Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights #1)

by Ina Zajac

  “Her tits look real,” Carlos said. “What do you think, about a 34C? Maybe just a B.” His boss prided himself on being a good “breastimator.”

  Nick kept his opinions to himself. It was hard acting like what they were doing wasn’t sketchy. The Skeeze was already blabbering on anyway, so he just kept quiet.

  “Why does she have her eyes closed? Chicks usually love Mattais, don’t they?”

  “I guess,” Nick conceded. Matt did okay, but he did much better. Girls almost always preferred drummers to bass players. Of course, there were always plenty of admirers to go around. Obliviot gigged a couple times a month and had a rowdy fan base. They didn’t use the term “cult following,” but some of the Seattle entertainment reporters did.

  The Skeeze rubbed his nose and then started scratching the side of his head. Nick assumed he’d been up all night doing blow again. There was a time when his boss never sampled the product. There was a time when he wasn’t sloppy. But divorce changes men. Every couple of weeks, they moved four keys of the purest product up from Portland. Some stayed, was cut and distributed. The rest made its way to Canada. They called it “side work.” He and Matt had helped with side work for several years. They also hooked up special clients. At eighteen, bouncing, working bachelor parties, and running drugs had been exciting. At twenty-four, it wasn’t so cool. He had been sure their music would have made them rich and famous by now.

  “Not too skinny…good hair,” Carlos was saying.

  Nick thought she’d looked better in the lobby before the girls had gotten ahold of her. He couldn’t see Matt’s face, but she started smiling pretty damned hard all of a sudden. What had he just said to make her light up like that? Probably just told her he was a rock star and that their next show was at Nectar. That he would put her on the guest list.

  “She looks like my bitch wife,” Carlos said in a snarled voice. “I’m gonna fuck her.”

  Charming, Nick thought.

  The Skeeze’s mind games had grown hardcore since Sonia had bailed with their kids last spring. He spread the hurt around, showing no hint of remorse. He didn’t seem to have a specific type and claimed to be an equal opportunity womanizer. Kaytlyn had been his latest project. He used fat lines of blow like bacon-flavored dog treats and kept her high enough to put up with the insults he hurled at her. It was hard to listen to, but she never wanted rescuing anyway, so he just kept his mouth shut.

  “I want to see her ass,” Carlos said.

  “I didn’t get a good look in the lobby, sorry.” He was queasy, sick of sharing oxygen, rank and ripe, with this hyper-perv.

  “How am I supposed to imagine her bent over my desk?” He didn’t laugh, just let out a ragged breath, like a wheeze. “I want a better look.”

  And as if on command, Via stood up and glided over to the mirror to admire herself. She hadn’t been wearing only a thong and heels in the lobby. Damn, Nick realized. In spite of his noble intentions, a crispy sensation raced through his body, culminating in and around his junk. His own womanizing was healthy, he told himself. He loved them, as long as they didn’t get too serious. He followed the path of least resistance. He didn’t put up with their tests or drama because he didn’t have to.

  She turned around to say something to Matt and The Skeeze finally got the view he’d been waiting for. “And there you go,” he said like he had just won a hand of poker. “Get that on the menu.”

  She pulled up her bra, a black pleather one, while Matt held out her robe like a total gentleman. Even helped with her hair. Nice move.

  “She’s gonna make me good money,” Carlos said. “She could do the farmer’s daughter thing or the exotic freak or—” He stopped. “We still have that Salome seven veils shit?”

  “Sonia’s old costume? I’ll check.” Of course, the twisted troll would want to dress her up in Sonia’s old clothes. He told himself it was none of his business. He was relieved Whitney and Alicia were both too smart for his bullshit stories.

  They watched her rush out of the room. “Her name is Via, by the way,” Nick said, but The Skeeze was already talking again.

  “When she wins, I’m calling her personally,” he said. “I’ll get her to come back, and she’ll be...Vixen.”

  Vixen, really? Nick shook his head but said, “I’ll go tell Leon.” He needed to escape the foul air—of the pervert closet, the club, the business. It made him dizzy when he thought about all the time he had wasted in the Skeeze’s world. Playing the hell out of the drums was all he cared about.

