by Brenna Zinn
She rubbed a thumb over the embossed return label while a butterfly the size of an emu fluttered wildly in her belly. The Orteil Dance Company was her last shot for the casting season. The last remaining hope to finally get a foot in the door with a professional dance company. Though they might be the worst dance company in the United States, she was already twenty-six and the point of caring what company she landed a job with had long passed.
After a day of spilling hot coffee on a customer, having her register come up seventy-five dollars short and returning home to a house on fire, surely her run of bad luck had ended its horrible course.
The message she now held had to be good news.
It had to be.
Heather clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Are you going to open it or just fondle it?”
Tatum stared at the envelope, rereading the return address. “I’m afraid to.”
Her roommate’s large eyes narrowed. “I’ve waited three hours since coming home to find out what that letter says. The suspense is killing me. Open it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve never been broke in your life. You’ve got a good job designing clothes, something you went to college for. If this isn’t a job offer, I’m done. The chances of me working as a professional dancer anywhere beyond some mom-and-pop theatre in Nowhere, Texas, where I’ll starve because they won’t be able to pay a decent salary is zip. Zilch. Nada. Instead of fulfilling my life’s ambition, I’ll be serving up cappuccinos at Java Buena.”
“Will you listen to yourself? This may be your big break. You won’t know anything until you open the envelope,” Heather chastened, her eternal optimism ever gushing. “Here, give that thing to me. I’ll do it.” She moved closer, threatening to yank the envelope out of Tatum’s grasp.
“No.” Tatum pulled it closer. “I put my big girl panties on this morning. I’ll do it.” Hands trembling, she ran her finger beneath the back flap and pulled out the letter. She cleared her throat where her pounding heart had lodged itself, each beat dully thudding in her ears.
“Dear Ms. Reynolds,” she started, then licked her dry lips. She sucked in a breath for courage. “The Orteil Dance Company thanks you for your audition. Your skills as a dancer are exceptional and your Master of Dance degree is commendable. However, we regret to inform you—” She stopped speaking aloud as the printed words sank in with sickening finality.
Orteil didn’t want her.
Tatum felt for the side of the table with her free hand and leaned against it, not trusting her wobbling legs to keep herself upright. Her mouth filled with the bitter taste of defeat. An overwhelming sense of despair swelled within her like a rising tide and threatened to drown her from the inside out.
She was done.
A failure.
A giant loser.
A crushing force sank deep within her chest as she reread the letter, word by painful word. The moment she’d done everything within her power to prevent had finally hit. The awkward young girl who had seen the beautiful and tall Darci Kistler dancing in The Nutcracker on television and dreamed of performing onstage in gorgeous costumes just like her hero now had to come to terms with reality. A sad reality she hadn’t counted on.
We regret to inform you…
With more pressure than she intended, Tatum bit her lip to keep the betraying flesh from quivering. The pain, sharp and lasting, was welcome though. It reminded her that she would not cry. No, not this time. Crying was for quitters, and her parents hadn’t raised their children to be quitters. They had taught her and her brother to look for the bright side of things. Find the silver lining. Believe deep in their hearts that when a door closed, a window opened somewhere.
But she’d had so many doors slam in her face, the possibility of finding even a peephole with light shining through seemed impossible. Her life and career, it seemed, resided in a windowless, pitch-black cave, the likes of which would eat away at her soul if she let it.
Tatum watched while the rejection letter slipped from her fingers onto the linoleum tabletop. Her once brilliant future, at least the brilliant future her dance instructors had forecasted, slipped from her fingers too.
Closing her eyes, she looked into the depths of her heavy heart. What she saw there wasn’t pretty. Disappointment, anger, loss, embarrassment and grief all churned together like raw hamburger meat. She also noticed a complete lack of surprise lurking in the dark shadows.
Hadn’t she known this day was coming? After years of being turned away despite doing her best and working hard at her craft, she couldn’t ignore the writing on the wall any longer. She was too tall and not whisper thin enough to be a dancer. As much as she loved dancing, the dream of dressing up in beautiful costumes and traveling the country to perform in front of millions of people wasn’t going to happen.
She sucked in a lungful of air and thought about her parents. Eventually she’d call them and break the bad news. They’d tell her that getting the rejection letter wasn’t a sign of failure, it was only life’s way of pointing her in the direction she truly needed to be traveling.
