by Ina Zajac
This is how it is supposed to be, she had realized, lost in the lights. Her opera-obsessed parents had chosen this life for her the day they had chosen the name Violetta over Brunhilde. The day they had chosen Verde over Wagner. They could have named her after a Norse warrior woman who rode a flying horse and kicked ass, but instead they’d chosen an Italian slut who coughed blood into a hanky. She could have gone by Hilde or Hil. Maybe she could have been brave. A badass.
The Hotties sign drew her in even more. The flashing neon began to morph, then hum and buzz. She blinked. Wait, she realized. Wait, she knew those lights. Their unadulterated love blazed toward her. They danced and shimmered just for her. They vibrated their epiphany. Pretend, pretend, they urged. Don’t you remember? The recollection teased her, but retreated before she could fully recognize it. Instead she softened her focus, and let them blur and beam and snap her into a new state of being.
She tucked her last mini bottle into her purse for later. While crossing over into the Hotties parking lot she tripped, but caught herself. She just laughed it off, too wasted to care. Should she take her mother’s ring off? she wondered. No, it would be safest right where it was. She rubbed her thumb back and forth over it for luck, for courage. She didn’t let herself pause at the tinted double doors for fear she would change her mind. Just one night dancing. Lost under the lights. She couldn’t stand being alone with herself, so she would just be somebody else. Just for the night.
***
VIA
INSIDE, THE LOBBY felt like the entrance to a Denny’s restaurant, except everything was bright white. Everything from the white patent-leathery couches lining the white walls to the glazed white glass light fixtures hanging overhead. The matching high-shine tile floor completed the look. A tall guy about her age stood at a white podium. It was heaven’s waiting room and he was a super sexy St. Peter. The fly of his black pants was open wide and he was doing something weird with his hands. She stopped in her tracks.
“Sorry,” he said as he shot her the guiltiest little-boy face. Like one of her church youth group kids caught stealing an extra juice box, except more sincere.
Pink flushed up his neck and cheeks, into his semi-scruffy light brown hair. She realized he was just tucking in his dress shirt, so she smiled and waited for him to zip himself back into place. He was built like a football player and looked like he could really mow down a quarterback.
“I’m not some creeper, I promise,” he said. “Just had a show. I’m a drummer.” He looked at her like that should mean something. He raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down. He didn’t seem impressed. “First time here, huh?”
“Here?” She looked around. She had almost forgotten. What was she doing? Dance music thumped in from the other room. This was crazy. She turned to leave.
“When a guy thinks it’s your first time at a strip club, that’s a compliment,” he said. His tone was flirty and full of warmth. It made her turn back around.
“But, I’ll need to see your ID.”
She found it and handed it over. She imagined he would make an excellent junior high school teacher. He would be the popular one—cool but tough.
He inspected it for a moment. “Happy birthday, sweetie,” he said. “I’ll buy you a Red Bull later.”
“Red Bull?”
“Or soda or espresso in a can,” he said. “No liquor on site—it’s the law.”
“Oh,” she said, afraid he may search her purse.
“You here to dance?” he asked. “You here alone? On your birthday?”
She felt her own cheeks growing warm. “Is that okay?” she asked, knowing she was the biggest dork in the world.
“Of course,” he said, but she couldn’t help but notice his worried glance into a back hallway behind him. He leaned forward over the podium, lowered his voice and asked. “You know Carlos?”
“Who?”
“That’s cool,” he said. “I’m Nick. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
What a sweet guy, she thought. He led her into the main lounge. It looked so much like a crime-show set, like CSI, that she got the giggles. Was this place for real? Everything was black and the lights were low. Built-in couches lined the sides and back of the room. The couches in the very back were like deep-set booths. Each had its own black curtain. Two of the booths had their curtains closed and a bored-looking guy even bigger than Nick stood between them.
The music pumped through her body and she couldn’t help but move from a walk to a borderline strut. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the source of her inspiration: a deejay stood inside a booth on a raised platform outlined with spinning lights. The stage spanned the entire room and jutted out into runways to the right, left, and center. On it were three golden poles reaching up into the ceiling. The center runway bulged out into a semicircle. Several small round tables with chairs snuggled against it.
“See, that’s Alicia, aka Autumn,” he said as he smiled toward a tan blonde woman who circled the gleaming pole on the right. Her breasts were held captive by a bright pink bra. She wore ultra-tight soccer shorts with thigh-high socks and what looked to be cleats with five-inch heels. Several men watched, engrossed, but they seemed mellow. They weren’t throwing money in the air or stuffing bills into her short-shorts. She reached up high on the pole and propelled herself until she was upside down. She lifted herself higher, pulled her legs wide, and then spun around the pole, again and again.
“She’s pushing forty, but the college guys love her—she’s cash. Everybody wants to bag a cougar or a MILF these days.”
Via was stricken by insecurity. More wine would be good. She slipped her hand into her purse and pet her last mini bottle.
A tall brunette in a white cheerleader outfit walked toward them, adjusting her pigtail ribbons. “Hey, Legs,” Nick said. “Via, this is the queen of MILF-topia, Willow. She’ll show you where to get ready.”
