A lot of burlesque is in illusion. Dark eye makeup and fake eyelashes make your eyes look bigger, mimicking the pupil dilation of arousal. Blush mimics the blood in your face. And lipstick mimics – well. There are any number of reasons you want your mouth to look good. Despite the illusion, though, there was something sincere about it. I’m a woman, I have a body, and there’s nothing shameful about this moment of sharing it with you.
I started to meld with Tom Waits’s gritty voice and strange vignettes. I tossed the jacket and pulled my shirt off slowly while I spun in place. It took me a long time to learn how to spin in heels, and I could keep it going for forty seconds without drifting, so I did.
I turned so I was in profile, standing with my ankles about two feet apart. Knees straight, I slid my hands down to my ankles. Then I abruptly bent my knees to a ninety degree angle, rested my elbows on my thighs, and bounced my hips to the drums. I always thought that move looked really down and dirty from the side, and the audience agreed, cheering until they almost drowned out the sparse vocals.
It was happening. I was immersed in the music, the audience was engaged, and the chatter, which my dad would call “illusion of self,” started to subside. The quiet burgeoned in my mind, a tiny warm glow gathering its energy.
I grinned out at the audience, and I noticed someone in the fourth row wasn’t moving or clapping. He was leaning forward, chin in hand, studying me intently.
Max.
The glow fizzled. Oh God a client and he’s seeing me onstage and this is Oh GOD—
Sometimes things went wrong on stage. Sometimes a strap would snap, a pasty would come off, a heel would catch in an uneven stage. That’s part of why I practiced for an hour a day. My fingertips went cold and numb, and I thought my heart would explode, but I kept going. Wicked grin still on my face, butt still bouncing to the music, I let muscle memory carry me through the song.
I avoided looking at Max as I hooked my thumbs through the top of the slip. I moved my hips in a tiny circle while rotating in a full circle. I slid the slip down my legs and stepped out of it, revealing the rhinestone-studded black G-string underneath. I slipped my bra strap down my shoulder, then put my fingertips to my ear as if listening, batting my eyelashes. The cheers swelled even louder.
I turned my back to them, unhooked the bra, then shimmied my hips while twirling the bra around over my head. I could barely hear the song end, but I released the bra and turned so they could see me as the last drumbeat hits, arms in a Fabulous Burly-que pose with wrists bent and palms flat, fingertips out, my right heel pulled in behind my left, giving me the look of a martini glass. The silver pasties glittered in the lights. The audience hooted and cheered while Max applauded politely. I winked at them, blew a kiss, and strutted off stage.
I learned one of my most valuable lessons in stage presence from Madame Onça. “If you’re not going to steward your vision all the way through to the end,” she said, “why are you making anyone watch you in the first place?” You hold the character, not just as long as the song lasts, but for as long as the audience can see you. That means when the lights are down, when the song is over, when you’re entering and exiting. It would be a total betrayal of the saucy vision I created for the audience if I scurried offstage like a bashful teenager, so I sunk my teeth into that character and held it fast until I disappeared behind the curtain.
I made it to the wall before my knees buckled. I sat down and breathed deeply, head to my knees, back against the wall.
Oh Jesus he’ll never be able to take me seriously and I can’t help him now and he trusted me and I wanted that quiet, wanted it so bad and almost had it, and he could complain to Jeff and Jeff is such a great boss he’ll be so disappointed and I didn’t get the quiet and is necrophilia treatable and if he wants me dead now and how will this compromise the boundaries and I want to leave and—
The currents of the chatter drowned out the audience, drowned out Grant’s voice, drowned me in waves of panic and chaos.
CHAPTER THREE
I wanted desperately to pack my things and sneak out, but I knew Tish would bite my head off if I weren’t supportive of my fellow artists. I headed back to the dressing room and pulled my robe on.
Frenchie ran in with my clothes in her hands. “D’you think they liked it?” she teased. “They were going crazy!”
“Thank you,” I said, accepting my discarded costume. She trotted off to be ready for the end of Ronnie’s number.
I had a wild impulse to just throw everything in my bag, but I forced myself to smooth my clothes out, packing them quickly but carefully. I put my heels in their open-weave bag and into my rolling bag, then unhooked my stockings from the garters and checked them for runs. I rolled them loosely, placed them in plastic baggies, and set them in their compartment. Then I removed the garter belt and put it in its own baggie. I took off my earrings and necklace and put them in my jewelry bag. I removed the pasties, set them in their container, and rubbed the excess adhesive off with my fingertips. It had a texture like more-aggressive rubber cement. I left the false eyelashes on, because removing them would leave a flesh-colored stripe between my natural lashes and the heavy eyeshadow. That’s never sexy. I pulled a soft teal knit dress from my hanging bag and wiggled it down over my head. I did a last-minute sweep of the makeup table to make sure I hadn’t left anything, zipped my bags, and headed for the theater.
The hallway to the dressing room led to stairs that would take me to the wings of the theater in one direction; in the other, I could head to the theater’s offices, or down another flight of stairs into the sound booth at the back of the house. It was dark, and probably stupid in heels, but I liked the feeling of a secret passage. I tiptoed into the booth as Ronnie took her bow.
