by Holly Hart
I had men ink designs onto my skin, not because I particularly cared for them, but because they too protected me, made me appear bigger, more intimidating – other.
They set me apart from society, made it so that I could walk down any dark alleyway and know nobody would dare start a fight with me.
But these women? The ones milling around, some busing drinks to tables, some contorting their bodies around metal poles, and still others waiting their turn – they had it worse. They had to take off their clothes, their armor, and parade for men who'd never know them as people, as women with real lives, real dreams and real problems. I could only imagine what a job like this must do to their psyche.
Nothing good.
What the hell are you doing, Conor?
Faint bars of music broke through my daydream, but the gyrating lyrics only made the experience feel more tawdry, and cheaper. If that was even possible. I couldn't help but compare these women's predicaments to Maya's situation. They weren't the same – but it was close enough.
That was why I was miserable. Because coming to a place like this meant that I was every bit as terrible, in my own little way, as Maya's father.
I looked down and wished I hadn't. The carpeted floor was dark, and stained by years of neglect and spilled beer, and told a story all of its own. I took a hefty swig of my whiskey, too much – it burned the whole way down, and left my throat scoured raw. It was time to leave.
"Hey, mister. You mind if I sit here?"
I turned to my left, and saw a petite blonde in suggestive underwear leaning against a barstool. She looked young, too young. She couldn't have been much beyond her eighteenth birthday. Her face wasn't yet scarred by this line of work. Her eyes weren't dead, and her soul wasn't yet tarnished.
"Sorry honey. I don't buy dances." It was a lie. I had in the past. But not tonight – and not from her. She was young enough to be my sister, if I had one. Still young enough to get out of a place like this. I almost felt disgust that she was here, a girl that beautiful in place this foul.
"Good thing I'm on break, then…" She grinned, planting herself on the barstool and kicking off her six-inch heels. It made her look even younger, more innocent – if that was even possible.
She smiled shyly at me. "What should I call you, then?"
16
Conor
I looked at the disappearing amber liquid in my glass and wished that she'd just leave me alone. I hadn't gone looking for a seedy strip club so that I could have an existential crisis about how goddamn fucked up the world is – I'd just wanted to drink myself silly and do something stupid.
"Conor, it's Conor," I muttered.
"You having a good night then, Conor?"
I answered her curtly. "Not really."
"Too bad," she smiled wanly. "Me neither."
I felt like I couldn't leave, not now. Maybe it was an excuse, maybe it wasn't. The truth was, I don't know why I didn't just leave. I felt… different. On any other night, and in any other bar, this girl would have been going home with me, but tonight? Tonight I felt like I was more likely to adopt her than sleep with her.
A couple of minutes passed in silence before she she finally cracked. "So do you want to know who I am?"
It would have been easy enough to kill the conversation then and there. I'd done it before. "No, not really," I could have said. It would have been a lie – but I could have said it. But I couldn’t do it. The poor girl was crying out for help, and I was the only person around to give it. I didn’t know what was happening to me.
I turned to her and smiled. "Shoot."
"Megan," she grinned happily, extending her hand. "Pleased to meetcha."
I shook it, and fell silent for a couple more seconds as I considered what I was going to say, and whether I should say it at all.
I decided to go for it. I'd never been shy about sharing my mind, and just because I was in the middle of an attack of conscience didn't mean that my entire outlook on life changed. "What are you doing here, Megan?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean here," I gestured. "In a place like this?"
Her face fell. I could tell that was the last thing she wanted to talk about – anything except why she'd ended up there. "I could ask you the same thing." She replied.
"You could." I agreed. "But I asked first."
I kept quiet and waited for her to reply. Best way to get someone to talk – just stay quiet. People hate silence, it's awkward, so they fill it. Megan was no different.
"I got a kid," she replied, looking at the floor with embarrassment. "Baby daddy ran off the moment I told him. Probably not even in Alexandria anymore. Hell, I'd be surprised if he was still in the state."
