Boys and Burlesque

by Ripley Proserpina

  Today was my first day of rehab. That was the only thing I knew about what was planned. A car would be by to pick me up. Someone, probably Mike, was staying in a suite nearby and he’d knock on the door when it was time to go. The only thing I had to do was shower and eat.

  My phone was on the bedside table. I picked it up, surprised at the anticipation building in my stomach. A few days with the boys, and I was already expecting to see messages from them.

  You can’t count on them. I could tell myself this as much as I wanted, but it wouldn’t stop the direction my thoughts were already going.

  But there it was. Landry. Landed.

  I bit my lip to keep from smiling. They were here. Or—Landry was, at least. The question was, should I write back?

  My thumbs hovered over the screen. I wasn’t sure. They were here, so did I open up the door? Let them walk through? If I replied, I would be doing that. My heart thumped so hard, I felt it.

  I dropped the phone on my bed and put my hand over my chest. It was pounding, like my body was reminding me how easily they affected me.

  I wasn’t sure if this was excitement or fear. Probably both. What did I want to do? It was just a quick message. All I had to do was pick it up and write, “Okay.”

  But that “okay” meant more than just “okay.”

  Fuck it.

  Okay. Send.

  There. I couldn’t take it back now. Sure enough, seconds later, my screen lit up.

  Josh was the first to reply, Can I come over?

  I had rehab any minute. My doorbell rang, driving home that I had to get moving. I was in my pajamas, but dressed enough for the door. My scooter was still next to the bed, so I climbed on and pushed myself there. A quick peep through the peephole revealed Mike and a woman I didn’t recognize, but from her scrubs I assumed was another nurse. I opened the door as best I could while balanced on one foot.

  “Morning,” I said to Mike. “Hello,” I greeted the woman.

  “Miss Belle. This is your live-in nursing assistant.”

  “Candy.” The woman held out her hand, taking mine in a no-nonsense, firm grip. I liked the look of her, from her close-cropped cap of gray curls, down to the sunflowers on her clogs.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “You can call me Betty.”

  She smiled. “I have your schedule for the day. I believe we have about an hour before rehab, so you should probably get showered and changed.” She gestured toward my bedroom. “What do you say?”

  “I need help covering my foot,” I admitted. I was still nervous about getting the bandages wet, so if she could help me get the plastic bag into place, that would help.

  From the brief exploration I’d done last night, the shower had been designed for someone who had trouble getting around. There was a seat inside, so I could sit if I needed to. There wasn’t even a lip or tub to get over. The shower was a whole room unto itself.

  Having money definitely had its advantages. I remembered how my grandmother and I had screwed a grab bar into the wood next to the shower one Saturday after she’d had a dizzy spell.

  The memory drew me up short.

  I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. I wasn’t sure if Candy reminded me of her, or if it was the specially designed bathroom that had triggered it, but for the first time in a while, my life with Gram didn’t feel so far in the past.

  “Ready, hon?”

  “Right.” I smiled at her, following her into the bathroom.

  “This scooter can go right in with you,” she said. “We’ll just wipe it down after.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, and the previous nurse hadn’t mentioned it either. The Bellagio had been beautiful and spacious, but the penthouse hadn’t been scooter accessible really.

  I got into the shower, stripping off my clothes when I was inside and tossing them out of the room.

  “Just holler if you need me,” Candy called out.

  “Thanks!” I turned on the water, giving it a little space in case it came out freezing cold. It didn’t. It was warm, and in seconds, the room was steamy.

  Heaven.

  I spent a good amount of time in there. In New York, it could take me an hour to get the ten blocks to rehab, but I needed this shower to wipe the cobwebs from my mind. Everything, from the minute the boys showed up, seemed to be going at breakneck speed, and I really needed to pump the brakes.

