by Black, T. E.
She looks up at me through her black-rimmed hipster glasses I know she doesn’t need. But I’ll be damned if they don’t make her look hotter than the devil himself.
Her face goes from soft to hard as she breaks eye contact with me.
She lets out a deep breath while I continue to watch her.
“What do you want, Trent?” she asks in a pissy tone.
I shrug my shoulders at her and my hands find their way into my pockets. I rock back and forth on my heels, contemplating what I should say.
“I just wanted to see the piece Gunner was working on. You mind showing me?”
Her eyes widen under her glasses and her lips seal in a hard, thin line. She stands up from her seat, making her way from behind the desk. The clicking of her heels on the tile floor embedding itself in my mind.
The moment she steps around the desk all the way, my eyes roam every inch of her body. Fuck. Her body is smoking. The way she looks with the words Etched stamped across her chest is almost painful. In some fucked-up way, I feel like she’s wearing a part of me. Hell, she is wearing a part of me. She’s wearing my shop’s name on her chest.
My gaze travels down to her black skinny jeans that look painted on, and I feel myself getting hard at the thought of how she looks naked. Last, but not least, my eyes stop on her red high heels that look painful as fuck for her, but are a total turn-on for me. She’s a fucking atomic bomb waiting to go off and blow my mind, body, and my soul to pieces.
Passing by me to sit on one of the couches in the waiting area, my eyes travel with her. I study every curve and indentation of her body through her clothes. I watch her while she takes a seat on the black leather couch, removing one heel and rolling the pant leg of her jeans up in slow motion. Well, at least, that’s what it looks like in my eyes. I study every inch of skin revealing itself while she continues to roll her pant leg up a little more.
She stops moving and looks up at me with nervous eyes. Her eyes are something I’ve never seen before. One is bright blue and the other is a hazel color. They’re fucking mesmerizing.
I snap out of my thoughts, walking closer until I’m standing in front of her. She gazes up at me through thick, black lashes, silently asking me what I’m doing. I surprise the fuck out of myself, and her, when I kneel down and take her tiny foot in my tattooed hand. She sucks in a sharp breath when I run my fingers over the ink displayed on her skin. I touch every inch I can, savoring the feeling while making sure to avoid touching the actual tattoo.
I take in the browns and yellows of the leopard print on her tanned skin, which stand out. Gunner does amazing work, but on her, it looks unreal.
“Do you like it?”
I look away from her foot, meeting her sparkling eyes.
“It looks amazing, Shay. It suits ya,” I tell her, meaning every word.
A small blush spreads across her cheeks, letting me know what I said affects her.
“When ya gonna let me ink your beautiful body, Shay?” I question.
Her face registers confusion before she gets pissed off. She uses her small hand to push me at the shoulder, making me fall backward, almost cracking my head on the fucking coffee table. I look up in shock, wondering what the fuck is wrong with her.
Before I can say anything, she grabs her heel, slips it back on, and leans down from the couch to shove her finger into my chest.
“You’re a fucking asshole, Trent! If you think you’re going to play games with me, then you’re wrong. You can take your little act and shove it right up your ass. Just remember I’m not one of your bimbos. I know the real you, and the real you sucks almost as much as your dick does.”
I’m so fucking lost in her words I almost don’t feel her high heel pressing into my cock. Motherfucker. This bitch is fucking crazy.
I look at her wide-eyed, choking back tears from having my balls crushed. She removes her heel, standing up, and stepping over me as if I’m garbage on the side of the road.
I watch her walk away, adding a little more swing in her hips, and that’s what I feel like. Fucking garbage.
Jason Derulo – “Talk Dirty Remix”
THANK GOD TRENT left after the mind fuck he laid on me. For a moment, I thought he was being genuine, but as soon as he asked to tattoo me, I knew it was a cruel joke.
