by Linda Jaivin
‘Hi,’ she said again.
He looked up and his pulse quickened. She was roughly half his age – maybe eighteen or nineteen – a pouty mouth, short, tousled black hair, great tits. She wore a serious, almost severe expression. And she’d dressed in the manner of a young person wanting to be treated like a grown-up, in a blouse, scarf, and grey slacks.
‘Hi,’ he replied.
She stood two metres away from him, her left hand gripped onto the table and her right arm bent behind her. He noted her erratic breathing and it occurred to him that she must have come there to ask for a job.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said.
She drew a breath. ‘My name’s… Charlie.’
‘Isaac.’ He extended his hand over the table and when she hesitated, he thought, wow, she really is nervous. He shook her hand and, although cool, he liked how small and delicate it was in his. He wasn’t sure how she’d fare in a busy café like his. But she was extraordinarily beautiful. Customers would drop through just to stand near the erotic charge of her.
‘So, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re looking for work?’
She shook her head and bit her lip.
He sat back in his seat. ‘You’re not?’
‘No.’
Was she trying to pick him up? Surely not. ‘Take a seat, if you’d like.’
She sat down and when she looked up at him, she smiled for the first time. ‘I really like your café.’
‘Thanks.’
Emboldened, she went on. ‘I’ve come past a few times and it’s always busy. It must be quite profitable.’ She looked down. ‘Sorry, that’s rude, isn’t it?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘What I’m trying to say is I admire your success. And I was wondering: if I wanted to run a successful business like yours one day, how would I do it?’
‘Well, whatever business you go into, I would say the key is to identify your strengths and use them to ruthless effect. What would you say your strengths are?’
‘I’d like to go to university. Eventually, I’d like to work in radio, as a newsreader.’
‘Okay,’ he said, unable to stop himself imagining the plump firmness of her breasts. ‘But you should use what you’ve got.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you’re extremely good looking. Strikingly so. If you want to read the news, you should do it on television so people can enjoy looking at you. I mean, you could be a model. A lot of good-looking women go into PR and do very well too. In the meantime, if you ever wanted to come and work in my café, I’d be more than happy to have you.’
The Swedish waitress, Maya, stopped beside them with the phone in her hands. She looked uncertain about whether to interrupt. When Isaac turned to her, she pointed at the phone and mouthed the word, Stephanie.
He took the phone and pressed it to his chest, his gaze on Charlie. ‘Thanks for coming in. And like I said – let me know if you’re ever looking for work.’ He raised the phone to his ear. ‘Hi, darling.’
Charlie stood and walked a few paces, then turned slowly and waved goodbye. Isaac smiled, liked her, wanted to undress her. Then he forgot her and tuned in to Steph’s voice.
* * *
The bounce of house music swelled as Gypsy came through the door and shuffled into the dressing room in stilettos, a corset, and a G-string.
‘Dogs,’ she said. ‘The lot of them.’
She sat beside Charlie and pulled a small bag of coke from the top drawer. Charlie looked away while she racked up.
‘Want any?’ Gypsy asked, a fifty dollar note rolled tightly between her fingers.
‘No,’ she replied, and turned up the radio.
‘So, like,’ Gypsy caught her eye in the mirror. ‘What’s with the news all the time?’
She imagined Gypsy laughing if she told her the real reason. ‘I’m trying to better myself,’ she said.
Gypsy nodded and turned away. ‘Fair enough.’ Then she bent forward and snorted a line.
Charlie knew Gypsy and other girls thought she was prudish, cold even, but they didn’t know who she was, and what she’d been through. They didn’t know what drugs had done to her mum, and, by extension, what they’d done to her.
A week after her sixteenth birthday, Charlie arrived home to find her mum talking to one of her biker friends in the living room. He was in his early forties, heavy-set and wearing a leather jacket patched with swastikas and other insignia. The curtains were drawn and there was the usual smell of weed in the air, but this time, a harsh chemical smell too, and a tense, agitated energy in the house. Without stopping, Charlie made for her room.