Normally, I’d be sorry to miss Ronnie, who performed under the name Gin Fizzy. Ronnie was short for the Pharisee name Roshan; she told me once that she had a Chinese father and Persian mother. She had a winsome smile, thick dark hair, and brown eyes that you could see from Wisconsin. I loved her irreverent, campy style.
That night, though, I was just glad to be one piece closer to the end.
I huddled in a seat in the back row, applauding woodenly. I kept looking towards where I had seen Max. If sex and death were a stubborn snarl in his mind, what was he thinking? I don’t want to hurt anyone. What if he tried talking to one of the dancers in the lobby? What if he asked her out? He was an attractive guy; any one of the single girls might say yes. I couldn’t say anything to breach confidentiality.
Monica took the stage, a red silk veil wrapped around her. She had picked one of the classical Middle Eastern pieces she loved. She began to spin and opened the veil, which swirled around her in a silken cloud. Her sparkly gold costume caught the light, accentuating her chest and hips. It was hard not to love Monica’s dances, because she obviously had a great time and an infectious way of projecting that good mood to us. I cheered in the right places, but I didn’t actually absorb any of it, even though some part of my brain registered the barrel turns and veil tricks and complex layering. What if it bothered him? What if he told Jeff? What if he asked Jeff for a new therapist, and Jeff asked why? My body was weightless, my head wreathed in flames. Dammit. I could handle this if I’d had the quiet. I wanted a glass of wine and a plate of cheese fries. I wanted enough dark chocolate to make me sick. I wanted to muffle the panic under layers of food like layers of sediment covering the white-hot core of the earth.
Lisa followed with a routine involving the white shirt I’d noticed earlier; black tearaway pants; a black rhinestone, bowtie-style necklace; and the clever use of a fedora. Then Tish closed the show with one of her famous fan dances: huge Sally-Rand style pink fans concealing and revealing her milky curves.
Finally, the lights came up. I dashed through the sound booth and dark passage to retrieve my things. A few girls said something to me and I answered automatically, hugging them and congratulating them on great performances. I struggled to get situated so
the hanging bag didn’t catch my suitcase’s wheels, then headed out through the sound booth passage again.
Grant looked up from the sound board when I came in. “Great job tonight,” he said, with a grin that normally would have made me collapse.
“Thanks,” I said absently and headed to the lobby. It was the last place I wanted to go, but I would get an earful from Tish if I didn’t make an appearance and thank her for the opportunity to perform.
Audience members clustered around the speakeasy. Adam waved to me from behind the bar. I gave him a furtive nod and continued towards the door, scanning the crowd for Max. I didn’t see him, but Tish noticed me and beamed, waving me over. Crap. I headed dutifully to her side to thank her for including me in her show. She wore a white satin robe with white marabou trim, and little sandals with a puff of white marabou on top of each foot.
“And this is my single friend Velvet,” she said to the guy in front of her.
No, you fucking didn’t, I fumed.
“Velvet, this is Kevin,” she said. Using another dancer’s burlesque name at shows was important for two reasons. First, it sustains the glamorous illusion. Second, there is a safety issue. Stalking is rare, but it does happen, so we protect each other by not giving out real names.
Unfortunately, Tish had no code against throwing single troupe members at innocent bystanders.
He was cute; not entirely my type, but cute in a young Daniel Ash way. He was tall with tangled, almost white-blonde hair. I could tell he bleached his hair, even though there were no roots, because his expressive eyes were dark brown. His eyebrows were also brown, and just close enough to perfect arches that I could tell they were natural. Guys who look like Ken Dolls freak me out. The pale skin and high cheekbones of his diamond-shaped face gave him an almost unearthly appearance. “Hi,” he said. “What are you drinking?”
“Um,” I stammered as Tish winked at me and disappeared. “I’m rather dying of embarrassment, actually.”
“And I’m trying to change the subject,” he said. “What are you drinking?”
“Nothing, actually,” I said. “I’m driving.”
“I liked your song,” he said. “You made it look effortless.”
“Thank you,” I said. I scanned the crowd for Max as I set my rolling bag down and my hanging bag over it. I didn’t see him in the lobby, but he could be in the bathroom. I stood strategically so I could see the room past Kevin’s shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t think I was horribly rude. “Are you a friend of Lola’s?”
“I’ve known her for a few years,” he said. “I’ve never seen one of her shows before now though. Do you dance for a living?”
“I have a day job,” I said. “Do you—”
“You were wonderful!” a female voice gushed. A woman with graying brown hair descended on me, a bored-looking guy in khakis and a bomber jacket in tow. She was probably in her mid-forties, in tailored clothing and hideous, fuchsia lipstick. She grabbed my hands and squeezed them, several gaudy rings digging into my flesh. “I mean, I was impressed with everyone, but you were my favorite! I’m Lynne, this is Dan.”
“Hello,” he said, shaking my hand politely after she released it. “You were very good.”
Damned with faint praise. Awesome. “Thanks,” I said. “Um, this is Kevin.”
“So how do you do that?” she asked. “How do you learn to move that way? Is there a place to sign up? How do you decide who performs?”