Willow did a quick spin for him. “Hey Nick-o-lust,” she said, her voice low and sultry. Her cheer panties were silver. “She can call me Whitney—unless she’s interested in a lap dance, that is,” she said and flashed an I’m-up-for-anything smile. Via had never been sexually attracted to women, but this girl was so insanely hot, she couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes were bright light green, like a cat’s, and she smelled like Hawaii.
Nick gave a little bow. “I leave you in good hands,” he said. “Later, tater.”
“Tot,” Via shot back. She regretted it immediately. It was something her church kids said. He just shook his head and walked back to his station.
Whitney led her toward a black, floor-to-ceiling curtain and turned around. “There are only a few other girls so far. You look like you need some help with your hair and makeup.” She grabbed the edge of the curtain and swooshed it over to the side, revealing a bright pink hallway. Via hesitated, wondering if she was drunk enough.
“Don’t worry,” Whitney added. “We’ll help you.”
Yes, she thought. Help. She needed serious help.
CHAPTER 5
MATT
MATT SAT ASTRIDE a long wooden bench in the middle of the locker room facing a cute topless girl named Jasmine. Overall, her body was decent, but her areolas were bugging the hell out of him. With his second smallest brush, he blended a cool shade of mystic blue body paint outward, making her silver incision lines disappear. He was a wizard with scars, but there wasn’t much he could do about poorly placed, over-muscle implants. He had already spent ten minutes transforming her tan lines into stems for her hanging buds and he still had another girl to do before he could take off for Portland. That uncomfortable uneasiness began to creep up his spine. It’ll be a good trip, he told himself. “Safe trip, safe trip,” he said under his breath.
“I was out dancing in Belltown,” she said. “And Carlos came up to me and gave me his card, and—”
“I’m good. I’m good,” he mumbled.
“What’d you say?”
“Nah,” he said. “Just
humming a song.”
“That’s cool. So, you sure you can’t help me score some blow?”
“Sorry.” He never sold without going through the proper channels—referrals only—and The Skeeze hadn’t mentioned this chick at all. He pulled his head back a foot and evaluated his heaving canvas. It killed him to give up, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make her floral arrangement look any perkier. “All done. Knock em’ dead.” He told all of them that because it sounded better than, “Break a leg.” He reserved that for Nick before they went onstage. It seemed better suited for rock and roll than girls in high heels.
“Knock, knock.” Nick stood near the doorway, leaning against the wall next to a rack of clear stripper heels. “You’re up,” he told Jasmine as he held the door for her. He waited until she had squeezed past him. “So, there is one more Bambi coming in and she’s going to singe the hair off your brushes.”
“Good, she’ll be fast then,” Matt said as he stretched. He misted his brush with disinfectant and wiped it two times against the microfiber cloth on his lap—one, two.
Nick screwed up his face. “Only you could make painting tits seem like hard work. We can trade. You can deal with the frat boys.”
Matt was used to getting slammed about his duties. He painted the girls because he had wanted to be an artist at one time, but he took little pleasure in it. Decorating an already hot girl’s body with glitter glue was like Auto-Tuning a soulfully imperfect song or slapping trendy paint on a classic car. Carlos agreed with him, but reminded him that guests came in for the fantasy. Most Hotties patrons probably had decent-looking wives or girlfriends waiting at home.
“So, I met her up front and we need to keep her away from The Skeeze—”
Matt glared and flicked his head toward the pervert closet behind him.
Nick just kept talking. “It’s cool,” he said. “He’s not back there.” He smiled into the double-sided mirror and fixed his hair. “In his office. Swapping party favors for sexual favors with Bianca. So, this girl is clueless and drunk, and bro, he’s gonna love her look—like a young Sonia.”
“Can’t help with your damsel. Bailing as soon as I can, got that Portland run,” Matt said. “Back in the morning.” Safe trip, he thought. One, two.
Nick was halfway out the door, but turned around to taunt him. “Oh, and Josh called. He tried to get your bass, but some nasty ape with hepatitis snagged it. He found your happy face strap, but it’s been slimed.”
Matt growled and shook away the image. His friend never tired of messing with him. “You’re a nasty ape,” he yelled after him.
“Are you Matt?” Her voice was small, tentative. She hovered in the doorway like a kid late on the first day of school. Nick was crazy. Sonia, on her very best day, could never look as good as this girl. They had already done her makeup, which disappointed him. Her hair was nice though. It was the color of dark chocolate and fell into full, glossy waves. He wanted to feel it between his fingers and maybe pull it up into a ponytail. He loved to see long hair pulled back, leaving the neck vulnerable. When a woman let him kiss her neck it meant she trusted him, and that felt good.
He realized he hadn’t said anything yet. How long had he been spacing out on her hair? Too embarrassed to apologize, he stood up, went over to her, and reached out for her hand. He didn’t usually shake hands. Girls would normally come in and plop down in front of him, but she’d just stood there with her hand out.
“I’m Via. Nice to meet you.”
“You too. Come sit.”
“They said I only have a few minutes.” She clutched her white terrycloth robe against her body and rubbed her lips together.
“I’ll do something simple,” he told her. “It’s no big deal. I see boobs all the time.”
