She shrugs.
—More Gabe’s thing, but it was okay. Scared hell out of me when I saw you.
—Sorry.
—I don’t want to hurt him. I can’t. He’s too...
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. I know she means fragile or vulnerable, but I also know she’d never use those words to describe her disintegrating, out-of-work husband.
I feel a pang of guilt, as I always do when I think about her husband. I’ve never met the man — what I know of him, I know only through her — and though their relationship is dead, it hasn’t been buried yet, and I know I should wait until it is to get involved with her, but selfishly, recklessly, I have not. To justify what we’re doing, we’ve set boundaries, lines we haven’t and won’t cross, but I know what we’re doing is wrong — mostly because of the deception and dishonesty involved.
I’m anxious to ask her about Casey, but don’t want to do anything to jeopardize the little time we have together, so decide to ask her toward the end of our interaction.
—Were you following me? she asks.
—No, I say with conviction, because it’s true. Looking for and following are two different things.
—What were you doing out there?
—Looking for Casey, I say, which is what I ended up doing, though not what I went out there to do.
She looks away, pretending to be distracted by what another dancer is doing on stage.
We finish our drinks, and I want to ask her for some private time in the back, but, as always, am a bit apprehensive. Why? I wonder. Is it fear of rejection? She’s a sure thing. It’s her job. But I’m wanting it to be more than a job, more than just what she’d do for any man with money.
The DJ announces it’s time for two-for-one, and she rolls her eyes and frowns.
—I hate these, she says.
—Is it too late for us to go to VIP so you won’t have to do it?
She shakes her head.
I pull a ten out of my pocket and lay it on the table in front of her.
—I’ll be right back, she says, and walks over to the reception area.
During the two-for-one, all the dancers not in VIP line up, walk across the main stage either wearing a special Dollhouse T-shirt or carrying a shot, then scatter into the audience to offer patrons two dances for the price of one, plus either the shirt or shot. The dances are performed right at the customer’s chair, saving the charge for the private room.
I’ve never met a dancer who didn’t hate the two-for-ones, and that goes double for Raven. It makes her feel even more like a piece of meat on display than usual, and is followed by a long line of rejections, and possibly something worse. If during the first song, the dancers can’t find a taker for the special offer, they have to climb back on the stage and dance together for the next two songs in what they refer to as the “losers” dance.
Raven returns with a slip for the DJ, and I wait while she takes it to him. It lets him know to keep her out of the rotation for the next half-hour, but also when to announce that the thirty minutes is over by saying — Raven, check’s out. Raven, check’s out.
Once she returns from the DJ booth, she takes me by the hand, like every other VIP customer, and begins to lead me toward the back.
When we’re about halfway, a tall, skinny, young dancer with multiple piercings jumps up from a table, slaps a patron, then yells for the bouncer. Before the bouncer can get there, the patron gets up, grabs the girl, lifts her, and body slams her onto the ground.
The bouncer is there by then, grabbing the guy, only to have the guy’s two friends join in.
I pull Regan back and stand between her and the fight.
The bouncer is a huge black man and the three guys are drunk as fuck, but three against one — even three drunks — isn’t fair, and I wonder if I should help. Just then another bouncer runs past us and joins in. Within a few seconds, the fight is over, the men subdued, the police called.
Raven and I continue to VIP.
Without the bouncer at the door, we get our choice of rooms, and she leads me to the one at the end that has no camera in it, the one we lucked into the first night we were together.
—This is my favorite room, I say.
She smiles.
Each VIP suite is a four-by-four booth with a small built-in couch on one side and a mirror on the other. The entry of each is a beaded curtain, which like the carpet and the fabric on the couch has images of strippers painted on it.
I’m vaguely aware we’re in a VIP room at The Dollhouse, but we could be anywhere in the world. It feels like we’re the only two people on the planet. The bouncer just beyond the beads, the others — dancers and shooter girls, regulars and first-timers — have all faded so far into the background they no longer exist. Everything has faded, everything.
—What’re you thinking? she asks, as she always does when we’re back here.
—About this. Us. It still doesn’t seem real. I didn’t come in here looking for... well, anything.
—I know you didn’t. I certainly don’t come to work looking for a...
She doesn’t seem to know what to call me.
Her top is off. Her thick, long, dark hair frames her sweet beautiful face and falls down to cover her breasts so that she looks like a chaste painting of Eve in the Garden of Eden.
How apropos, I think, an image associated with forbidden fruit.
The song changes and outside the curtain, the tall white bouncer passes by with his clipboard, marking which girls are giving dances so the house is sure to get its cut.
We both look at the mirror across from us.
She looks like a ballerina, and I want to see her dance in other ways, on other stages.
Even seated, the C-section scar, like a smile on her lower abdomen, is visible.
The first time she had pointed it out, I had called it the smile of motherhood, but that had been before I knew, before we had bonded over loss only people in our position could understand. Now, I just trace it with the tip of my finger.
I’m trying to think of the best way to ask her about Casey when she stands and says — You ready?
I nod, though I’d really rather continue doing what we’re doing.