The way he ran his fingers over my skin made me weak for a moment. It was one moment when I felt my heart thud a bit harder in my chest and my emotions come to life. When I stared into his eyes, I saw the man who made love to me the first night I met him. Yes, you heard me right. He made love to me. He didn’t fuck me hard and fast as I’d thought he would. He was gentle and slow when he got inside me. He whispered sweet things in my ear with every thrust of his hips. He kissed my mouth as if we were the last two people on earth. He was a different person that night. He wasn’t the asshole I’ve been dealing with for the past six months. I liked that man, but I don’t like who he is now.
I don’t know what changed in him, but a couple of days after we hooked up, he turned into an evil prick. He looked exhausted and was irritable all the time. He snapped at me for every little thing, and when I tried to talk to him about it, he told me I was just another whore he’d crossed off his list.
I don’t think he’s bad at heart. I think somewhere deep down there’s a heart in his chest and a conscience in his mind. For some unknown reason, he chooses to hide behind his arrogant, cocky persona instead of letting the real him shine through. Trent gives true meaning to the saying “A diamond in the rough.”
Gunner halts my train of thought when he lets me know it’s closing time. I should be happy for the day to be over, but my job is just beginning. My real job starts when the sky gets dark and the streets become empty.
No, I’m not a hooker.
I work at a private club in town called Bare. I don’t take my clothes off for money, but I also don’t wear what would be consider clothing. I’m a Go-Go dancer. I didn’t want to do it, believe me. Though, at the same time, I couldn’t turn down the money I’d make for dancing on a stage in a bra and a pair of underwear. Men throw money on the stage, at my feet, thinking I’ll take my clothes off for them. I’d never do that shit. I have self-respect despite what I do as a second job.
I need the money. I have a daughter to take care of and bills to pay. Abby’s dad is useless. He hasn’t paid child support in the past year. Therefore, it’s just me bringing home the paychecks. I try to make Abby’s life a good one. I enrolled her in dance classes a couple of months ago, and let me tell you, it isn’t cheap. Between her lessons, outfits, and recitals, I’m basically working at the club to pay for just that. The money I get from the tattoo shop is our living money. It’s enough to live off ... for now.
I STEP OUT of my car, looking up at the neon sign lighting up the dark parking lot. Marco, one of the bouncers for the club, walks toward me and greets me with a smile.
“Hey, sweetheart! How are you tonight?” he questions, pulling me in for a hug.
I smile at him, leaning into his hug.
“I’m good, big guy. I’m ready to get this night over with. Abby has to go to dance tomorrow, and I need sleep to deal with her bitch of a teacher.”
He pulls away, holding out his hand for me to take.
“Well, come on then. We’ll try to get you out of here early tonight, but I don’t know if it’s going to work out. There’s a bachelor party coming in an hour.”
I groan at his words. I hate bachelor parties. They get way too rowdy for me to deal with. The rule at the club is no touching unless the girl wants it, and I don’t want it. It doesn’t stop them from trying, though. I only work at the club a few nights a week. If I had to do it all the time, I’d scream. I work Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights. Thankfully, today is already Thursday, so I only have one more night of hell this week.
Opening the dressing room door, I see Monica doing her makeup in the full-length mirror. She turns to me with a huge smile on her face when she hears the do
or shut.
“We’re on together tonight! We’re gonna kill it! I thought since we get to choose our music, we should go for something sexy! I need the money tonight,” she carries on.
I plop myself down on the stool next to her. I couldn’t care less what song I freaking dance to. As long as the shift is over with quick and I make money, I’m good with it.
“Sounds good. You can pick the music,” I acquiesce as I rifle through my bag for my change of clothes.
MONICA AND I end up wearing matching outfits in opposite colors. Both are red and black, each item colored the opposite of the other. My gear consists of two bras, one over the other. The one underneath is lace and black, while red sequins cover the one on top. The bras are both pushups and make my already large breasts appear bigger. I wear black sequin bottoms along with a black studded belt wrapped around my hips. My red furry leg warmers go from my knees to my feet, only letting my black Converse sneakers show.