She laughed and he smelled the wine on her breath. No surprise. Most of the girls had booze stashed in their bags and lockers. “You’re nervous? Did you lose a bet or something?” He hoped to distract her, so she would open that robe.
Hotties was upscale compared to the competition. Their cover was steep. Their ATM fees were brutal. But their girls were smoking hot, so it all worked out. They had Gallery Night twice a month. It had been Carlos’s idea. He’d described it as a way to bring in new talent, girls who may be intimidated to go naked right off the bat. They kept their thongs on and Matt’s nipple flourishes helped them not feel completely naked when they took off their bras, bustiers, or bikini tops. The Skeeze said that from there he was just a hop, skip, and a jump away from couch dances and hand jobs.
“I can do this,” she said, more to herself than to him. She was like a kid not quite ready to jump off the diving board. He wanted to hug her. “I can do this,” she said again. Yanking her arms through the sleeves, she let the robe fall off her shoulders and onto the bench behind her. Girls usually just pulled it back off their shoulders. This one was just sitting there in a thong. Technically, she was also wearing one of the black pleather bikini tops from the wardrobe closet, but it had been pulled down around her waist. She was as good as naked. “I’m keeping my eyes closed,” she said. He was relieved because then she wouldn’t see the way he was gaping at her.
He was usually an abstract kind of artist, but he wanted to paint her—really paint her. He dipped his widest brush in his lightest shade of gold, tapped three times, and started below her collarbones; he had a thing for collarbones. Her bone structure was delicate and her skin had a warm undertone, which was why he had chosen gold. She didn’t have any tan lines or obvious scars. No ink he could see. Her skin was light contrasted against her hair. Her eyes were closed, but she was so fair he assumed they were blue.
“You can’t keep your eyes closed when you dance though,” he said. “You could fall off the stage.”
“Thanks, I hadn’t even thought to worry about that.”
He liked her, a smart ass. But still, there was something odd about her, sad maybe. As he skimmed his brush along her skin, he kept looking up at her face. Her cheekbones were high, but sparkled in blush that was too dark for her. She just sat there with her eyes closed and slid her slick lips back and forth against each other. He wished girls would all get together and agree not to wear lipstick, ever. It tasted funky, felt waxy, and stained.
She laughed when he got to her left nipple. “That tickles.”
He pulled back his brush and waited. She kept her eyes shut. He quickly finished and moved to the other, also ticklish. He used his thinnest brush to add three bronze swirls around the tops of both sides. They curved around her nipples and fanned out. He added a few muted lavender and pink accents below her collarbones. He stopped to take a look at his progress. She was soft and natural.
“You know, you can open your eyes,” he told her. “I’m almost done. It won’t get any worse.” He found his buff brush and swished it over her entire chest with iridescent finishing powder.
“I’m just so nervous,” she said. “I just wanted to see what it was like, to be on stage. But, what if I’m terrible?”
He realized she must be married. He looked down and saw the diamond ring occupying her left ring finger. Damn. He should have known. Any woman this beautiful, so starved for approval, must be married. The fantasy developing in his head flickered and died.
“You here for some attention?”
She blushed through her blush.
“Well, yes, I guess.”
“Need somebody to tell you that you’re pretty. Is that it?”
She opened her eyes. They were deep brown.
“You’re pretty,” he said. “There, now you can go home.”
She kept looking at him. On closer inspection, her inner irises were honey-colored. She rewarded him with a smile. Pretty wasn’t a word he used often. He knew a ton of girls who were cute, and many who were doable or even hot, but there were few he would call pretty. Pretty involved a certain sense of modesty.
He was finished, but they just sat there, and after a moment he thought maybe she was changing her mind
. He heard one of the girls yelling from down the hall.
“Via, come on! Whitney’s going on!”
She jumped and went over to the mirror. “Wow, I love it,” she said. She turned back around and tucked herself back into her bikini top, careful not to disturb his flourishes. “It looks like a shield, like protection,” she said. “So I don’t fall.”
“Sure. You’re lucky now.” He stood up, grabbed her robe from the bench, and held it out while she slipped it back on. He took the liberty of freeing her hair, trapped into the back. Too much hairspray, he thought. But he imagined it was probably silky-soft when clean.
“Thanks so much,” she said on her way to the door. He realized he hadn’t wished her good luck. Instead of yelling, “Knock em’ dead,” he yelled, “You’re pretty!” He started gathering his supplies together so he could bail. She had improved his mood and made him less anxious about Portland. He knew he definitely did not want to see her dance, though, and he hoped Carlos wouldn’t see her either.
***
NICK
NICK COULDN’T BELIEVE The Skeeze had caught him in the hallway. Now he had to squeeze himself into the pervert closet with his shady boss and scout the very same girl he was trying to protect. The Skeeze was disheveled and said he didn’t want to be seen on the main floor. Nick slid the door latch closed and turned his nose toward the corner in an attempt to evade the smell of whiskey and ass. It was a secret viewing station, the same size and vibe as a rock festival port-a-potty. There wasn’t a sound system, which Carlos said was fine because he found his girls most attractive when he didn’t have to listen to them.