“Um,” I said again. Way to impress Kevin with my banter and intelligence. “I go to La La.”
She gave me a blank look.
“StudiOh La La,” I explained. “Lola’s school.” Tish ran the city’s most successful burlesque studio. It was where I took my first steps as a dancer, and where I fell in love with the art form.
“Do you teach?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“Would you?” she asked. “I enjoyed them all so much, but I want to do it like you do. How did you get started?”
“I—” I paused rather helplessly. “I’m sorry, which question do you want me to answer first?”
She laughed. Her husband stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around. His eyes fell on Kevin. “Did you see the Cubs game?”
“I didn’t,” Kevin answered politely. “You?”
“How did you get started?” Lynne asked again.
“Through bellydance,” I said. “I was going to a bellydance school, and they had burlesque, and—”
“Bellydance,” she squealed, and I stopped myself from wincing. Any bats within a mile radius probably careened into walls. “Oh, how fun. Do you have a card? I want to take lessons from you. I’ll pay. You can teach, right?”
I hesitated. I certainly did have cards… from my day job. “I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.
She fished in her purse for a pen and handed it to me. I grabbed a mostly-dry cocktail napkin off the nearest table and scrawled my burlesque website address on it. “Here,” I said. “You can drop me a line any time.”
“I will,” she said, holding the napkin to her heart. “Oh, Dan, wouldn’t that be fun, if I took burlesque lessons?” She squeezed his arm.
“You’d be wonderful,” he said and kissed the top of her head.
Would I ever look at anyone the way she looked at him? Not just the fondness and desire, but the comfort and certainty? I felt a sharp pang in my stomach as I remembered my own face during that last year with Josh; I’m certain I always had a desperate quality when I searched his face for cues. I had a blissful few months of the same radiance I saw in Lynne before—
No point in that, I reminded myself firmly as Lynne waved at me and they wandered off. Of course the first time I met an eligible guy, it was awkward as hell before I had a chance to make a good impression.
“It was nice meeting you,” I told Kevin, sticking out my hand.
“Nice meeting you too,” he said, taking it. He had a nice handshake; his long fingers swallowed mine without crushing them.
I escaped through the front doors and breathed deeply, the crisp autumn air filling my lungs. I headed around the back, the sound of my suitcase wheels on cement filling the open space. As I got to my car, I reached into my overcoat pocket for my keys, but they weren’t there, so I lifted my arm to check my purse… which I had left on a chair in the dressing room.
I swore and turned back to the building, plastic wheels of the suitcase continuing their low grade rattle over the asphalt. I must have had a particularly black look on my face, because Grant was visibly taken aback when I almost bowled him over at the edge of the lot.
“Hey,” he said, catching me when I stumbled. His hair was always adorably disheveled after he changed back into his street clothes, wisps from the ponytail falling into his dark eyes. “Where’s the fire?”
“I forgot my damn purse,” I said. “I was just heading backstage to get it.”
“Let me get these for you then,” he said, taking my hanging bag and suitcase from me. He slung the hanging bag over the shoulder with his beat-up, grey duffle bag on it. I protested, and he said, “Really, it’s no trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we headed back towards the building.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I didn’t want to get into the whole thing about Max. “Nothing,” I said. “Just tired. And Tish introduced me to someone as her single friend. I could’ve killed her.”
“Awkward,” he said. “Did he hit on you?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
He laughed. “Don’t you study human behavior for a living?”
“There’s a reason people need an objective listener,” I said. “I suck at clinical detachment with my own life.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” he said. He opened the back door and held it for me. “I’ll make it easy for you. If a guy is not gay, he’s attracted to you.”
My pulse sped up a little. I wanted a glass of wine and a pint of ice cream. “Some guys are happi
ly married,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” he agreed, looking at me out the corner of his eye. “And if they have manners, they won’t actually hit on you. But they’ll notice you.”
He set our bags in the wings near the staircase and walked upstairs to the dressing room. As we neared the door, I drew in a breath to ask him point-blank, And you? Because even though I wasn’t ready, the tension was killing me. And he was nice. Wasn’t nice good? Maybe meeting Kevin proved that the circumstances are never just right.
But the show.
I don’t date colleagues. He could play piano well, and my God, could he sing. Maybe we could be one of those power couples like Franky Vivid and Michelle L’Amour. I thought again of the bliss and ease on Lynne’s face. The way she held her husband’s arm and snuggled in to his side made loneliness blossom in my chest like some kind of metastatic nightshade.
As bad as that loneliness felt, it was worse when I lay in bed with Josh’s arm encircling my waist, watching the red numbers on my clock mark the steady progression of my anguish. I was afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, as if any motion would tip the fragile balance into more tears and accusations. Why are you holding me after what you said? What does this mean?
I couldn’t do it again.
Grant opened the door and reached in for the light switch. I looked away from him as light flooded the room, and the breath I’d drawn in left me in a rush when I saw Lisa crumpled on the floor. I ran to her side and listened for her breath, but I couldn’t hear, and then heard my own voice calling, “Lisa? Lisa?”
The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Page 4