‘Come and say hello please, Charlie,’ her mother called.
‘Busy!’
‘Come here now!’
She dropped her school bag in the corridor and returned to the living room. ‘What?’
‘Hi, darling.’ Her mum’s voice was higher and softer than usual. ‘How nice of you to join us. You remember Tyson, don’t you?’
Charlie glanced sideways but didn’t answer.
Her mother paused. ‘Would you like a juice, darling? Something to eat?’
She shook her head.
‘You know those money problems we’ve been having?’
‘Since you stopped working?’
‘That’s not my fault.’ Her voice was flinty. ‘Anyway, Tyson has very generously taken care of them for us. Isn’t he generous?’
She could feel him looking her up and down.
‘Now I promised Tyson that if he helped out with our finances, you’d show him some of your beautiful artwork.’
In her peripheral vision, Charlie felt Tyson’s heavy presence, his gaze sliding over her, holding her down, tasting her.
‘You appreciate the house we live in, don’t you?’ Her mother said, her voice harder now.
Charlie’s chest heaved in short, rapid breaths. ‘Why can’t you take care of it?’
‘Because.’ Her mother’s lips tightened. ‘He doesn’t want me.’
‘No.’ Charlie shook her head. ‘I’ve got an assignment due.’
‘Tyson will help with your assignment.’ Her mother leaned forward in her seat, her foot tapping an irregular beat. ‘Do this for me and I will give you something very special.’
Charlie spun to face her. ‘What do you have that’s special?’
She licked her lips. ‘Your father’s contact details.’
Charlie felt the swing of vertigo. ‘But I thought… You told me you didn’t know… You didn’t have them.’
‘I wanted to protect you until you were old enough,’ her mother said. ‘Now, I think you’re ready. Go with Tyson and they’re yours. I have a photo, too. I know you want to see a photo of him. What he looks like.’
Charlie couldn’t think, wanted to cry. And when Tyson took her hand, her mum merely turned up the music. Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’. Always Paul Simon.
Charlie glared at Gypsy racking up another line. ‘Will you fuck off and do that somewhere else?’
* * *
Isaac leaned on the bar and watched Lloyd down his fourth tequila shot, one for every year of his relationship with his wife-to-be. Wallet in his hand, Isaac tried to order more drinks, but the woman behind the bar glanced at Lloyd, swaying with his empty glass, and said: ‘Why don’t you take a break,’ before turning to another customer.
Isaac put his arm around Lloyd and pushed through the crowd, the floorboards sticky under his shoes and the swervy weight of Lloyd almost pulling him over.
‘Good effort today, Lloydy,’ Isaac said. ‘Paintball, go-carting, tenpin bowling, a stellar performance at karaoke. You’ve drunk enough to kill an elephant. Now there’s just one more thing we need to do.’
‘Wha?’
‘We need to get you a strip tease.’
Lloyd swiped the air between them. ‘Nah.’
‘C’mon! The strip clubs are three blocks away. We’ll walk down, get you a lap dance and be back before any of
the other guys even notice. No harm done. All right?’
‘Nah,’ Lloyd shook his head.
Isaac stopped and placed both hands on Lloyd’s shoulders. ‘Why not? Tell me what happened at Benny’s.’
Lloyd swayed, blinked heavily, tried to focus. ‘Benny pulled a face. Didn’t mean it.’
‘What do you mean he pulled a face? So what?’
‘He was drunk. Really, really drunk. Like me now.’ He laughed through a pained expression. ‘Three strippers. One thought… he was giving them shit. But he was just drunk. They… lay him on the floor. Ripped his clothes. Stripped him naked. Laughed at his cock. Rubbed themselves on his face. He couldn’t breathe.’
Isaac raised his upturned hands. ‘Why didn’t anyone stop it?’
Lloyd shook his head, convulsed slightly and leaned forward. He placed his hands on his knees and vomited.
Isaac dragged him outside as quickly as he could.
‘Urgh.’ Lloyd said and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Too bloody… drunk.’