"I'm sorry. You finish high school?" I didn't know why I was asking, but I felt compelled to continue. I felt as though by prying into Megan's life, I might uncover something about my own. It was probably a forlorn hope, but it was a hope nonetheless.
Megan looked red-faced and ashamed as she replied. "No. I had to bring up a kid, couldn't do both. Didn't have no one to help me, couldn't bring the kid into school. Ma boy didn't sleep through the night for six months, so there was that, too. Yeah." Megan trailed off awkwardly.
"Your parents?" I asked.
She laughed bitterly. "What parents? Mama started smoking crack when I was fourteen. Found herself a new man. Didn't see her around much after that. Never knew my dad."
"Me neither," I murmured. "It's a tough gig, kid."
She’s you, Conor. You, except she’s got a baby, and no one ever taught her how to fight.
We fell silent for a couple of seconds. I took another swig of my whiskey, trying to burn away my disappointment in myself for my feeble response to Megan’s confession.
She spoke up. "What about you, then? What's your story? Why you in here – I don't see you staring at the girls. Why did you come to a strip club if you didn't want to get an eyeful?"
She had a point. I chose my words carefully. "Can't a man have a drink?"
Megan raised her eyebrow archly. "Sure. But here? I don't think so."
"You got me," I smiled regretfully. "I've got a problem."
She sounded wise beyond her years as she replied. "Don't we all, honey."
I started talking. Talking like I hadn't in years, since I first met Maya. From the heart. I hadn't opened up like this in years, but Megan seemed like a friendly ear. I felt as if anyone would listen without judgment, it would be her.
"There's this girl –."
It always starts with a girl…
"– I used to know, a long time ago. She's just come back into my life, and –," I paused, considering how much I dared give away. "– And she's the love of my life."
It sounded so simple, put like that. Why couldn't I say that to Maya? What was actually stopping me?
"That sounds nice," Megan smiled genuinely. "What's her name?"
“Mma-ry," I replied – catching myself just in time. I wasn't stupid enough to use Maya's real name in a place like this, no matter how kind Megan seemed.
"So what's the problem?" Megan asked, sounding confused.
"Her dad's a bit of… an asshole." I replied. It was the understatement of the year. "He made us split up a few years ago, and to be honest I think he's ruining her life. I get him not wanting her to be with a guy like me, but…" I broke off.
"I think you're sweet," Megan replied. "The way you talk about her, the tone, it’s…kind. I wish I could find a guy like that." She went quiet.
"Thanks, I guess."
"So you're together?" She asked after a short silence.
"Not exactly." I replied. "I just got into town. I didn't even know she lived here. I don't know, she's in a pretty shaky situation. She's got it pretty bad."
"Well if she's got someone like you, Conor, she'll be alright. You're good people."
You don't know me. I'm a wrecking ball.
I sensed, as much as heard, something approaching from behind me, a big bal
l of fiery temper, and spun around as – out of nowhere, a big man grabbed the back of Megan's neck and pulled her forcefully off the stool.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He snarled. "You don't dance, you don't eat – you know that."
The girl whipped around like a flash, aghast. "Sorry Tommy, I was on break, I didn't mean –."
He cut her off. "My house, my rules. You take a break when I say so."
Tommy was a tall man with bronze Italian skin, and yet even with all the genetic luck in the world, he somehow still managed to look ugly as shit. My lip curled back with anger. "Hey, buddy," I growled. "I was speaking to this young lady here. You want to mind your business?"
The Italian looked at me with bemusement, his face wrinkling, his forehead folding. "You deaf or something? You didn't just hear me say my house, my rules?"
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could feel my anger building, and I knew it wouldn't take much for it to boil over. It had been a couple of days since I last fucked a girl, and I wasn't used to it. I felt celibate, monk-like, and I didn't understand how those priests managed it for their entire lives.
