by Tess Oliver
Dad's sideburns were graying heavily, which made him look a lot older, like someone's grandpa. I figured it was because he never rested, and he only slept five hours a night. Anyone would look old if they never slept. "What are you up to, Nash? You forgot to leave me your schoolwork. I need to see the grades you earned today. Pronto."
I put the shirt on the bed and walked over to my school bag. "There was only one test. It was in Language Arts." Language Arts was by far my least favorite subject, but I'd managed to get an A minus. I knew that minus was going to make him mad, but tonight, I didn't care. By this time tomorrow I'd be swinging Rebecca, with her long legs and curly eyelashes, around the dance floor.
Flecks of gray were sprouting up in Dad's bushy brows too. They bunched together like two angry, fuzzy caterpillars. He shoved the paper back at me. "Next time no minus."
I nodded and shoved the disgraced paper back into my school bag. I waited patiently for him to leave. He had seen the grade. It was rare for him to make small talk or ask how the rest of my day went. In fact rare wasn't accurate. He never asked how my day went.
He glanced at the blue shirt I'd pulled out of the closet. "What are you getting dressed for?"
"I'm not. I'm just trying to figure out what to wear to the dance."
Dad looked back at me with his stony expression. "What dance?"
"Tomorrow night is the first freshman dance at the academy."
I observed the slightest nod of his head, and I released my breath. For a quick second, I was sure he was going to forbid me to go.
He headed to the door. "I'm having a business dinner here tomorrow night. I told Loretta you can eat in your room. Then you won't get in the way."
"That's fine. I have a ride to the dance, so Loretta doesn't need to drive me."
"You're not going to the dance. It's a waste of time, and it will only pull your focus away from your studies."
"But, sir, it's the first dance of the year, and my friends will be there."
"No dance." He walked out and snapped the door shut behind him. I stared at the closed door, wanting to erase his last words and assure myself I hadn't heard them. But I had. He'd made it clear in his usual, succinct command style. It was his way of saying don't bother to ask again. No dance. No friends. No Rebecca.
I gritted my teeth together hard enough to hear them grind in my jaw. I curled my fists tight and walked three steps toward the wall. My knuckles seemed to jam into my hand as I threw my fist into the wall. I yelled out but then sucked back the noise to keep from alerting my dad. I'd put a tennis ball sized dent in the wall, but most of the damage had been to my hand. The throbbing pain pulsed all the way up to my shoulder. I held my hand against me and hopped around, holding my breath and fighting back the puke rising in my throat.
The bedroom door opened, not quickly or suddenly, but slowly, as if he was just looking inside to check that I was doing my homework. Dad stood in the doorway with that emotionless, granite face. His harsh scowl landed on my right hand with knuckles that had already swollen to twice their normal size. I could barely move my fingers. They seemed to be permanently frozen into a fist.
He stepped into the room and looked at the dent in the wall. It was hardly noticeable but my dad never missed a detail. He rubbed his finger over the concave plaster and without looking at me, motioned me toward the wall with his finger.
Suddenly the pain in my hand was nothing compared to the terrified pulse pounding in my ears.
Dad stepped back. "Hit it again," he said calmly as if asking me to turn on the lights.
I stared at him in confusion.
"Hit the wall again in that same spot. Now," he added darkly.
I balled up my left hand.
Dad shook his head. "The right hand."
Nausea raced through me as I thought about slamming the unforgiving plaster wall with my tender, aching knuckles. Dad stood there like a statue. The only sign that he was actually a living human was the slight movement of his nostrils as he breathed in and out.
I pulled my arm back and gritted my teeth as I threw my throbbing hand into the wall. The plaster dented a little deeper, and my knuckles jammed farther into my hand. Blinded by the pain, I stumbled into my bathroom and puked into the toilet. I used my left hand to throw cold water on my face. I avoided looking at my right hand, certain that it was starting to look like a ball of red clay instead of a hand.
The room was silent, and I hoped to hell that Dad had gone, satisfied that he'd caused me enough pain and anguish for one night. I stepped out of the bathroom. He was still there, like a tall, dark shadow of cruelty.
"Again," he said calmly. Calm was the tone I hated the most. I preferred anger and rage to deadly calm. Calm meant that he was in full monster mode.
"What?" I asked weakly, hoping I'd misheard him.
"Get back over here and hit it again."
"But, sir, I think—"
"Again."
The bile rose in my throat again. The room seemed to spin around me as I walked back to the wall. The plaster was cracking around the dent, but I had no doubt it would still hurt just as bad. And then the pain turned to rage. Anger heated my skin and made blood boil in my veins. I would show him. I would fucking show him.
Without hesitation, I threw my fist into the wall. Plaster chipped off, and the pain in my hand began to be muted by numbness. I could feel the vibrations of the impact through my arm and across my shoulders and back. This time I didn't wait for his order.
I hit the wall again. Plaster jammed into my fingers, slicing two of them open. Red smears of blood colored the crumbling pieces of wall. I pulled back and hit it again, wanting and hoping that I'd feel every bit of it. I yelled out as I hit it again. My hand went clear through, leaving a fist sized hole in the wall. A spray of blood covered the white wall. My hand felt as if it was no longer attached to my arm. I couldn't feel anything except pulses of pain running through my entire body.
