by Arthurs, Nia
“Hi, sweetie.” I wrapped my arms around Manuel’s waist and rested my head on the back of his neck.
“Hi,” he rumbled and turned around. When he saw the jean coat I wore over my outfit, Manuel’s face turned stormy. “Why are you still wearing that?” With little warning, he tore the jacket from my body and then grinned when he saw my black costume and bare skin. “That’s better.” He slapped me on the bum. “You’ll need to work harder tonight. Essence isn’t answering any of my phone calls and I don’t know when she’ll be in, so I’ve lost one of my top girls.”
“Hey,” I hissed, “I told you to stop doing that. I’m not any other girl here, Manuel.”
“Sorry, baby.” He ran his palms down my arms, “I just can’t help it. When I’m around you… I can’t,” he kissed me, “keep my hands to myself.”
His attention usually soothed me. His touch often turned me on. But tonight it didn’t. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity of the new location or the threat of potentially losing my head because of a roaming serial killer. Whatever the reason, Manuel’s words didn’t melt me the way they usually did. I caught a glimpse of the intentions behind his flattery. I saw a glimpse of the man that love and great chemistry had blinded me to.
He wasn’t the man that I thought he was. Or maybe he had always been the same and I was the one suddenly cured of my blindness. Manuel’s hands were feeling up my backside. I slapped his roving arms away, angry that he wasn’t the guy I’d convinced myself that I loved.
“I have to get to work.” I snapped and strutted away.
As I walked, I could feel the attention of the customers. Their eyes slipped over my face for a split second before they devoured the breasts on full display in my tight top. Their eyes flickered down to the smooth skin of my waist, the curve of my hip, the swell of my behind exposed in the leather underwear. They didn’t need to do anything but watch because that’s what I offered. That was my legacy.
The thought was no longer appealing.
Chapter 9
I neared the pole, brilliantly silver in the dim glow of the firehouse. I had no idea how Manuel had gotten it so, but a large, circular podium with a silver beam stood only a couple feet away from the authentic fire station rod that connected the second floor to the first. If I made a wrong turn, I’d fly right down to the first floor in an unflattering heap.
Inhaling a deep breath, I slowly wrapped my hand around the beam, testing it for strength. Now more than ever, the podium needed to be bolted properly to the floor or it would tip. As I got acclimated to the feel and width of the shaft, I felt the shifting in the air.
Men drew around me like flies, drawn by the promise of something sweet. I paid them no mind and took my time, simply walking around the pole, taking in the size of the base that I had to work with. I tuned out the low rumblings of male voices and the stares of appreciation with little difficulty though it had not always been so.
During my first few gigs at Mickey’s, I’d been especially shy. My grandmother had taught me right from wrong, moral from immoral. Modesty and purity until marriage were philosophies instilled in me from a young age. After losing my grandmother, nearly getting kicked out of school, and bouncing from one minimum wage job to the next, however, the easy money that dancing promised lured me to drop my morals and my pants.
I didn’t start out on the pole. April and I had worked the stage as strippers. The first night, I kept pulling my skirt down, covering my chest, and – to the amusement of the customers – taking off the least bit of clothes as possible. I got laughed off the stage and was about ready to give up on the business. It was then that Manuel took me aside, showed me how pleasing a woman could be. Showed me how much power she could have when she took off her clothes.
He made me feel strong, empowered. In control. For the first time since the death of my parents and my grandmother, since struggling to earn my degree and toiling to pay off the debts my family had left, I wasn’t the plaything that Fate screwed over. Manuel taught me the art of seduction. He encouraged me to embrace my sexuality and there was freedom in that.
I fell in love with him as our lessons moved from the pole to the bedroom and vowed to never leave his side. That meant dedicating my life to being a Mickey Girl. It was not an easy road. The judgments, the hard stares, the taunting names had hurt at first. Soon my heart hardened to the catcalls, the crude language, and the guilt.
Guilt that my parents would be disappointed if they could see me now. I kept reminding myself that it was my choice. That this was what I wanted to do because it felt good. It was thrilling to rake in crazy amounts of money for a few hours on the podium. I could become the fantasy that women wished they could be. I was queen of the night. This pole – I drew my hands down the surface – was my scepter. This podium, my throne.
I tilted my head toward the speakers, feeling the beat of the dancehall song. Slowly, I wrapped my legs around the rod and began my routine, closing my eyes and allowing the beat to choreograph my movements.
Pole dancing took skill and strength. Mickey Girls had high dosages of both, though not all of us rocked a podium. Girls like April had danced on stage in choreographed routines. It was a tad more… exposing than a burlesque dance where the entertainers had most of their clothes on by the end of the numbers.
“Watch it!”
“Hey!”
Loud protests disturbed my concentration. I slipped a few inches off the pole and teetered to the edge, directly beside the large cutout that led to the main floor. Before I could catch my step, I was hauled forward completely off the circular stage. Large hands clutched me to a rock hard chest. A guttural growl escaped from thin lips.
