Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights #1)

by Ina Zajac

  “And what type am I?”

  “You, my dear, are every man’s type.”

  She felt a surge of satisfaction and thought about Matt telling her she was pretty. She smiled at the thought of him, but it faded when she considered what Carlos had just said about his game playing.

  “If you don’t want to work the floor, that’s fine, you can start with stage shows, two an hour. You would be the appetizer, so to speak,” he said.

  Her stomach burned. Vodka-soaked cocaine was probably not great for her ulcer. She didn’t know what to say so she kept her mouth shut.

  “Even just a shift a week would help me out. You know, my wife used to be my best stage dancer,” he offered. His voice cracked when he said the word wife. “Soon to be ex-wife,” he added. “You’ve probably already heard; she left with my kids. Left me for an associate of mine down in Portland. But, I’m going to get them back,” he said.

  Something like a projector seemed to click on behind his eyes. She wanted to ask him to continue what he was saying, but the tight, anguished expression that had overtaken his face made her think otherwise.

  “She wants full custody. Doesn’t want me to see them at all,” he continued. “She wants to hurt me. She made some accusations. The worst.”

  Her eyes grew wide; her heart creaked open.

  “I was a good father,” he added. “Doesn’t matter, I’m guilty until proven innocent.”

  She wished she could say just the right thing. “Not was a good father,” she corrected him. “Are a good father.”

  He laughed. “You correcting my grammar?” he asked dramatically.

  Her high made her bold. “Seriously, don’t make it past tense. You’ll see them again.”

  “I didn’t mean to bring the mood down like that,” he said, the snag in his voice betraying his emotion. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just told you that.”

  “I’m glad that you did.” It was true. The holidays were marching toward her, cruel and relentless. Her misery could use the company. The brokenness in her recognized the brokenness in him.

  He leaned back and cleared his throat. “The truth will come out, I know it will,” he said. “So, Vixen, have you ever been in love?”

  “Me?” she asked. “I think so, I’m not sure.”

  He chuckled. “That’s a big no. If you had been, you would know. I hate her,” he said. “I hate what she’s done to me. She makes me crazy, but I love her anyway.” He started messing around with the coke. Skim, skim, skim. Tap. Tap. “Don’t ever fall in love,” he told her. “You’ll never get yourself back.”

  She wanted to throw her arms around him and comfort him, yet his intensity scared her. “I could help out, just until you find someone else,” she said. “Just for a few weeks.” The cocaine rushing through her made her fearless. “It could be like a little adventure,” she said.

  A slow smile spread across his face. “You’ll help me?”

  She nodded. Yes, of course. How could she refuse?

  He passed her the straw again and said, “I’ll watch out for you. You’ll see. I’ll be there for you.”

  His protectiveness soothed her. He thought she was worth his time and attention. She couldn’t shake what he had said about Matt. He hadn’t texted after all. He never even gave her his number. Maybe it was for the best. She admired her mother’s ring, and wondered.

  CHAPTER 19

  VIA

  “DO I NEED to handcuff you and drag your ass up here?” Whitney stood on stage with her hands on her hips. Handcuffs hung from the front belt loop of her blue short-shorts and matched the shiny “Officer Friendly” badge on her bikini top.

  “I can’t get up on stage, Whitney. There are customers over there. They’ll see me practicing.”

  Whitney shook her head. “Never let Carlos hear you say customer,” she said. “They’re clients, guests, or special friends.”

  Via didn’t care what they were called. She wished she could stumble her way through cowgirl dress rehearsal without them ogling her. She didn’t feel sexy, like that first night. The suede top was okay, but the matching skirt itched. The white boots were downright evil. Her crowded little piggies were slicing into their neighbors.

  Whitney came down the stairs and looked at her critically. “It’s not a great look,” she said. “It’s too long for you. Kaytlyn usually wears it. She rocks the cowgirl thing.”

  “She must have crazy-skinny feet,” Via said.