A knock on the door is our signal from Marco to let us know we’re on in five. My stomach drops. I always get this way before I go on. I know there’s nothing wrong with what I do for a living, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Every time I go on stage, I think about what Abby would think of her mom if she found out.
Monica brings me back to reality when she asks if I’m ready. I want to tell her no, but instead, I lie.
“Yep. Let’s do this,” I confirm, sounding more confident than I feel.
We both step on the dark stage and take our position at the poles within the railings. Our backs stay turned toward the crowd that is hooting and hollering. I close my eyes, exhaling a deep breath, and ready myself for this. The money.
Monica’s choice of music surrounds me, which happens to be Jason Derulo’s “Talk Dirty Remix.” My body starts to move with the music. It just happens. I have no control over it. I’ve been doing this for two months, and somewhere along the line, I became one with the music.
The whistles die down as the men in the club become entranced in me. Every one of them wishes I were dancing like this in private for them. It will never happen. But so long as they throw money at my feet, I’ll keep moving for them as long as the song lasts.
“YOU NEED ME to walk you out, Shay?” Marco offers while I tuck my money away.
I nod my head, gathering my belongings. Thank God this night is over. I only have one more night to go, and I can officially hang up my fur leg warmers. I hate this job, but at least the pay keeps food on the table.
Marco walks me to my car and makes sure I pull out of the parking lot safely before he heads back into the club.
Driving home, I listen to the radio playing Echosmith’s “Bright.” I invite the sweet, soft melodies compared to the thumping bass of the club. It’s always like this. Every night after work, I flip through the radio stations until I find something calming that puts me back in Mom mode. Being a mother is my first job. Having all the money in the world wouldn’t mean a damn thing without my baby girl. She’s my world. My light at the end of the tunnel. She makes me strong and makes me who I am every day. A woman trying to survive in a world where there’s nothing but trouble around every corner and hardships sit at the front door. She gives me a reason to live.
I pull up to our apartment building and see Mrs. Lidy’s lights on in her living room. I park the car, staying in it for a moment to admire her through her window. She’s knitting something that looks like a blanket as she sits in her recliner.
Abby is lucky to have a woman as wonderful as her. My mother isn’t a role model. I doubt she even remembers she has a daughter or a granddaughter for that matter. My father, Adam, is the only man in my life, but he lives in California. I’m a California girl at heart. I don’t see him much, but he calls me as much as he can.
He worked hard his entire life. He had a retirement plan and money stashed away. Unfortunately for him, he lost his job about six years ago and the bank took everything from him. He couldn’t afford our family home after he and my mother got divorced, which led him to where he is now. He lives in subsidized housing and gets a monthly check to support himself. He’s always looking for a job, but no one wants to hire a fifty-eight-year-old man. Employers would rather hire a young kid, figuring they can do the job better, even though they never do.
My phone buzzing alerts of an incoming text from Callie. I swipe the screen to see my message.
Lunch tomorrow with the girls? Sierra and Ryleigh are down. Hope you are too! Love you and miss you, chicky!
I shoot her a quick text back letting her know I’m all over lunch with the girls. I need it, and they don’t ever mind when I bring Abby along, so it works for me.
I PICKED UP Abby from Mrs. Lidy’s, and now, I have to suffer for waking her up from a sleep Mom’s dreams are made of. She’s hard to get to sleep, but it’s only on the nights I work the two jobs. I wanna complain and say she does it on purpose, but I know she does it because she misses me. Her tiny eyes can be closing on their own and she still won’t sleep unless I lay with her.
“Tell me a story, Momma,” she pleads.
I snuggle her close to me and give her and Roo a kiss on their heads.
“What kind of story do you want to hear, baby?”
She winds her fingers in my hair, pulling me closer. I smile as her nose scrunches up, her little mind turning its wheels.