  “I’m getting out,” he said. “I’m gonna puke.” He opened the door and took a deep breath as his eyes adjusted to the pink hallway. “I’m getting out.”

  ***

  VIA

  VIA STOOD BACKSTAGE and watched Whitney blur around the pole, an inverted, half-naked display of centrifugal force. Her white cheer skirt fanned out, reminiscent of an Olympic figure skater in a spiral.

  I can’t do this, she thought, and turned back to the trashcan she had been leaning over. She chugged the last few swigs of warm wine, careful not to spill on the white half-halter Brittney had fastened around her. Looking around, she didn’t see a recycling bin, so she tossed the bottle in the trash. She wiped her mouth and turned around to see the club manager, Ben, on the other side of the stage. He shook his head and pointed to her mark. She wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed in the drinking or the not recycling. She loved AC/DC, but never realized how long “You Shook Me All Nightr Long” was. The air backstage felt oppressive. Perspiration trailed down her back. Her over-sprayed hair weighed her down like a sweaty shag carpet. She guided her shaky hands back against her scalp, gathered up some hair, and piled it on top of her head.

  She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror hanging against the wall. A smile spread across the face of the goddess in the glass. Could it be she was that sexy bitch looking back? Her legs were freshly spray tanned and oiled up courtesy of Brittney and Bianca. The six-inch clear stripper pumps Whitney had given her to wear made her legs look long and lean. Under the tiny plaid skirt Brittney had Velcroed around her, she wore a rhinestone thong—so uncomfortable, but it sparkled in the bar light and was hers to keep.

  Was that Metallica? She listened and heard the call of that guitar riff she loved. Whitney was done already? She turned her attention to the now empty stage, bringing her hands to rest against her hips. She heard the “Enter Sandman” riff again. The one she had listened to a thousand times in her room at Bethany Christian. This was the song she couldn’t not dance to, but now, as she heard it building dramatically, she panicked.

  And a deep deejay voice said, “We have a real stunner for you tonight. It’s her first time ever on stage, so let’s help her feel welcome—Vixen.”

  Vixen? Yes, she would leave Via cowering in the wings. For all she cared, Via could just sneak out the side door, and catch the next ferry home. She glanced back at the hot bitch in the mirror. Yes, she deserved to be Vixen, at least for one night. The music was honing in on her, charging her up. She felt turned on, in control, and ready to go. This is what she came for. The deejay had told her to take her time. She had forty-five seconds to hit center stage. At fifty-five seconds, it would drop wide open. She would go and claim something, exactly what, she couldn’t name.

  She walked out and found herself in the spotlight, squinted and lowered her gaze. The rubber on the soles of her shoes gripped the high-gloss floor. Strutting toward center stage, she felt the magic of the intensifying drumbeat. It wouldn’t let her fail. Her lucky, painted chest shield would ensure she wouldn’t fall. She couldn’t bear to look out into the audience yet, focusing instead on the song, her call. The riff repeated again and again, and in eight or ten seconds it would reach orgasmic proportions.

  And there it was, slick and shiny and wrought with peril. Any fear of the audience she’d had dissolved as soon as she touched the golden pole, which seemed the center of the known universe. She reached out, grazed the cool metal, and brought
it into her shaky grasp. Whitney’s words of wisdom echoed in her head, “The pole is your friend.” She relaxed her expression. It was like someone else was moving her body. Like she was somebody else. Yes, exactly, she was Vixen.

  She looked down and saw several men grinning approvingly. They didn’t seem to mind her trembling hands. She moved toward them, slow and seductive, and was surprised to see just how close they were. More Whitney advice fell back into her mind. “Make eye contact, and hold it. Make each man think he is the one you want.” She looked out toward the crowd. Her heart plunged into her stomach and flew back up into her throat. What if they were laughing at her?

  Lights flashed behind her, played beside her. She wanted to close her eyes, but she heard the boob painter’s sexy voice, “You could fall off the stage.”