  “Okay, let’s just sit for a bit.” Whitney yelled to a curvy black girl who was walking by dressed as a super hero. “Hey, Syndi, can you please go grab her something else?” She looked back at Via. “That’s Super Sistah. She can dance circles around anybody in here.” Whitney reached back and ran her fingers through her long, dark hair, which now appeared to have dark blue highlights. “I have to be straight up with you. You may not be cut out for this.”

  Via felt like she was getting fired. Whitney’s expression was one of compassion. “Everyone thinks dancing is so easy,” she said. “But the shoes never fit, the hours suck balls, and it’s super embarrassing going to the bank and depositing hundreds of wrinkled one dollar bills. That’s just the R-rated stuff.”

  She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say, so she waited.

  “So, what’s your deal?” Whitney asked. “Word is you’re getting married. You’re wearing a ring. He cool with you working here? You trying to earn money for a big-ass wedding or something?”

  She looked down at her left hand. “This was my mother’s. I’m going to wear it, whether I get married or not.”

  “Don’t do it—and don’t get knocked up either.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-five,” she said. “Kaytlyn says I’m a reverse cougar, outside of this place, I act twice my age.” She stopped to wave to the incoming deejay. “Sad but true. Now, back to you. You can’t dance. Why are you here?”

  That was an excellent question. She wasn’t really sure anymore.

  “You know this place isn’t even about dancing, right?” Whitney asked. “It’s about the clock. You’ve got to hustle every minute. Every client is going to try to get as much from you as he can, as cheaply as he can. Our goal is to make them pay, then make them pay some more.”

  Super Sistah came up with some clothing in her hands.

  “Stand up.” Whitney leaned over, pulled the Velcro tab, and ripped the cowgirl skirt right off of her.

  Super Sistah attached the new skirt, which was teeny, black, and lined with a red satiny material. “I will say, Whit, she’s got a black girl’s booty,” she said, as though Via wasn’t even there.

  “The guys loved her the other night,” Whitney said. “Carlos wants her stage dancing for now. But she’s relying on club moves, no pole work, so I don’t know what we’re going to do with her.” She glanced over Via’s shoulder. “Hey, Kaytlyn.”

  Kaytlyn was there. Great.

  “Don’t you know you can take a pole dancing class anywhere?” Kaytlyn asked. “Think they even offer them at the Y now.” Her laugh was harsh, her glare abrasive.

  Via groaned. This was not fun anymore. Why was she here?

  “Syndi,” Ben yelled from the hallway. “Backstage, you’re up next.”

  “Good luck, girl,” Super Sistah said as she shook her head toward Kaytlyn. “Don’t sweat the haters. If you’ve got the vibe, you’ll figure out the rest later.”

  She appreciated the support, but still felt more confused than ever.

  And Whitney seemed to recognize it. “Kaytlyn, give us a minute?” She waited until they were alone. “Don’t mind her. She’s not that bad, just insecure. Anyway, let’s just do this another time. After closing one night this week. I won’t come in early. My afternoons are reserved for my daughter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And sorry, don’t mean to be bitchy,” Whitney added. “I’ve been cramming for midterms and haven’t had a chance to blow off any steam lately.” Her face brigh
tened. “Hey, that reminds me. Bella is spending the night at her friend’s house on Halloween. It’s a better trick-or-treating neighborhood. Want to go see Obliviot?”

  Via didn’t know what to think. She had been tormented by the flirty texts Matt had sent the past couple of days. She had read them over and over and couldn’t bear to erase them. Same with the voice mail; the sound of his voice made her quiver. But, she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d taken so long. Why had he left her waiting, wondering? While it killed her not to answer back, the thought of falling in love with him was beyond hopeless. Even if he wasn’t a player, he would want her to open up more to him. What would he think of her then? And Dan. She kept forgetting about Dan.

  It was cool Whitney wanted to go out, and it would be Halloween at a bar. Matt would be on stage, and probably wouldn’t even know she was there. She would be able to see if Obliviot was any good. She was so curious. And Halloween would be Day 51, the gloomy death day halfway point. Going out would be the perfect distraction.

  “Alright.” Excitement shot throughout her body while she tried to appear casual. “I’ll buy the drinks all night. I owe you, for all your help.”