“Tell me a story about kangaroos. Roo wants it.”
I laugh because she’s blaming it on Roo. Abby loves kangaroos so much; this is almost an every night occurrence. I think up kangaroo stories in my sleep just in case she asks me to tell her one.
“Okay. Well, I know one that will make Roo very happy.”
She nods her head at me, holding Roo tight against her chest.
“Okay, Momma.”
“There once was a kangaroo named Roo, and she did not live in a zoo. She was the most beautiful little kangaroo that ever hopped the world. She wasn’t only beautiful outside, but she was also beautiful on the inside.”
Before continuing, I poke her tummy, and she giggles.
“Roo wanted to be friends with all of the other kangaroos, but they made fun of her for not looking the same as they did. It was mean, and Roo cried a lot. One day, a boy kangaroo saw Roo crying her delicate little tears, and he asked her what was wrong. Roo told the boy she was sad because the others didn’t like her. She said she wasn’t as beautiful as the other kangaroos. So do you want to know what he said to her?”
Abby’s eyes open, and she nods her head, the anticipation killing her.
“Behind everything beautiful there has been some kind of pain.”
She looks up at me with wide, hazel eyes, her tiny hand letting Roo go and pointing to the scar above her eyebrow.
“Like me,” she whispers.
“Yes. Just like you, baby. See, the reason you have a scar is because there’s pain behind it. But it makes you much more beautiful. Do you remember when you got your scar?”
She shakes her head to indicate she doesn’t remember. I’ve told her this a thousand times when she tells me she doesn’t like the scar.
“You were just starting to walk ...” I begin to tell her.
“Bruce! Please put down your beer and watch where she’s going. So help me God, if my daughter gets hurt because you can’t stop drinking for two minutes, I will put you six feet under.”
Bruce looks up at me with red, glossy eyes. He snorts in response before going back to watching the game on TV.
“You’re impossible! Do you care about beer more than your daughter’s safety?”
He continues to ignore me, which just makes me angrier. Just then, Abby stumbles forward right into our wooden coffee table. Her little cries echo through our small apartment as I run toward her, grabbing her now bleeding forehead.
“You couldn’t just put up all of the safety stuff I bought last week?” I cry at him.
Bruce stands up from his indented couch cushion, walking around Abby and me. He grabs his jacket fr
om the coat rack and his keys from the entry room table, walking out the front door and out of our lives.
Abby spent all night in the emergency room getting stitches right above her eyebrow. The doctors said the scar wouldn’t be as noticeable once she got older, but even now, it’s large. The scar starts above her brow and continues through it, ending right above her eyelid. I don’t know how many times she comes home crying from kindergarten telling me how the other kids make fun of her. My poor girl is so self-conscious about it. I try to tell her every day how beautiful the scar makes her.
I tell Abby the edited version of her story, leaving out the fact her father left her to get drunk at the bar and cheat on me. No child needs to hear that part of the story.
Abby falls asleep at 12:45 AM, and that’s my cue to head to bed myself. I change out of my clothes, slipping on a big, comfy T-shirt, and slide under my covers.
Nine Inch Nails – “Closer”
MY ALARM CLOCK blares in my ear followed by the muffled sounds of a woman saying, “Turn it off.” Rolling over, I slap the snooze button and look over to the left side of my bed. Jesus Christ.
There’s a blonde chick lying buck-ass naked with her hair a mess. Looks like I had a hell of a night. I mentally pat myself on the back before taking care of the task at hand and getting her out of my bed.
“Sweetheart ...” I draw, nudging her with my foot.
She grumbles again, rolling over to face me, and I start hyperventilating. This chick is horrid looking. I’m talking there isn’t even a decent thing about her besides her rack. I must have been pretty fucked up last night to let this wild looking animal come home with me. Good Lord, please tell me I used a rubber. I sit up and look around until my eyes land on the condom discarded in the trash can. Thank fucking God.