—Slide over, she says, and spread ’em.
I do as I am told, moving to the center of the small couch and spreading my legs.
A new song comes on, and she begins to dance for me. I’m instantly erect.
—Put your hands on me, she says.
I do.
We’ve yet to make love, though we’ve done nearly everything but. The time we came close, I was getting ready to enter her after a half-hour of intense foreplay, when she said, There’s still a line we haven’t crossed, and I stopped.
Always far more forward and amorous when we’re here in VIP than when we’re by ourselves, she explained that she knows she can only go so far in here, where as when we’re alone together outside of this place, she knows she’s unlikely to stop.
—I want to feel you, she says.
My hands are on her lovely, soft breasts, my mouth on her large protruding nipples — like the scar, one of the few signs she had once been a mother.
—Can I feel you? she asks.
I nod.
She shifts, placing herself just above the erection bulging beneath my jeans, and begins to thrust.
—God, you make me so hot, she says. I’ve never been this physically attracted to anyone.
I appreciate the compliment, but wonder at the qualification. Is this just physical for her?
As she continues to rub herself on me, as we continue to kiss and I caress her, her state of arousal intensifies, and it turns me on all the more.
—Can I? she asks.
—Please, I say, not exactly sure what’s she’s talking about, but hoping it’s what I think it is.
She grabs me and straightens me up inside my jeans, then begins to rub more rapidly, her breathing and moans growing.
I hold
her tight, gripped by far more than desire, and I realize I love her.
She continues until she comes, and as she does, I lift my hand up and cup the side of her face beneath her raven hair and hold her close.
Oh my God, she says breathlessly. That was amazing.
—You’re amazing, I say.
—Thank you so much. I owe you for that one. Or owe you one of those.
She is the most sexual, most sensuous woman I’ve ever been with, and I love that about her. I desire her more than I’ve ever desired anyone else, but her owing me an orgasm or even having one myself has not even crossed my mind — so caught up am I in her experience.
—I keep doing things with you that I’ve never done with anyone, she says.
I squeeze her tighter.
—I don’t want to, but I have to move, she says. I can’t be touching you when I’m not dancing.
We uncurl from each other, and she slides over to sit beside me.
Her hair falls down to cover her breasts like before, as she tucks her feet beneath her. Reaching over, she takes my hand, lacing our fingers like we might if we were in high school.
We are quiet a long moment.
Knowing our time is growing short, I realize I need to talk to her about Casey, but hate to so close to such an intensely intimate moment. I’m trying to come up with a good way to broach the subject, when I hear the DJ.
—Raven, check’s out. Raven, check’s out.
—You recognized the girl on the Thunder Beach Magazine, I say.
—I’ve got to go, she says, standing, slipping back into her clothes.
—How do you know her, I say, getting up, too, and pulling out my wallet.
—Just pay me for one, she says. I really should be paying you.
She always tells me to just pay for one dance, which keeps her from losing money to the house, but I nearly always give her more.
—I don’t think I know her, she says. I guess I thought I knew who you were talking about.
—What does that mean?
—Doesn’t matter.
—Do you know Casey?
—I don’t really want to get in the middle of this. Please just let me —
—How do you know her?
—Let me give her a message for you. I can do that. If she wants to contact you, she will.
—She doesn’t work here, does she?
I can tell by her face that she does.
My little Casey working as a stripper. How can this be?
—Why haven’t I ever seen her?
—Because, she says, she hides in the dressing room when you’re here.
—She does?
—She didn’t want you to know she’s dancing. Please just let me give her your number. I’m sure she’ll call you. What’s the story between you two?
—She didn’t tell you?
She shakes her head.
—Why didn’t you tell me? I ask.
—It wasn’t my place. Really. I couldn’t —
—Raven, check’s out. Raven.
—I’ve got to go, she says. I’m gonna get in trouble.
—Give her my number, I say. Tell her I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t know she was living here again. I’d love to see her and catch up. I’d love to do anything I can for her.
—I’ll tell her.
—Can I see you tomorrow?
—I’ll call you.
—I love you, I say as she’s rushing away, and though I know she heard me, she doesn’t respond.
I’m barely out of the parking lot, carefully maneuvering around packs of bikes on 98, when she calls.
—Hey, she says.
I recognize her voice immediately, though it’s been quite a while since I’ve heard it.
Unbidden, a random memory of Casey unfolds in my mind. It’s the night of the middle school winter ball. In limbo, torn between girl child and pubescent princess, she is radiant in a ruby dress and black patent leather shoes, elaborate up do, blonde ringlets cascading down around an innocent face touched for the first time with a light dusting of makeup. When I remove the corsage I’ve gotten her from the green tissue, her eyes light up with genuine joy and gratitude.
—Hey, Case. Thanks for calling. It’s so good to hear from you. When’d you move back to Panama City?
I hear the DJ in the background as a door opens.
—I’ve got to go. They’re about to call me on stage.
Lightning continues to flicker in the distance, random drops of rain falling here and there, but it appears as though the storm will hold off for now.