‘C’mon, buddy.’ Isaac put his arm around his shoulders. ‘Let’s get you a taxi.’
He helped him into one of the taxis out front, gave the driver the address and pushed some money into Lloyd’s hand. As the taxi lights faded down the street, Isaac glanced at the pub – the others would be wondering where they were. He considered going back in. Then he turned and walked away. One lap dance, he thought. No one would ever know.
* * *
At the top of the stairs, Isaac looked around the club and let his senses adjust to the plush red upholstery, dim lights, and low pulsing music. One girl was topless on stage at the far end; another crawled slowly on all fours at the other. Four girls in lingerie combed through the sparse crowd. One of them looked at Isaac with fuck-me eyes. Moments later, another passed and looked at him the same way. Careful not to stagger, he made his way to the bar and ordered a drink. A single malt Scotch – he didn’t care which one.
All the seats around the far stage were taken, so Isaac leaned against the wall, cradling his drink. On stage, a blonde girl was naked, hanging upside down on the pole. She slid down until her outstretched hands touched the floor, then kicked her legs over and landed her feet. She did the splits, then rolled onto her back, caressing her inner thighs with both hands. Finally, she skipped back to the pole and launched herself into an upside down spin, her legs splayed open and her long blonde hair dangling below. A man’s voice boomed over the music thanking her and she righted herself, waved to the crowd and made her way offstage. The man then announced the next dancer, a five-foot-nine and gorgeous brunette from Eastern Europe: ‘Angelica!’ She emerged from the side of stage, moving in slow, rhythmic steps, sexy as you like, and Isaac shifted his weight to both feet. ‘Holy shit,’ he muttered. She wore a black wig cut into a sharp bob, but it was her, undoubtedly. The nervous girl from the café. What was her name? Charlie. Only she didn’t look so nervous now. She stared at the men in the crowd like they were nothing, like they would never touch her, her hips pulsing, her lips pouted in sassy arrogance. By the time she removed her bra and flung it aside, Isaac knew what he was going to do. Head down, he made his way to the side of the stage and ascended three carpeted steps to a payment counter.
‘How can I help you, honey?’ asked the woman behind the counter, her eyes glassy.
‘That girl dancing now?’ he said, turning towards the stage. ‘She’s absolutely stunning.’
‘Angelica?’ The woman gave him a wan smile. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘I was hoping I could… Is it possible to book a private dance with her? You see…’ He paused and looked at his hands. ‘I’m too shy to ask myself. Is it possible I could pay you now and have you send her in to me?’
‘Sure. It’s one hundred dollars for fifteen minutes.’
He pulled out his wallet and withdrew some of the cash he’d set aside for Lloyd.
‘You know the rules?’ the woman asked. ‘No touching, no misbehaving, no exceptions. Got it?’
He nodded.
‘Go wait in the third booth on the right, darl.’
Red velvet curtains hung from the low ceiling to the thick red carpet, and it was surprisingly clean, even though he could smell spilt vodka and pine scented air freshener. He turned into the booth with the open curtain, where he found two chairs facing each other, one a black leather armchair, the other a lacquered wooden chair. He took the leather chair and waited. Steph would never have to know.
The moment Charlie turned into the booth, Isaac wanted to fuck her. Every cell in him reacted to her. Her toned body, smooth skin, pert tits. She wore a lacy bodice, suspenders and a red garter – all pretty ribbons and hints of bondage. She closed the curtain, placed her hands on her hips and turned to face him. But the moment she saw him, the whites of her eyes flashed and she stumbled into the chair behind her.
‘It’s okay.’ Isaac held up his hand. ‘Angelica… isn’t it?’ He realised now she would only do this if he didn’t recognise her. ‘I saw you on stage. You were amazing. Absolutely gorgeous.’
She stared at him and her thoughts converged, then locked into a solid mass. Isaac. Her dad. She had a sense of tumbling through herself, through space. It was awful, awful, awful. He looked drunk, as though half of his face had gone to sleep. But he’d called her Angelica. Didn’t he recognise her? Oh, please, God. Please don’t let him recognise her.