I sure as hell wasn't used to wanting one girl in particular – especially not a girl I couldn't have. I was tense, and wound up like an elastic band just waiting for something to set me off. Megan stared directly at me, begging me with her eyes not to start a fight.
I did my best. I stood up, spooking Tommy as he realized how much I towered over him.
He took a nervous pace backward. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Conor!" Megan begged. "Please, it's okay. I don’t want you causing no trouble."
I took a step toward him, and he flinched. I reached my hand into my back pocket and Tommy's eyes almost disappeared with fear. I knew what he was thinking – that I was reaching for a knife, or a gun, and I almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. How could a man as cowardly as Tommy end up owning a strip club next up with the Italian mob?
I pulled my hand back around my body. "Chill, Tommy," I grinned, slapping another hundred down on the stage in front of me. "No need to freak out."
The bar owner visibly crumpled with stress before pulling himself back up to his full height to defend his injured pride. He wasn't fooling anyone – least of all me. "A hundred bucks?" He sneered. "You think I care about a hundred bucks? You think you're a big man, coming in here and slamming that down on the stage?"
I sighed and pointed around the half-empty room. "Who do you think you're fooling, Tommy? This place is done, you know it as much as I do. It's just a matter of time before this joint closes, if this is all you’re getting in on a Friday."
"You want me to kick you out? I'll get the bouncer…"
I laughed in his face. "That guy? I could beat the shit out of him with one hand tied behind my back, and he knows it. If you think he's going to kick me out here, you're mad."
Tommy went crimson with impotent rage, but the more he realized I wasn't going to back down, the more he seemed to crumple in on himself in front of my very eyes. "Fine," he muttered. "A hundred bucks. You got half an hour."
I leaned in menacingly, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. I noticed that the buzz of conversation around us, and even the music, had hushed as every eye in the place was now trained on us. "No, Tommy" I growled. "I got as long as I goddamn want."
I could have left him his pride. Perhaps should have, in hindsight.
"Okay, okay," he muttered. "You've got as long as you want."
"Perfect," I agreed. "Time for you to run off, then."
I sat back down, but Megan stayed standing. She was shaking. "I wish you hadn't said that," she groaned. "You know how hard it is for a single mom to get a job in the city? Let alone a job that lets me work the hours I need to take care of Katie."
I shouldn’t have done that. That wasn’t laying low, that was you spoiling for a fight. And now this poor girl’s gone and got herself caught in the middle.
I'd fucked up. Fucked up big. I'd let my temper get the better of me, and Megan was going to suffer for it. For all I knew, I might too. "You shouldn't be working in a place like this, Megan," I said lamely. "It'll fuck you up."
Don't try and moralize to her, not now. You fucked up. Now own it.
She slumped back down onto the bar stool and cradled her head in her hands. I could barely see her face through her blonde hair, but I saw tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. "Tommy's gonna kill me," she moaned.
I made a decision, right then and there. Megan wasn't going to be another one of the girls I'd hurt in my life. I was going to make it right, no matter what it cost. She'd given me a gift – even if I didn't fully understand it yet: the gift of accepting myself, the curves as well as the edges.
"No," I said slowly. "He's not."
"How do ya know?" She stammered through tears. "You don't know him. He's hurt girls before, why not me?"
"He's not going to hurt you," I said gently. "Because if he does, I'll fuck him up. Trust me on that. I'm a bad person, Megan. Real bad. And besides, even if he tries, you're not going to be in town."
"Where the hell do you think I'm going to go?" She asked. "I get by paycheck to paycheck, you think I've got enough cash to skip town? With a baby?"
I could have thought long and hard about it, but I didn't need to. I'd already made my decision. "You see the bag by my feet?" I asked, swinging down the dregs of my, now warm, whiskey.
"The backpack? Yeah. So?" She sniffed.
"There's forty thousand dollars in that bag. Give or take a few. You're going to take it. You're going to get out of Alexandria, and never come back. Understand?"