  Whitney burst out laughing. “You’re on, except I never buy drinks,” she said. “And baby girl, you shouldn’t either.”

  ***

  NICK

  NICK STOOD at the podium, thoroughly frustrated by Matt’s persistence. “Fine, fine,” he said, peeking over into the main room. Rihanna was playing, or maybe Beyoncé. He had trouble keeping them straight. “She’s not even on stage. Whit’s putting her into something black; I don’t know—a mini goth skirt, maybe. Now, can I get back to work?” He couldn’t look at Whitney’s ass too long or he’d get distracted. He needed to get back to the stack of Red Bull invoices in his hands.

  Matt sat on the couch in the lobby, looking down, probably counting floor tiles. He was hunched over like a guy in a hospital waiting for his wife to have a baby. Not that Matt would be caught in a hospital—dead, sick, or otherwise.

  “Why don’t you just go back in and watch her? Leon and Ben are. I’ve got shit to do.”

  He was stressed. The inflated beverage sales numbers were crucial to their operations. He didn’t ask about the details, but it didn’t take an accounting degree to see that Hotties was some sort of shell. He had heard the term laundering thrown around, but Carlos said he was just maximizing interstate relationships. The three Portland clubs were bringing in a ton of money; they had gaming and no sales tax. There, with booze on-site, it was much easier to bilk horny men out of their money.

  Matt finished mumbling whatever he was mumbling before he answered. “Nah, I should just go.” If there were an Olympic event in mumbling, he’d take home the gold.

  The Skeeze seemed to have a narcissistic man crush on Matt since they’d started working for him back in the day. He was always saying how Mattais was like a younger version of himself. Nobody else saw the resemblance. The past few years, Obliviot had been getting bigger and better gigs, which seemed to annoy their boss. Neither Matt nor Nick wanted to be groomed to take on more responsibility.

  He remembered her first night, amateur night. She hadn’t worked the pole or the clients. Instead, she had spent much of her song dancing with her eyes closed, in her own sexy little world of Metallica.

  Later, when he’d tucked her into his bed, she had told him about dancing under the pretty lights. She had wanted him to stay and snuggle; her hair had smelled like an orange smoothie. But, she was into his best friend, so he would keep all of that to himself.

  “She’s blowing me off,” Matt offered, out of the blue. “But I asked Whit to bring her to the Halloween show.”

  “Right on,” he said. “Get her there, work your magic. You’ll want to get in some extra practice time. You know, rehearsing? That thing you used to do?”

  Matt didn’t say a word to defend himself. Had he even been listening?

  Nick gave his full attention to his pathetic friend. “You botched it, huh. You fumbled already? What, wasn’t she any good?” He had to ask.

  Without looking up he just replied, “A-fucking-mazing.”

  “Nice,” he managed to say, but his congratulations were halfhearted. “How long did you wait to text?” Nick would have called her right away because she seemed sensitive, a delicate flower in need of reassurance. He knew the type and tried to avoid them—way too much work.

  “’Til day five,” Matt admitted.

  “Ouch, dude,” he said. “Flag on the play, half the distance to the goal.” Now he felt bad for his no-game friend. “She’s gonna make you work to regain that yardage.”

  “I didn’t want to seem whipped,” Matt added. “Got nothing back so I called and left a message yesterday. Still, nothing, so it’s been a whole week now.”

  Harsh. Nick shook his head. Ignoring a guy was the worst thing a woman could do. When girls left snarky messages or cryptic texts it at least showed they cared enough to be pissed. No contact was the ultimate head trip.

  “I think it’s ‘cause we shared some heavy shit that day. Maybe too heavy, too fast.” He rubbed his temples like he had a headache. “And fuck, she’s engaged.”

  “Really, professor?” He couldn’t resist serving his friend a generous helping of I-told-you-so stew. “It’s a shame nobody warned you.” He felt a disturbance in the force and looked back toward the main room. “Hey, Kandy is on her way over.”

  “Gotta bolt,” Matt said, and was gone.