  She brought her head up and made her way down the runway. A group of guys in their early twenties, all with super short hair, sat at the far end. At first, she was afraid to look at them. Instead, she focused on the gleaming black floor. She hadn’t even made it halfway before she heard them calling for her. They leaned forward in their seats and smiled, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Whitney told her to tease, build tension. Build their desire. And so she slowly circled her hips in a subdued hula style, and then cut back like she thought a belly dancer would. She paused and made eye contact with one and then another. Their excitement was her validation. This is what she’d needed all along. She wasn’t some insecure, boring little Sunday school teacher. Not tonight.

  She eased her right hand down and paused on her breast before she gave her halter top a dramatic tug. The pleather bra-thingy almost came with it, so she had to turn toward the back of the stage to rearrange herself. Spaz. There were several “awws” of disappointment from the crowd, so she gave her ass a good shake. She turned back still wearing the pleather bra, sub-micro-miniskirt, and her lucky booby paint. She held out the halter and almost tossed it into the crowd. But then she remembered that was a big no-no. Ben had said clients who wanted a souvenir could buy a hat or t-shirt in the lobby.

  A girlie hair shake would be fun, she thought. Cheering reached up around her and held on. She tilted her left hip and started to grind into a loose, lazy figure-eight motion. She had lost track of where she was in the song and was surprised to hear “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

  Their rapt attention told her they wanted more. She reached up and felt her sweaty fingers slide against the metal. The song’s odd interlude grew more intense, “I pray the lord my soul to keep.” Whitney had assured her nobody would be expecting pole work from a first timer, but suggested she at least use it as a prop. Via looked out and saw she had the full attention of every face she met. They wanted her. She brought her fingers to the side of her skirt. And ripped it off, tossing it over her shoulder. Some clapped, others just looked to be daydreaming.

  She focused her attention on the military guy on the end who looked especially earnest, almost desperate for her. Her eyes met his and dared him to hold on. She tilted her head, strode around the pole, and found him waiting. Her hand traveled from her hip, along her waist, up toward her bikini strap. She grasped it. Held it taut. His mouth fell open. He was in love with her. In that moment at least, she knew he was. She smiled and brought her hand softly against her neck. She opened her mouth slightly and pouted. And, in that moment, she had never felt such power.

  “And if I die before I wake.” She skimmed her fingers along the string, ready to pull, but realized her hair was in the way. Whitney told her to make sure the crowd saw her grasp the end of the string. Her guy was leaning over the stage going crazy; they all were. She basked in the heat of the lights, the perfection of the moment. A sharp whistle came from the back of the room as she tousled her hair up and over to the other side of her face. She touched the string, looked out, and saw them tugging away at it with their eyes. She had drawn in the breath of the room and relished it as though it were infused with opium.

  “I pray the lord my soul to take.” She arched her back and slowly pulled the string.

  CHAPTER 6

  VIA

  THE SMELL OF maple bacon nestled in around her. She sat upright in a bed she knew was not hers and blinked away at her dry eyes. She was revolted by the feel of her own tongue, somehow slimy and crusty at the same time. Her face felt oily and gross, like she had slept in clown makeup. Her memory rebooted and some details returned. She’d gone to that strip club. She was mortified by the thought that she had gotten booed or thrown up on somebody, but then she remembered the cheering. A smile broke out across her face, but she retracted it because it made her head hurt. A handsome face came to her. He was from Fort Lewis-McChord, and he was in love with her.

  She stretched and looked around the room, relieved it didn’t look anything like an army barracks. One wall was dedicated to one huge poster. It was a side angle of a young, frizzy-haired drummer playing before an ocean of faces. At the top it read: Michael Shrieve—Santana Woodstock 1969. Underneath someone had handwritten “Best Drum Solo of All Time!” The wall in front of her was awash in old posters of drummers. None of their faces were familiar, but she did recognize Stewart Copeland from The Police. She loved the Police and thought Sting was kind of hot for an old guy. Next to the door, set apart from the others, was a black-and-white photo that had been matted and framed. It was of Dave Grohl from The Foo Fighters, but he wasn’t behind the drum set; he was playing a guitar.