She looked at me like I was crazy, make up running and eyes wild with tears. "What the hell are you talking about? Who brings that much money to a strip club?"
I could tell she didn't believe me, so I leaned down and picked up the rucksack. I glanced round quickly, making sure no one was looking, and opened it up. "I don't like banks," I grunted.
"You –." She said, her mouth grinding to a halt, then opening and closing like a goldfish as she saw the neat stacks of twenty dollar bills bound up inside.
"Don't like banks," I repeated. I zipped up the bag, careful to make sure that no one had seen the contents and dropped it back to the floor.
"Listen," I said. "I'm sorry I screwed this up for you. But you're better than this. You're going to leave this town, and get far away from here. You're going to go get your diploma, and you're going to go to college, and so is your boy. You're going to live – you understand?"
"You're crazy," she said slowly, almost in shock. "You can't give me that."
I shrugged. "I can, and I'm going to. I'll make it back." I stood up, ready to leave.
"Where are you going?" She asked, sounding half-panicked. “What am I –. How am I supposed to do this?"
"I've got faith in you," I said. "You're a smart girl – you'll figure it out."
I started walking away, but Megan called after me. "Conor?"
I turned back. "Yeah?"
"You're a good person."
I wasn't so sure about that. "Maybe."
17
Maya
The bustling boxing gym was a hive of activity as I walked in. As always, these days, I was flanked on either side by my two unwanted bodyguards. Within seconds, the whole place had fallen silent. These were some of the city's hardest men – all six foot tall or more, strong enough that you could swap them in for firefighter, or marines, and no one would bat an eyelid.
And yet the moment they saw me, all five foot seven of me, the room fell so quiet you could've heard a pin drop. I knew, of course, that it wasn't me they'd gone quiet for – it was what, who I represented.
I hate this.
"Sorry for disturbing you," I said, my voice sounding reedy and week in a place whose very air tasted soaked with sweat and testosterone. "Don't mind me."
It was easier said than done. Within a few short seconds, the room bega
n to empty. I made pleading eye contact with some of the fighters whose workout routines I'd disturbed, but to no avail.
"Please," I begged one, a man in his twenties, unwrapping his bandaged hands as he walked out. "You can stay. I'm not here to cause trouble."
The fighter, who had half a foot and a hundred pounds on me, didn't even look at me as he mumbled. "S'okay. I was done anyway."
It’s not okay! I wanted to scream. But I knew I couldn't. I needed to stay in my father's good books, to do exactly as he ordered, so that he wouldn't do anything rash with Eamon. The more I obeyed him, or at least pretended to, the less he paid attention to me, and the less he paid attention to me, the less he could hurt me.
By the time the gym had emptied, fighter after fighter filing out behind one another with varying looks of irritation, intimidation and sometimes downright fear on their faces, there was only one man left. Conor. At least, I assumed it was him, because who else would have stayed?
The gym's silence was punctuated by the clinking of a fully loaded barbell rising and falling rhythmically from a man's sweat-soaked chest, where it touched the clavicle, then exploded up powerfully and locked out at the top of the movement.
The bar was loaded up with more weight than I could even fathom – it barely bore any resemblance to the, by comparison, pathetically light version my personal trainer had handed to me on the few occasions I'd managed to drag myself to the gym in the past year.
Looking at Conor, who didn't seem to have realized that I was there at all, I only had one thought on my mind. I really should book another session.
I walked over to him, leaving my bodyguards by the door, and admired the way his muscles shimmered with the bright overhead lighting reflecting off his sweaty sheen. If Mohammed won't come to the mountain…
The reason why Conor hadn't noticed me became abundantly clear as soon as I got close to him. The tinny sound of rap music escaping his earbuds was audible from at least ten feet away. I felt like a mother when I thought, he should turn that down, it must be destroying his ears.
I waved to him to get his attention, and he hissed loudly in response, expelling the air from his lungs. He completed two more repetitions, punctuating each rep with a grunt and set the bar down with a mighty crash.