“I told you not to come out here,” Carlos grumbled before whirling around and charging through the throng of groaning men.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” A short, thick man protested, keeping step with us as Carlos carted me away. My human King Kong ignored the customer and parted the crowd like a linebacker streaking toward the goal post.
“What are you doing, man?” Another patron in a business suit with a ruffled tie barred our way.
The pulsing dancehall music underlined the irritation in his voice. Even I shivered at the blatant expression of authority. The scowl on Carlos’s handsome face said that he too had heard the tone and didn’t appreciate it. Without missing a step, Carlos pushed past the disgruntled customer.
He held me close, refusing to put me down until we’d cleared the dancing area and neared the bar. Carlos set me to my feet. I stared at him in confusion. I was about to put him to task for his barbarian display when a hand came flying out of nowhere.
“What the hell, man?” Manuel charged Carlos, grabbing him by the collar. Carlos Fuentes was far from a small guy, but Manuel had a temper. If it came down to a fight, the club owner would undoubtedly lose, but not before getting in a few punches.
“You put her in danger,” Carlos glared at Manuel with dark eyes. “You put them all in danger.”
“What are you talking about?” Manuel spit. He tightened his grip, his eyes darting back and forth. Carlos’s restrained anger and his cryptic words threw Manuel off his game.
I stepped forward, my eyes locked on Carlos. “Who?”
Manuel slowly released the bartender. Carlos straightened his now wrinkled shirt. In a resigned voice, he replied. “Essence.”
They’d found her!
Stoker had to admit, the sight was a bit gruesome. He’d gone to special lengths to ensure the girl’s pristine face was as clean and sweet as possible. He imagined the little girls that would hear about this story on the news and felt a surge of pride.
He’d done his best to capture the heart of his crusade with that one action.
Essence Griar. She was tsea, soiled. No one that thought of her would see her as anything but. It was fitting. It was right.
Chapter 10
I grasped a hot cup in my palms and stared at the cream walls. My knees bounced up and down and the tea in the glass
sloshed dangerously close to the edge. A drop of the steaming hot liquid splattered onto my wrists. I didn’t even feel it.
“Jade,” a deep voice rumbled. I saw Carlos’s shadow as he crossed into his large living room and sat beside me. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t okay. I wouldn’t ever be okay. Not after what I’d seen tonight. I closed my eyes but the pictures in the darkness were creepily vibrant, as if they were tattooed on the back of my eyelids.
Carlos folded his large arms together and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Do the clothes fit?”
I glanced down at the borrowed T-shirt that fell to my thighs. The soft material was a strange combination with the fishnet stockings but the last thing on my mind right now was fashion. I simply nodded and took a sip of the tea.
Carlos sighed and shifted uncomfortably. “I’m very sorry, Jade.”
I swallowed, continuing to stare at the cream walls as I replied. “I didn’t know her like that,” I sighed. “I honestly didn’t like her.” I thought of all the times Essence had tried to move in on Manuel. There were days when I wished she’d leave Mickey’s and never come back.
But I hadn’t meant for her to go like this.
“He got the media’s attention at least.” I spoke quietly.
Carlos nodded. “Shoving someone’s head on a stick can do that.”
“It could have been any one of us,” I whispered, shivering in fright at the thought. “She was in her costume for tonight. She was coming to work and he took her…” I inhaled sharply, “he killed her and put her head in front of the pop-up club.”
Carlos drew closer and rubbed circles on my back. “It wasn’t you. It won’t be you, Jade. You don’t have to be afraid.”
I turned to him with tears in my eyes. “Why? Why are you helping me?”
He firmed his lips. “Because you’ll be safer here with me. If there’s even a slight chance he knows where you live, what your routine is… I don’t want you to get hurt.”
There were those words again. “You didn’t answer the question.” I pointed out. “Why me? There are other Mickey Girls who need protecting.”
He stood and paced to the other side of the room. I followed him, “What aren’t you telling me?”
His jaw working, Carlos stared at the ground.
“Carlos,” I insisted. “How do you know so much about this case, about this guy? Why did you choose me?”
“You remind me of someone,” he offered hesitantly. “My sister.”
I stepped back in shock. As far as I knew, I had been an only child. “What?”
“When I was studying in America,” he turned away and faced the television set. I saw his hands curling into fists, “she got involved with a bad group of friends. Started running away from home, doing drugs, selling her body to afford another hit.” His voice cracked. “My parents and I … we didn’t do anything to help her. She had always been headstrong so I thought it was just a phase. I let her run around, live life in the fast lane because I thought that was what she wanted. I knew if I argued with her, she’d just dig her feet in deeper.”
Carlos punched the wall in a sudden burst of anger and I jumped.
“I should have come home. I should have rescued her.” He mumbled, locked away in his grief.
His pain was palpable and I could no more keep myself from offering comfort as I could forget the gory events of this night. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.” I put the tea cup on the coffee table and extended my hand to touch his shoulder. He let me, slowly collecting himself and taking deep breaths.
Finally, when he held a better grasp on his composure, Carlos loosened his fisted fingers. “She was one of the girls The Executioner murdered in the Cayo District. He removed her head and left her naked body in a garbage bin. She was my sister. Her name was Heather.”