  That’s right…it was coming back to her. Nick the bouncer had said she could crash with him. He’d told her Dave Grohl’s birthday should be a national holiday. The knock at the door made her stomach drop. She looked down to see she was wearing a black Green Day t-shirt over the pleather bra and rhinestone thong she had danced in the night before. Her skin was tacky underneath, so she assumed her chest shield had survived the night.

  “Come in,” she called out, too loud for her head to handle.

  The door opened with a drawn-out creak. Nick stepped in and leaned against the doorframe. He was too tall for the doorway. His size didn’t intimidate her, though. It came with an easy expression turned up into a smile. He held a big plastic bottle of bright blue Gatorade.

  “Hey, Violetta. How are you feeling this fine morning? I come bearing hydration.”

  Her stomach burned. Her ulcer, she realized. While she tried to keep her demeanor casual, she was terrified that she had opened up and told him something the night before.

  He frowned. “Did I get it wrong? I thought you said it was Vee-o-letta?”

  She looked down at her hands. “No, you’re right, but Via is good,” she said, thankful she was still wearing her mother’s ring. Her fingernails had been painted teal. “And please forget anything crazy I may have said.”

  “Well, you did spill your twisted daddy issues,” he said, looking right through her. “Your story is full-on hard-core. And I know a dozen strippers, so that’s saying a lot.”

  Her brain was going to bust right out of her head. Where were her clothes? The room was becoming smaller; dozens of legendary drummers were closing in around her.

  His laughing startled her. “Nah,” he said. “Just screwing with you.”

  Though she shot him look of annoyance, she was grateful. Thank you Jesus—thanks at least, for that little crumb.

  “You just said you’re Italian. Violetta is the lead chick in your dad’s favorite opera. La Mañana.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was butchering the name, La Traviata by accident, but she didn’t care as long as she hadn’t shared any more than that.

  He twisted the Gatorade cap and handed her the bottle. She went to town on it. She wished it came in a bag with a needle and an IV. She’d probably need five more units.

  “And no Veee-a, we did not get it on last night.” He turned around and slapped his own ass. “If you had gotten a piece of this, I promise, you would have remembered.”

  Whoa…she hadn’t even considered that. She came up for air, wiped the blue fr
om the sides of her mouth, and scolded him. “Please don’t make me laugh, or I’ll choke.”

  “I swapped out your dress for that t-shirt, which you may not steal by the way. Shirt stealing is an under-reported but serious crime, and Green Day is one of my faves.”

  “Okay, Tré Cool.”

  “You know he’s their drummer? Nice.” She soaked in the admiration he was shining her way. She’d gone through a Green Day phase while at Bethany Christian. She’d practically lived in her headphones back then.

  “Damn, had I known you knew your drummers, I would have green-lighted you,” he said matter of factly. “Maybe even added you to the rotation.”

  His straight face and flat tone were disarming. He seemed to like her, but she didn’t have enough experience with men to know for sure. She didn’t want to come off as a total church geek, so she tried to sound casual. “You must get a lot of action.”

  “I’m a drummer and work at a strip club, so I do okay.” He didn’t blush. Not a bit. “You tore it up on stage last night, by the way.”

  “Did I win?”

  “Duh.”

  Struck with a sense of sex appeal, her mind was a mess. Who was she anyway? She had been feeling like a sixty-year-old living in a twenty-one-year-old’s body. This guy was looking at her like she was beautiful, like she wasn’t broken.

  She wanted to burp, but was afraid she would spray him with a spout of blue puke.

  “I have your tip money downstairs,” he said. “Clients are usually generous with first-timers, but more than two hundred bucks is rare. Didn’t hurt that you were telling every guy in the place how wasted you were.”

  “No,” she said, suddenly too interested in the Gatorade label to meet his gaze.

  “I’m so drunk and it’s my birthday!” he mimicked. “I’m twenty-one today. I’m so drunk!”

  She just shook her head and vowed never to drink again.