  They were here, and I didn’t doubt they’d be at me to let them come over. As I scrubbed at my hair, I thought about it. It would be so easy. Go to rehab, come home and visit with the boys. Visit? I snorted and sucked a stream of water up my nose. Coughing and sputtering, I fumbled for the shower handle.

  Once I could breathe again, I chuckled again at the word. Visit. Like I was an old lady who’d pour tea for her gentlemen callers. The boys didn’t want to visit. They wanted me. Maybe they only wanted to allay their guilt. Or maybe they wanted sex.

  It was a tempting thought. Sex after the boys had been… not good, and I had been fine living without anyone for the last few years. There had been a period of time, after Marigold and before I was Betty, that people had seen my body as a try me experience. The clubs where I worked had firm no touch policies, but it was the rare shift that didn’t have some drunken idiot trying to paw my breasts or slip his fingers under my G-string. My body erupted in goosebumps, and I shivered from the remembered sensation of hands on me.

  “Betty!” Candy knocked on the door. “We need to go!”

  I ran the towel over my skin, trying to dislodge those ghostly hands. “Just a minute!”

  With my robe on, I went into the larger bathroom. Candy had laid out my clothes. A pair of leggings that would stretch over my cast, sports bra, t-shirt, and sweatshirt. I scraped my hair into a bun as I studied the leggings. Those were going to be tough to do on my own. I could get all the other pieces independently, but I wasn’t sure I could stretch it and bend down.

  I got on what I could, then called out, “Candy?”

  She opened the door. “I figured you’d need a little help with this part. I can cut the leg off of this if it makes it easier.”

  Inwardly, I winced at ruining a perfectly good pair of pants, but I needed something that could move with me. “Let’s just try folding them for now. They’re a little short anyway.”

  Between the two of us, we got the pants on. I was sweating and already sore. Moving my leg around tweaked muscles that tweaked other muscles that made my foot burn. I was sticking to my plan of using only ibuprofen and Tylenol to ease the pain, but I couldn’t imagine how much I was going to hurt at the end of today.

  Not that I wasn’t used to pain; I could get through it.

  Phone in my pocket, and clothes in place, I followed Candy and Mike out of my apartment. “What’s the transportation plan?” I asked. I wasn’t dressed for media attention, so we had to be moving under the radar.

  “We’ve got a car in the parking garage beneath the building. Steven told me this is the place supermodels stay when they want to have plastic surgery without anyone seeing them.”

  That was a relief. Not the supermodel part, but the part where I could move around without being photographed. I was grateful for my fame. It allowed me to dance and live out a version of my childhood dream, but there were things I could go without. Planning out every move so I was never caught looking anything but like Betty was one of those things.

  “And the rehab facility?” I asked.

  “They have an entrance we can drive to. There’s a privacy awning. You won’t be photographed.”

  The car waiting for us was a nondescript black sedan with heavily tinted windows. It looked like every car in New York and would blend into the rest of traffic.

  We got inside and the car drove out of the garage. I was relieved no one was waiting at the entrance to the street. This was one of the things I loved about New York City—I didn’t stand out. And—comparatively speaking—I was a small fry. There were way bigger stars and stories to ch
ase down than Little Ol’ Betty Belle from Shawville.

  It was early and traffic was heavy. Tomorrow I’d have to get up earlier, because we were going to be late for my appointment. “Can you call ahead?” I asked Mike. “Let them know we’re on our way?”

  I hated having people wait on me. It felt unbearably rude. Gram would have a conniption if she knew I let hard-working people sit around and twiddle their thumbs because I slept in and took an overlong shower.

  My phone rang, vibrating in the pocket of my sweatshirt. When I drew it out, a familiar number popped up on the screen.

  Josh.

  I sent the call to voicemail. I was still undecided about what I wanted to do about them, and I wasn’t ready to have even the lightest, most surface, conversation in front of other people.

  The phone vibrated again, and I glanced down at it. Josh. “Please call me back when you can.”

  That wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t overly intrusive. Again, I found I was smiling to myself. Josh’s messages were so totally Josh. Straight to the heart and tinged with sweetness.