  She walked in from the main room looking like she smelled something funky.

  “That girl is such a bitch,” she said. “Thinking she can work my look.” She tried to lean against the podium, but he shooed her away. “Kandy Cane, I’m trying to do math here.”

  “So?” she asked.

  He obliged her. “Your Nipples the Nurse costume is distracting me and you know it.” She lit up, victorious, and strutted over to sit where Matt had been just a moment before.

  Kaytlyn was lava hot, but strained his patience. He tolerated her because he worked with her. He had pulled plenty of guys off of her in the past. Guys who didn’t understand that the stripper is always right. Nick would throw down for all his girls, anytime. No questions asked.

  He was just getting back to his fuzzy math when The Skeeze joined them, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out into the main room. “Damn, I’m liking her,” he said.

  “Seriously?” Kaytlyn asked, her voice creaking. “Did you say Whit could put her in my cowgirl shit?“

  “Don’t worry about it,” Carlos said.

  “And she says she won’t couch dance at all. Why did you even hire her?”

  “Are you really so stupid?” he asked. “Don’t you see how her dancing without working the floor would mean more money for you?”

  Nick looked down and shuffled invoices. He wished the podium would gobble him up so he wouldn’t have to listen to Carlos berate her. Still, his boss made an excellent point. It’s exactly what Sonia used to do. She got the clients rock hard and ready to spend while the other girls swooped into the crowd and mingled. The girls had always complained about having to leave the floor for their scheduled stage dances.

  “Now shush and go make me more money,” Carlos told her. Nick saw him slap her ass as she went by. She just smiled. Nick had to look away, back into the main room, where Via and Whitney sat talking.

  Carlos looked in too, past Kaytlyn. “Yeah, I’m liking the new one. Girl next door, but dirty.”

  Nick kept his mouth shut, but couldn’t be blind to the situation developing. It was good to know Carlos wanted to keep Via top shelf for now, away from the grubby hands of the clients. Matt would love hearing that.

  But what if The Skeeze had other plans for her?

  CHAPTER 20

  VIA

  VIA HATED BEING late, but she had missed the eight-ten p.m. ferry from Vashon and parking in the Capital Hill neighborhood on Halloween was nuts. Whitney texted to let her know she w
ould be waiting outside Chop Suey, so she wouldn’t have to walk in alone. She turned the corner and was caught off guard by the costumed crowd waiting to get in.

  Whitney waved her over from the front of the line. “Argh!” she bellowed, loud and cocky.

  God, she loved Whitney. “Vikings don’t say that,” she teased. “That’s a pirate thing.”

  She was the tannest, hottest Viking Via had ever seen. Caplet sleeves hung from her tight leather bra, which matched her short suede skirt. Her thigh-high brown high-heeled boots made her legs look like they went all the way up to her neck. She wore a horned Viking helmet with a built-in braided blonde wig. At the moment, the costume was accessorized with an oversized look of disappointment.

  “What are you supposed to be?”

  “You don’t like it?” Via spun around in her Little Red Riding Hood costume. The cape was thin satin and hit her mid-thigh. Underneath, she wore a white top and a fairly short black skirt with five-inch blackpatent-leather heels. She had just blown out her hair like always because wigs were itchy, and she had the hood. She was hoping the night would involve hours of dancing and she didn’t want to get too hot.

  “We’re getting you into the ladies’ room ASAP,” Whitney said, while she pulled her by the basket over to the bouncer checking ID. The podium was much like the one at Hotties, except it was black, grimy and plastered with upcoming event posters. He looked up, saw them, and smiled.

  “Hi, handsome,” Whitney told him. “Sorry, you have to work tonight. No fun.”

  “Nice of you to say,” he said, leaning in. “I’m Max, off at two.” He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of Whitney’s thighs.

  “We’re on the list. Whitney Hunter and Via—” She looked over. “What’s your last name?”

  “Sorenson,” she said. Not even her driver’s license said Rabbotino.

  The bouncer scanned his list and read aloud, “Whitney Hunter.” He scanned the second page. “No Via Sorenson.”