"You can spend tomorrow night patching that wall." Dad walked to the door. "I'll hire you a private tutor tomorrow. You're done with that ridiculous academy." The door shut behind him.
I grabbed a clean sock from my drawer as I stumbled to my bed. I wrapped the sock around my hand and collapsed down on the mattress, wishing that the damn bed would just swallow me up so I could disappear for good.
8
I rode along the coastal highway to clear my head. A visit with my dad always fucked up my day, and this afternoon had been no exception. In the past few years, I'd managed to keep my childhood memories tamped down. Otherwise, they could overwhelm me and darken my mood, bringing me to a place that I worried I couldn't crawl back from. That night when my dad forced me to ruin my hand, a self-inflicted injury that eventually required stitches and pins to straighten out the fingers and a fabricated story for the doctor, was the night when I realized I would never be normal. My dad's insane parenting methods had left deep and lasting scars. And as hard as I tried to free myself from those scars, they stayed there, crisscrossing my soul like belt lashes on my back.
For awhile, my extreme success had made me accept my human flaws. I was making boatloads of money. Growing up, I'd been brainwashed into thinking that was the only sign of success. Human relationships were bad. Bank accounts bursting with cash were good. Those were the two simple concepts that made up the golden rule in my dad's house.
The sun was just starting to drop down over the horizon, and a chill rushed up from the coast. I pulled my bike off the highway and headed along the mostly deserted street leading to the Fantasm Strip Club. It was the place Jack and I went when we just wanted to drink a beer without having to be social or glaze over listening to chatter about real estate, stocks and the latest hot vacation spot for people with too much time and money.
It was still early. There wouldn't be any dancers or music or loud, annoying customers until nightfall, which was perfect. I just needed a beer and a place to sit and not think about anything.
The parking lot w
as nearly empty. The owner, Rocky, had parked his truck at the side door. He was rolling a handcart filled with wine crates into the storeroom. A beat up small car that was more dents than fenders was sitting near the front door. I pulled my bike up next to it and climbed off. I yanked off my helmet and sunglasses and headed to the entrance. My gaze swept past the shabby little car. Laundry and boxes were piled in the backseat. Two college textbooks and a notebook and pen were sitting on the passenger seat. A toothbrush and rolled up tube of paste were sitting in the cup holder between the seats. It seemed someone was living out of their car.
Rocky heard the front door open and shut. He poked his head out from the back room. "Hey, Nash, we'll be right with you. I'm just stocking some inventory."
"No problem." The beer counter was empty. I'd never been in the club during the day. With the natural sunlight streaming in through the tinted windows and the open back door, the place looked more inviting. The neon lights weren't flashing from every corner, and the counter was still clean and free of sticky smudges, dirty glasses and broken peanut shells.
Footsteps pattered across the barroom floor. They sounded too light for a beast of a man like Rocky. I glanced back over my shoulder. It was Rocky's newest dancer, Shay. She looked considerably less like a stripper and more like a college coed with her silky, white-blonde hair pushed back off her face by a blue headband. She was wearing a light purple sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that had holes at both knees. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Her skin was flawless. Her almost too wide lips looked just as luscious without lipstick. She offered me a quick, half-smile as she circled around to the back of the bar.
Shay had been dancing the night I sat in Fantasm with Jack drowning my sorrows after getting the boot from MG Enterprises. She'd had a profound effect on every man in the audience, Jack and me included. After watching her dance, I'd come up with the crazy idea to hire Shay to help me cool my heels when it came to my out of control sex life. Jack had suggested I use my dad's draconian, self-denial style punishment on myself. At the time, it seemed like a plausible plan. Hire an incredibly irresistible woman to hang around the house for a few weeks, all the while denying myself any physical contact. It was the smoker's equivalent to 'cold turkey'. Only it was more hard core because people trying to quit smoking didn't keep cigarettes around the house to tempt them to light up. But by the time I sobered up, I'd talked myself out of the stupid plan. I was sure any woman I offered the proposal to would laugh in my face or call the cops. Or both.
So I brushed off the idea, and I went right back to fucking like a madman. But the short, grim visit to my childhood home made me realize that I needed to do something. Dad was sure I didn't have the stamina to stay relevant in the world of high finance, and it seemed I was proving him right. I’d had huge success so far, but I was slowly losing control of things and myself. The last thing I wanted was for Dad to go to his grave satisfied with himself for being right.
"What can I get you?" Shay asked as she reached for a glass. Her sweatshirt rose up as she stretched her arm forward, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her waist. Jack and I had been drunk as hell that night, but I remembered us trying to pinpoint exactly why she was so damn sexy. Only there wasn't one thing. Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, she was a picture from head to toe, a vision that sucked in your attention and held it. She wasn't without flaws, too wide a mouth and a nose that was slightly crooked, but it seemed it was those imperfections that made her that much more fun to look at. And then, of course, she had a body that made a man's mind go straight to mind-blowing sex.
"Uh, just a beer, thanks."