  He spoke the same way as he made love.

  I shut my eyes. I didn’t know what kind of man Josh had turned into, but I could see shadows of the boy I knew. Warmth built between my legs and had me shifting uneasily. My experiences with Josh were some of the most important moments of my life. The night we spent together, fumbling and laughing and gasping as we learned each other’s body had taught me what sex could be.

  Each one of those boys had left their mark on my body. They were under my skin, tattooed like the pictures on Westin and Landry. And no matter how much time passed, or who else touched me, those boys owned me.

  And I didn’t know if I liked that.

  Just like Mike had promised, the entrance to the rehab center was nondescript and private. I was able to get out of the car and scoot into the building without looking over my shoulder. No one called my name. No one asked for a picture. It was perfect.

  Inside, I was brought right to the elevator and led, by Mike, to a large exercise room. “You’ve been here before?” I asked.

  “I came by this morning,” he replied, “to check it out. Make sure it was safe and private.”

  I could have kissed the guy. “Thank you,” I told him sincerely. “You’ve clearly done a lot of work. I really appreciate it.”

  He gave me a quick nod. “It’s my job.”

  I had to smile. It was such a superhero line. “Just doing my job, ma’am.” I decided Mike was my security superhero.

  The door opened behind us and a tall, athletic woman came inside. She was older than me, maybe in her forties or fifties, with a perky blonde ponytail and bright blue eyes. “Hello! I’m Nell. I’m going to be your physical therapist.”

  I held out my hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  She glanced down at my scooter. “How do you like that thing?”

  I shrugged. It was fine, especially in my new apartment where I wondered if someone had moved the furniture to accommodate me. “It’s okay.”

  She nodded, pursing her lips together. “So, I’m going to lay out our plan. We’re not actually going to do much rehab of your ankle until we get the doctor’s okay. You’re healing. Our goal is to keep you strong, flexible, and fit. As a dancer, you know how important it is to maintain your endurance. Tell me about your goals.”

  Simple. “I have to get back to dancing.”

  Nell sat on a yoga ball, rolling it forward and then back. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Belle, this could be a life changing injury. I don’t know what kind of range of motion and balance you’ll have once you’re completely healed.”

  I was going to be sick. Clenching my hands into fists so tight my nails bit into the skin, I swallowed. “I’ll do the work.”

  “It’s going to hurt,” Nell said. “I won’t lie to you. We’ll be doing as much endurance, strength, and flexibility training as possible until you can put weight on that foot again.”

  I was fine with that. “Okay.”

  “So.” She slapped her hands against her thighs as she stood. “We’re getting rid of this scooter. I have a specially designed crutch I want you to use.” I followed her with my gaze as she picked up the device. “This is a hands-free crutch. You can see that it supports your leg like the scooter, but you have better freedom of movement.”

  “It looks like a peg leg.” I studied it. It would support my knee and lower leg with a slight shelf and Velcro bands to keep it in place. Another band would wrap around my thigh. The black metal ended in a large, slightly tapered pad that would come into contact with the ground.

  Nell laughed. “I’ve heard that before.”

  I hated being unoriginal, so I shut my mouth. “Okay. So, do we try this?”

  It wasn’t that easy to get the crutch on. We had to make adjustments so I wouldn’t get what she called a “hot spot” on my shin from the pressure of the crutch against my skin, and had to get the height just right. When she was done, my leg was throbbing and my back was slick with sweat.

  “Okay. Now stand up.”

  Stand up. I was panting from pain, but okay. I’d stand. Nell bent her knees, arms out, ready to catch me if I bobbled.

  And bobble I fucking did. I’d been off my leg for a couple of weeks, but it seemed like my body was relying wholly on my uninjured leg to keep me upright. Shit. That wasn’t good.