—Can we meet when you get off? Get some coffee or something.
—It’s not until four.
—I know. We can get breakfast if you like.
—Sure. Okay. Meet you at Coram’s at four-thirty.
—Which one?
—Huh?
—Which Coram’s?
—Beach, she says. Thomas Drive.
—I’ll be there.
Looking at the time on my phone, I realize I’ve got just a little under four hours to kill. I think about it for a few moments and decide on three different things. First, I’ll swing by Player’s, where two of my students are competing in a poker tournament for a seat at the World Series of Poker, then I’ll stop by Joe’s for some wings, then I’ll hang out at The Curve where a friend of mine is spinning records.
Since I’m already driving west on 98, I continue to the college and turn onto 23rd, heading back east toward town.
Though the rally doesn’t kick it up into overdrive until closer to the weekend, there are still a lot more bikes on the street than usual, their diversity staggering.
In the lane next to me, a young guy in beach attire on a black American Ironhorse Slammer with red and yellow designs, chrome v-handle bars, wheels, and sidewinder engine rides beside an older woman in faded denim and bandanas on an electric-blue Harley Road King Classic with leather bags and whitewall tires, a large American flag mounted on the back of her bike rippling in the wind of her wake.
Player’s is a sports club on 23rd Street with 8,000 square feet of gaming — from eleven regulation billiards tables to electronic dartboards to ping pong. Some nights there’s karaoke or a DJ, others there’s billiards or darts tournaments, but tonight, it’s poker.
I sit at the bar and order a glass of red wine and wait for Stephen and Kyle to get a break. Beyond the bar, at some twenty tables, amateur poker players are holding and raising and calling and winning and losing.
Unlike other nights, Player’s is quiet. With no music to disturb the tournament, nothing else going on in the place, and the concentrated hush over the crowd, it sounds more like a cafeteria than a sports bar.
This is the second of two tournaments tonight, and has fewer players. In the time it takes me to sip my way through the glass of wine, a steady stream of people stand, dejected, and walk away from their table, either to the bar for a consolation drink or out of the club, merely grunting their goodbyes if someone speaks to them.
After about thirty minutes, a break is announced, and Kyle and Stephen make their way over to me at the bar.
—What’s up prof-es-sor? Stephen, the more outgoing of the two, says.
—Teach, Kyle adds.
They are both in their early twenties, with long, unruly hair flowing from beneath baseball caps. Stephen is trim and wears a trendy American Eagle shorts and shirt set. Kyle’s six-six, two-sixty muscular frame is always covered in what he can find to fit it — usually jeans and a T-shirt.
—How’s it looking? I ask. Either one of you gonna be headin’ to Vegas?
—I’m doin’ okay, Stephen says. The chip leader at my table, but the cards I’m gettin’ are for shit.
—I’ll be out this next round, Kyle says.
—Whatta you up to tonight? Stephen asks.
—Hanging, I say. Hittin’ up a little bit of Thunder Beach.
—Cool. We’re gonna go out after this if you wanna hang around. Probably
the Toy Box or Spinaker.
—Got a friend spinning 80s music at The Curve, I say, but I appreciate it.
—Maybe we’ll swing by.
As I climb into my car, my phone rings.
In the moment before I look at the display, I hope it’s Regan. I have the same reaction every time it rings these days.
I don’t recognize the number, and I wonder, as I always do, if it’s Regan’s husband, Gabe. Rarely do calls this late bring good news.
I know it’s not Casey because I programmed her number in after she called, and her name would appear on the screen.
I take a breath and press the answer button.
—Hello.
—You the one lookin’ for Miss Thunder Beach? Want something extra special?
The harsh, gravely voice vibrates up through cigarette burned vocal chords. It’s aggressive, menacing, and though age and race are difficult to discern, I picture a large, mean white man in his mid to late fifties who’s spent a lot of time around black guys.
—Yeah, but I found her.
—What? You what?
—I found her.
—The fuck you mean you found her?
—Who is this? I ask.
—The fuck is this?
—Stay away from her, I say, but it doesn’t come out as threatening as I’d like.
He ends the call, and when I call the number back it goes directly to a voicemail box with no personal greeting, just the generic, computerized one that gives the number, but no name.
The call unnerves me, and I wonder again what Casey’s gotten herself mixed up in.
Joe’s Corner Pub, on 98 not far from the college, is a small joint that according to its sign serves the best hot wings in town.
Dark, loud, smoky, and devoid of tourists, Joe’s is everything a local’s pub should be.
I sit at the bar beneath ’70s-style hanging stained glass Busch and Michelob lamps and look around.
Behind me, at one of two pool tables beneath black Bud Light lamps, two emaciated men in shorts, flip flops, soiled shirts and caps attempt to shoot pool though they can barely stand up.
—Gotta dollar?
I turn to see a thin, middle-aged woman with a ponytail holding up two dollars.
—Huh?
—For the jukebox, she says. Got a dollar for the jukebox.
—Sure, I say, looking over at the internet jukebox on the far wall between the two flat screens playing sports programs.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 32