She walked to the tap and pulled the lever. I caught myself staring at her bottom, which curved out from her slim waist with just the right amount of subtlety. I pulled my eyes away before she turned back around.
"So, when you're not dancing, you're stocking shelves?" I asked as she headed toward me.
"Yes." She placed the beer on the counter. "My prim and proper ballet teacher, Miss Katherine, would spin in her grave like a top if she knew where these dancing feet had landed me."
"Ballet teacher? So you're classically trained."
A laugh shot from her mouth. "If I was, I wouldn't be standing here behind this bar counter filling a glass for a dark, handsome stranger who has seen me stripped down to a g-string. Miss Katherine was the sister of my fifth grade teacher, Miss Lightman. Miss Lightman always saw me dancing around the playground, pretending to be a ballerina." She shrugged. "Yes, I truly was a dork. But a graceful one, apparently, because she told her sister, who was the real thing, a ballerina, that is, but retired. Miss Katherine ran a dance studio near the school and was generous enough to let me join her classes for free. She even bought me my first real ballet slippers. But that dream came to an end almost as quickly as it started."
I pulled the bowl of peanuts closer. "That's too bad. What happened? An injury?"
Even without mascara, her long lashes were a rich deep black. She gazed down and pretended to scratch a spot off the counter, but I saw nothing. "No injury. I moved schools, so I was too far away from the dance school." It was obvious from her tone that there was more to the story than just a simple move to another school.
She looked up with a smile. "Anything else?" Her voice had that slightly husky grind, like Stevie Nicks on the concert finale. It was the kind of voice you'd want calling out your name in the middle of a good, long fuck.
"No." I picked up the beer. "This is perfect. And I'm sorry if I pulled you off your work in the storeroom."
"That's all right. My back needed a break." She reached behind to rub her back and innocently sent a wave of pressure to my cock as her breasts pushed against her sweatshirt. "Liquor bottles are heavy." She tapped the counter. "Just whistle if you need a refill."
"Thanks."
She headed across the bar to the back room, and I found myself peeking over my shoulder to watch her leave. She moved quickly and gracefully, as if she had ice skates on her feet instead of sneakers. It was one heck of a package, seductive curves contradicted by a sweetly innocent smile. A cheery demeanor dropped over a husky, sultry voice, and she moved like a ballerina. Maybe I gave up on my plan too soon. But why the hell would a woman like that, a woman who was being showered with money on stage every night, bother with a warped asshole like me?
Rocky's heavy, plodding footsteps sounded behind me. He walked behind the bar with a bottle of window cleaner and a rag draped over his shoulder. "You're in here early," he noted as he sprayed the cleaner on the mirrors lining the back of the bar.
"Yeah, I found myself with nothing better to do than have a beer."
His thick arm rubbed circles in the cleaner, making more streaks with each wipe. "These mirrors get so damn sticky."
"Ah, those are supposed to be mirrors," I quipped.
"Funny." He continued with his task.
A box slid across the floor in the back room.
"You have the dancers stocking shelves for you, eh?"
Rocky turned around with his cleaning tools. He glanced toward the back room and moved closer to me so he could lower his voice. "I felt bad for the kid. She needed some extra hours, so I told her she could come in early and help me with the stockroom." He leaned closer. "She was living with a real asshole, and she couldn't take him anymore. The girls aren't allowed to bring boyfriends into the club when they're performing." He tilted his head back and forth. "Boyfriends tend to get dangerously jealous when their sweetie is up on stage getting howled at by other men."
"Yep, that makes sense."
"The guy Shay was seeing showed up a few times in the parking lot. I keep a close eye on my dancers, and I can tell you, I came damn close to walking out there and laying the guy flat. He was always grabbing her and being rude and rough. I'm glad she's free of him. I think she's living in her car while she’s saving up enough to get a place. Everything is so damn expensive around here. I'm hoping she'll stay in the area. She packs this place every night."<
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"Seems like she'd earn enough in tips to have a place by now."
"I think she's got someone else to support. She doesn't say much. She mostly keeps to herself. Most of the other girls like to make extra money giving out favors to the customers, but she sticks to her dance routine. Frankly, that's all she needs to do. I think she's raking in as much as the other girls without offering any extras."
"Good for her. It's good of you to give her some more hours." I drank back the rest of my beer and paid Rocky. "Guess I'll call it quits for now. I'm on my motorcycle."
"See you around," Rocky said as I headed out.
Shay was leaning into her car rummaging for something in the backseat. The car was small and cramped with her things. It didn't seem like there was even room enough for her to push the seat back and rest, let alone get a night's sleep.
"Bingo," she cheered as she emerged triumphantly with a Chapstick. She stretched her mouth into an O and spread the salve over her lips. I'd never been so fucking turned on watching someone smear on lip balm.
She waved. "Have a nice day." Her deep, honeyed voice made me climb back off the bike. I had no real clue what the hell I was doing, but I walked over to her. A breeze pushed her bangs into a flutter over her dark brown eyes.
"I can't help but notice that you seem to be living in your car."
Her cheeks darkened. "Yes, car bunking. It's all the new rage. I've temporarily lost my housing. You don't happen to know of a cheap room for rent? Cheap being the key word."