‘You look familiar?’ she said, a test, her voice quavering through the exaggerated accent.
He shook his head. ‘Never seen you before.’
Her heart pounded.
‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Don’t be shy.’
Still, she couldn’t move.
‘C’mon.’ His voice was firmer now, insistent. ‘I paid good money. Dance for me. Do it. C'mon. Dance for me.’
His directness snapped her out of her fugue. Without thinking, without knowing why, she obeyed him, her body began to move with the music, a slow pulse in her hips.
‘Now, tell me, where are you from?’ he said, his eyes on her stomach, her neck, her breasts.
This is not the real me, she thought, willing herself to believe it, imagining she was elsewhere, this is not the real me. ‘I am from Slo-ven-ia.’
‘Really?’
‘Would you like-me to show-you my coun-try?’ The start of her usual routine.
‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Show me everything.’
No doubt about it. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Not just sexually. There was something in her eyes. Intelligence and warmth, but also yearning, fear. And when she moved closer, her skin smelt familiar, like lemon butter.
Without taking his eyes off her, he sipped his Scotch. ‘Don’t you want to know my name?’
‘No.’ She swayed her hips and twirled her hands in front of her. ‘This is a fantasy land. Nothing here is real. No names. We are just two people alone in a room. Isn’t that enough?’
Her accent was slipping, but just enough for it to feel like a game to him. He would play along. ‘I want to talk dirty.’
She kept her eyes fixed on his, drawing him in. ‘No talking. Just looking.’
‘I want…’ to fuck you, he almost said, but trailed off.
She unclipped her bra, turned to cover herself and let the bra drop to the ground. He liked the shape of her, the small, toned muscles in her back. She turned, still covering her breasts with her hands, and moved closer, making him wait. She uncovered her breasts, pert and shapely, jiggled them close to his face, then covered them again and turned away.
He gripped the armrests. ‘I want to touch you, caress you.’
She shook her head, turned and slowly pulled her panties down her legs, bending in half until she was looking at him from between her legs.
‘Wider,’ he said.
For a moment she did nothing.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Spread them wider.’
She did as she was told, but there was something stilted about the way she
did it.
‘Show me,’ he said.
Her legs bent slightly, as though she was off balance.
‘Now,’ he said.
She widened her stance, but placed her hand over her shaved cunt lips.
‘I need to touch you,’ he said.
She stood and shook her head. ‘I don’t do that.’
But everything he read in her body language told him that she did, that she would, that she’d let him. She turned and raised her knee, pressed the flat of her shin against his shoulder and pushed him back in his chair. His hands squeezed the arm rest hard. If he could kiss her, maybe he could touch her, and if he could touch her, maybe he could fuck her. Kiss, touch, fuck. Civilisations were built upon it. She stood in front of him now, rotating her hips and fondling her breasts. He stared at her cunt and wanted to lick it, taste it, push his fingers, his cock into her. Fill her up over and over again – and he knew that she’d let him do it if he offered enough money.
‘I want to fuck you,’ he said, unable to hold it in. ‘I need to.’
‘Time’s up,’ she said, softly, and with a choke in her voice. She turned away from him and picked up her discarded lingerie with shaky hands.
He felt cheated, angry. He thought of Benny getting laughed at and humiliated by strippers. He thought of every woman who had ever shunned him. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, but I don’t do that, and time is up.’ She stepped into her underwear, avoided looking at him and pulled on the garter.
‘C’mon. How much? Tell me.’
‘No,’ she said, her accent gone now. ‘I said I don’t do that.’
‘I know you,’ he said. ‘I know you from the café. You’re Charlie. You came to me looking for work.’
She began to freefall within herself. ‘That wasn’t me. I’ve never seen you before.’
‘C’mon, Charlie. One hundred dollars to see you naked. How much to fuck you?’
Every word wore her down, brought her closer to the edge. ‘No, no, no, no.’
‘C’mon. How much to fuck you, you dirty little whore?’