Boom, Vik, gave me a few bottles.”
I shoot her a look. “He just gave them to you? Really?”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, he gave them to me in exchange for a blow job.” I gasp and she laughs. “No, it’s not like that! I gave him the blowjob because I wanted to. Not for the champagne. He’s super hot. You’ll see.”
I grin wider. I need to be around some new eye candy. It’s all part of this journey I’m on; an attempt to wipe my first crush, kiss, and sexual experience out of my head.
I’m not saying there will come a day w
hen I won’t be completely in love with Lazarus Weston, because I don’t think it’ll happen. He’s ingrained in my soul.
But we’ll never be together. We’ll never be anything. So leaving the memories of my swooning over and throwing myself at him in the past would be the smartest course of action.
Merci hands me a plastic cup of Dom P, and we toast to today. We’re not thinking any further ahead than right now. That’s how you seize the day.
As I take a sip, I peek in a mirror on the bedroom door and study myself for a moment. I have a sudden overwhelming urge to change my appearance drastically.
Not a disguise… A transformation.
“Merc, have you ever cut hair before?” I ask my best friend, holding a golden lock between my fingers.
“Uh no. But I’m willing to bet I can find someone who has,” she answers, and I look up to see her grinning. Then she nods her head to the front door, behind which we can hear all kinds of chaos in the hallway, ladies yelling in Spanish and booming Reggaeton.
“You think they’ll want to help me?” I’m skeptical.
“Of course. After all,” she tugs a wad of bills out of her bra, “I speak the universal language.”
Three hours later, I take a walk by myself to the yoga studio to talk to the manager.
Aton is located inside a cozy little shop only three blocks from Merci’s apartment. I mean, our apartment. It’s owned and managed by twin sisters, Alli and Aleya, who are originally from Egypt.
Merci told me that the managers are the ones who usually teach classes, and so far she’s only met one of them, named Vaughn. According to Merci, Vaughn is a tiny, redheaded stone-cold biatch, but an insanely talented Pilates instructor with rock-hard abs. She teaches both yoga and Pilates, and I’m thinking I’ll need to win her over if I want to work here.
I’m confident in my yoga abilities as well as my knowledge of the art, and I’m skilled in listening and following instructions. The rest will come with time and experience.
Before I tug open the door, I spot my reflection in the glass window and my grin widens.
Combing my fingers through my shoulder-length jet-black hair, I’m obsessed. It makes me look so edgy. I still love having the same eyes and features as my mother, but the hair was the icing on the cake. Cutting it all off and dyeing it a dramatic color finally gives me my own look.
I’m not Ophelia Wright’s shadow anymore.
As soon as I step inside Aton I’m hit with a refreshing blast of AC, which feels nice on this particularly muggy Miami evening. As my head bobs all around, I think I’ve found my home. This is where I belong.
I love it already.
The smell of patchouli tickles my nose, reminding me of Mom. It’s small inside, but I already see at least four visible studios, and even a sign for showers and a changing area. There are cubbies on two opposite walls, and a desk where it looks like you can buy supplies; incense, mats, socks, books, hemp products… yoga essentials.
As I step up to the desk to check out the all the earthy bohemian products, I notice a small, raven-haired girl sitting behind it with her bare feet propped up on the wall. Actually, I don’t think she’s sitting as much as she is sleeping. I can hear her snoring, which has me chuckling to myself.
I don’t want to wake her up, so I wait, flicking some dangly earrings and anklets, which according to the brochures are made by members of the studio. It’s cool that they showcase local products from the community. Love that.
Noises come from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. It looks like a class just let out, a bunch of girls in yoga pants and crop tops filing out of one of the studios, chatting amongst themselves. I swallow hard and stand up straight, awaiting the arrival of Vaughn, my potential new mentor.
If I can make a good enough impression.
Unfortunately, no small redheads leave the room. Instead, I see a replica of the girl who’s snoozing behind the desk, sauntering right at me, all bronze skin and sleek black hair, shimmering green eyes and a septum piercing.
She’s freaking stunning. I may be wavering slightly.
She opens her mouth to address me, but then her eyes drop to the girl behind the desk who is clearly her twin sister, and frowns. Without warning, she brings her palm down, hard, against the top of the desk, creating a loud smack noise that makes me jump, but no one else seems at all fazed by.
The girl behind the desk, however, startles from her slumber and blinks herself awake, shooting a decapitating glare at me. I hold my hands up and point at her sister.
“Why on Earth are you even here if all you’re going to do is smoke joints and nap?” The girl standing next to me gripes. “I might as well put a potted ficus behind the desk.”