  “This is normal.” The physical therapist must have caught the look of panic on my face. “You lose muscle mass pretty quickly in situations like this. The crutch will help. I’ll stand on your weak side, but I want us to take a turn around the room.”

  Like ladies on a promenade, Nell and I walked around the room. Except, I shouldn’t have been out of breath from a walk. My gait was off, lopsided, and it was difficult for me to lift my injured leg in order to take a step. Sweat poured off my forehead and down my temples. “I need to take off my sweatshirt.”

  “Okay.” Nell held onto my hips. “Go ahead.”

  I almost fucking fell trying to drag the clothing over my head. I thought that rehab would make me feel closer to getting back to dance, but all it did was show me how much ground I’d lost. And how quickly it had happened.

  We took another lap. Nell added some padding under my knee when I told her there was a small pressure point near the bottom. And then we did another lap. And another.

  By the time we stopped, my heart pounded and pulse raced. I was just as tired as I’d ever been after a rehearsal or performance. And all I’d done was walk.

  “Tomorrow, we’re going to work your chest and arms,” she said. “And we’ll do more endurance. Once you’re feeling more confident in your stride, we’ll get on the treadmill.”

  Oh, we will, will we? I kept the snide comment behind gritted teeth.

  Nell studied me and chuckled. “I recognize that look. It’s the I-want-to-smack-Nell look. Good. That means I’m doing my job.”

  I took a breath, trying to tell myself just that—she was doing her job. It wasn’t her fault that her job included showing me how woefully far I’d fallen. Steven was going to freak out.

  “Listen.” I’d taken a seat to drink water, but now she grasped my forearms to help me stand. “You’re a little out of shape, but not too bad. We’re going to get there. You’re not the first dancer I’ve rehabbed, got it?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “Take another Tylenol when you get home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I really wish I could ice this thing.” I liked the thought of being numb from the knee down. My foot was screaming and throbbing inside the cast, punishing me for putting it through this hell.

  “Exercise is going to help those wounds close up faster. You did good work today.”

  Yeah. I didn’t know if it was good work, but at least I’d done something. I’d keep it up, and I’d get where I needed to go.

  The problem was the worry in the back of my mind that no matter what I
did, I wouldn’t be able to get back what I’d lost.

  We said goodbye to Nell, and left for my apartment. In the car, I checked my phone and found the boys had messaged. They wanted to know where I was, if they could stop in, or if I needed anything. Josh hadn’t messaged again, almost like he knew that I hadn’t been able to reply.

  I stuck my phone back in my pocket without returning their messages and leaned back against the seat. We were stuck in mid-day traffic, moving at a snail’s pace. That was New York. For all the frantic movement, there were times where everything just stopped, and there was nothing you could do about it.

  “How are you feeling?” Candy asked.

  “Sore,” I answered, because why hide it? My crutch leaned against the seat, since I had to take it off in the car. I couldn’t sit with my foot behind me. It definitely had allowed me more freedom, but my thigh ached like I’d been doing leg presses at the gym.

  “When we get back, I’ll give you some Tylenol,” she said. “Then we’ll have lunch. You hungry?” My stomach growled in answer, and she chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, and she reached over to pat the back of my hand.

  “You’re welcome, Betty. After lunch, think about a nap.”

  I was already thinking about one, but I had to see what was going on with Steven. The meeting with Serial Staging was on my mind, as was the dance company. I needed to call some dancers who might fill in for special performances if I asked them.

  My mental list of things to do grew the closer we got to home, and I knew the nap would have to wait.

  The car drove down to the garage and stopped near the elevators. Candy helped me put my crutch on and we got out of the car. Muscles protested with each step, but I forced myself forward. The only way I was going to get better was to push through.

  Forty-Eight

  Betty

  Landry: We’re staying at some shitty hotel on West 111th Street. Near Central Park North. I don’t know where you are, but I’ll be there as soon as you tell me. I just need you to tell me where you are. There are millions of people in this city, Betsy, and all I can think about is getting to you.