I gasped, “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded and turned around, placing his large hand over mine. “You remind me of her. You’re both crazy stubborn and tender-hearted.” He pressed a palm to my cheek. “And so broken.”
I frowned at the term. “I’m not broken.”
“We’re all broken, Jade.” He said, his dark eyes intent on my face. “We’re all just hurting in different ways.”
“I’m not.” I stepped away from him, irritated that he thought I was someone to be pitied. I sympathized with Carlos’s story, but unlike his sister, I was not a druggie or a prostitute. There were no fractures in me. I was completely and totally fine.
He studied my face. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” I said quickly and then played with the loose curls falling over my shoulder. “Is your sister the reason you know so much about this guy?”
For a minute, I thought he’d continue to exhort my brokenness but he surprised me by answering the question. “Yes. I was supposed to graduate the week she died. I flew home to attend her funeral instead.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “Her death messed up my parents. Messed me up. I’ve been following as much of the case as I can. An old colleague of mine works in the police department. He gives me information in exchange for …” His voice petered off.
Understanding dawned. “In exchange for money.” I stared at his guilt stamped face. “You give him money. That’s why you work at the club on top of your day job.”
He shrugged. “Teaching can barely keep the lights on, much less pay for classified information.”
“Wow,” I blinked. “Just wow. But how did you know he’d target Mickey’s?”
Carlos shook his head. “I didn’t. I want to catch this guy as much as anyone but even with all the information I’ve gathered, I can’t seem to get a read on his patterns.”
I stepped back. “What do you plan to do if you get your wish?”
Carlos replied with not a lick of hesitation. “I’m gonna kill him.”
Chapter 11
I woke up the next morning to the bright strains of sunlight shifting through the windows. My back arched as I stretched and enjoyed the cushiony softness of the mattress beneath me. A big yawn cracked my jaw. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the elements of my bedroom – sky blue walls, brown mahogany dresser, full length mirror.
Instead, I saw two, large French doors opening up to a balcony. Hardwood floors covered the ground. A large dresser, a wooden ceiling fan, and a large closet were unfamiliar elements in an unfamiliar room. Where was I? For a minute I panicked, imagining that the Executioner had truly taken me as he had in my dreams last night.
I pushed off the mattress quickly, my long hair trailing my back as I did so. It wasn’t until I caught the scent of bacon in the air that I recalled my current location. Carlos had pulled me to his car last night and insisted I stay at his place. We’d talked well into the night, moving from the heavy topic of the serial killer and his sister’s death to our families, our experiences and our dreams.
Despite his gruff exterior, Carlos was surprisingly funny. I imagined all the female teachers and students at his school swooning when he walked by. The Bartender Carlos – the one that worked at the club, carried himself with a manner that said ‘back off’ – but beneath the roughness of his large frame beat a teddy bear. I wondered why it had taken me so long to see it.
After washing my face and gurgling some water in my mouth to offset my morning breath, I padded to the kitchen downstairs. The house was quite large and tastefully decorated. I felt almost guilty for even being in here, especially understanding Heather’s struggles.
Carlos’s parents had migrated to the States after their daughter passed and had given their son the two-story dwelling by the sea. I’d had no idea that Carlos’s family was so well-off until he’d spoken of his father’s businesses last night. It made me wonder why he’d chosen a career like teaching.
“Hey,” The object of my thoughts greeted.
“Hi,” I smiled shyly. It was strange. I could dance in front of hundreds of strangers. I could ta
ke my clothes off and climb a pole to fulfill the fantasies of men, but standing here, with most of my makeup gone and in a plain white T-shirt, I felt more exposed than I’d ever been.
“Sleep well?” Carlos inquired.
I shrugged. It was a miracle that I’d managed to sleep at all. Severed heads staked on sticks was enough to fuel my nightmares for a while.
Carlos set a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table. Sheepishly, he pointed to it, his bronzed cheeks growing a little red as he infused indifference into his tone. “I’m not a very good cook, but I made breakfast. In case you were hungry.”
“Thank you,” I smiled. I was genuinely touched. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cooked breakfast for me. When I slept over at Manuel’s, I was usually in charge of getting my own breakfast.
“It’s nothing,” he rubbed the back of his neck. I watched the muscles in his forearms bulge for a minute before averting my eyes.
Carlos was excruciatingly handsome. He was protective, kind and – I bit into the eggs – a great cook. And he’d done it all for me. Was it possible? Did this normally stoic, grim, teacher-turned-bartender like me?
“Do you mind if I eat with you?” He inquired, dishing out another plate.
“No, not at all.” I replied as he set his own plate beside me on the island and took a seat on the barstool.
“What are your plans for today?” Carlos asked as he dipped his fork into the serving.
“I have group work this afternoon and then I’ll probably head home to catch up on my cleaning.”
He frowned. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“It’s Sunday. I have commitments.”
“That guy’s still out there.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” I rubbed the wrinkles forming in my forehead. “But I can’t put my life on hold because of fear.”
“I’ll come with you then.”