“It would die,” the sleepy girl yawns. “You kill plants.”
“I’m going to kill you! You know anyone could walk in here and steal everything,” the girl scolds her sister, then turns to face me. “Who are you? Are you stealing things?”
“N-no,” my head shakes back and forth rapidly. “My name is Traci Wright. I came to see if I could apprentice as a yoga instructor.” She stares blankly at me. “Or even just apply for a job… I’ll do anything. Maybe I can work my way up to… that.”
My voice dissipates because now they’re both staring at me like I’m speaking gibberish. The girl behind the desk leans forward, her eyes surveying me. The one standing beside me does the same, going as far as to walk around me and scan my entire body. I just stand still and let them do it. If it gets me a job, I don’t care.
“Where you from, kiddo?” The one behind the desk asks.
“Um, here,” I answer, but she’s not satisfied, because she stays quiet and her face is the picture of unimpressed. Fortunately for me, I’m used to that expression, so I sigh, “Bayshore.”
“Ahh… Bayshore,” they both speak at the same time, which is creepy. They share a look and I already know what they’re thinking.
Money.
“Look, I’m not just another spoiled rich girl,” I speak with conviction, then cringe. “I mean, I am, but I left that life behind. I moved in with my best friend around the corner on 3rd Ave.”
“You live on 3rd Ave?” The girl behind the desk scoffs, but her sister shoots her a reprimanding glare.
“Alright, here’s the deal,” the one standing next to me says, narrowing her gaze. “I’m down an instructor, and I need someone. That being said, I don’t know you. And girls from Bayshore seem to think watching a few videos on YouTube qualifies you as a master in Namaste, na’mean?”
Her play on words makes me giggle, but I quickly cover it up. “That’s not me, I swear. I’ve been doing yoga since I was six. My mother taught me. She was an instructor in college, in New York City.”
The one I’m next to nods in approval. “Okay. Put up or shut up. Come to tomorrow’s class. We’ll be the judges.”
“Nine a.m.,” the one behind the desk grins, then lifts a brow. “Sharp.”
In my mind I already know this means eight-fifteen.
“I’ll be here,” I smile between both of them. “Thank you so much.”
I hold my hand out to shake one of their hands, then the other, and I end up twisting back and forth with my hand out like an idiot. They both smile and for a moment they really look exactly the same. The only differentiation is the septum piercing of the one, and the ponytail of the other.
“I’m Aleya, by the way,” the one with the septum rings says with a grin, then juts her thumb at her sister behind the desk. “This is Alli.”
“Hi! Traci,” I wave, then stop, feeling like a ditz. “I said that already… Okay! I’ll um… see you tomorrow!”
Stammering toward the door, I can hear their evil giggling as I leave.
Good thing I thrive under pressure.
It might not be terrible that I barely slept a wink last night, because it ensures that I’m at Aton on time.
Going from living in the same place my entire life to suddenly uprooting it al
l and essentially running away to live in Little Haiti with my stripper best friend was a bit of a shock to my system. If it weren’t for my medication, I’m sure I’d be battling frequent panic attacks.
I gave up on sleep at six this morning and walked to the nearest coffee shop. I got coffees for myself, Merci, and the girls who live next door, as a bit of a thank you to them for doing my hair. They were beyond grateful, and promised to bring over a plate of homemade flan later, which is very exciting.
After that I spent an hour meditating, stretching and running through some basic poses I’m sure the girls at Aton will expect me to know. Then I changed into my best yoga pants and crop top, came to the studio an hour early.
The girls are impressed with my punctuality right off the bat. If showing up early gets me brownie points, I’ll gladly do it every day I come here.
Aleya gives me a tour of the building, showing me around all the studios, two of which are designated strictly for pilates and Barre, which is the one Merci takes to get ready for the pole at Boom Boom, a class I immediately signed up for. The other studio is used mostly for beginner’s and Vinyasa yoga, and the last for Bikram.
She shows me the co-ed showers and changing room area, then talks to me for a bit about the stuff they sell. Everything about Aton is like a dream, and I know I haven’t gotten the job yet, but I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
I’d love to manage or even own a place like this someday. This is what I want to do with my life.
Ten minutes before class starts, we’re setting up in the yoga studio when a short girl with red hair bursts through the doors, tossing a bag on the floor.
“People are fucking idiots,” she grunts, pulling her long hair up into a bun.
Aleya grins and gestures to the girl with her hand. “This is Vaughn. She’s a bag of sunshine and rainbows.”
“Fuck off,” the redhead, Vaughn, mutters while stomping around the room. She barely glances at me for one second before lifting a brow. “Who are you?”