“Think of Abraham Lincoln,” her father would say. “How many times did he fail before becoming President of the United States? And didn’t he turn out to be one of the best presidents in history?”
Then they’d remind her she was a Reynolds, and Reynolds were made of tough stuff. This setback, albeit a hellacious setback as far as setbacks went, wouldn’t destroy her. Not if she didn’t allow it.
Would she?
Would she let this latest rejection ruin her life? Doom her to a miserable existence until she died all curled up in the fetal position in some corner on skid row?
Tatum opened her eyes and glanced up at Heather. “We still have any of that blue agave tequila in the freezer?”
Heather nodded. Concern filled her lovely hazel eyes. “Enough for a few shots.”
“Good.” Though her disappointment was enough to swallow her whole, Tatum squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “After we’ve finished that, we’re putting on our party dresses. We’re going out.”
Finding a bar in Austin, Tatum had come to know, was a lot like looking for hot sauce in a Mexican restaurant. Everywhere a person turned they’d be sure to bump into at least one, if not many, all of which had their own flavor. The trick to a really good night out involved choosing the appropriate bar to match the occasion. Much like pairing up the right hot sauce with the food being served.
Tonight’s occasion centered around failure. Her miserable, gut-twisting failure.
She needed a place where she could get thoroughly drunk while simultaneously forgetting that she’d been turned down by every hiring dance company in the United States, she would probably never dance professionally and she had enough cash in the bank to pay for another tank of gas. Therefore a dive bar, the seedier the better, was in order. The joint that met that set of criteria, as well as being not too far away from the townhouse, was Iron Rods.
As Tatum followed Heather up the sidewalk to the club, she remembered why she hadn’t set foot into the place since her first year of grad school. The large cinderblock building painted a garish purple from roof to foundation had no distinguishing characteristics other than being plain ugly and depressing. Even the sign hanging over the front doors was dimly lit and drab. The most cheerful thing around was Tatum’s strappy yellow sundress and her red Western boots. Unfortunately, tonight this dive above all others suited her mood.
Why not have a few drinks in a gloomy bar and watch some other miserable person dance to chase away her despair? At least the guys stripping inside were earning a living at it. And the dancers were hot, lightly oiled men dripping with testosterone who would do just about anything to have a few bucks stuffed into their thongs. If that didn’t elevate her spirits at least a bit, nothing would. Well, that and maybe returning home to find Officer Murphy waiting in her bed completely naked except for a cowboy hat and a shit-eating grin.
Muffled, thump
ing beats from the loud music inside vibrated through the concrete steps leading to the club entrance. A set of glass doors blocked out with blood-red paint seemed to offer a warning to those thinking of opening them.
A sense of foreboding sent an icy chill over Tatum’s skin. She studied the building and its ominous doors. Maybe Iron Rods was a poor choice after all.
Heather reached into the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out a wad of bills, then thrust the cash into Tatum’s hand. “Here. This is for you. I want you to have a really good time tonight.”
Alarmed, Tatum took a booted step closer, blocking the view from the street. “Are you out of your mind? Flashing money in this neighborhood will get us both killed.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” the eternal cheerleader hissed back. “The only person nearby is across the road and asleep on a bus bench.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Tatum realized her roommate was right. “Fine. But I don’t need your money.”
The rolling of Heather’s eyes spoke volumes, including the fact her rich daddy in Houston would send her bucketloads of cash if she picked up her phone and asked for it. To her credit, Heather had yet to make that call.
“I’ll pay you back.” Tatum tucked the bills into her purse. “But this place seems pretty dead. Maybe we should go somewhere else.” Like home, where we can put a pillow over our heads and forget today ever happened.
“We’re just early.”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
“That just means we won’t have to compete for the dancers’ or the bartenders’ attention. Lucky us, we’ll have more booze and hunky men than we’ll know what to do with. And,” Heather added, tugging one of the door’s metal handles, “we’re already here.”
“Ladies, Ladies! Welcome to Iron Rods,” a chubby Hispanic bouncer shouted over the deafening roar of the music.
He pocketed a cell phone and popped off the stool he sat on with amazing agility. Wearing a ball cap turned backward over extremely short hair, long denim shorts that reached just below his knees and a T-shirt that had to be at least a triple X, he looked more like an overgrown kid than a tough bouncer. Tatum wanted to reach over and pinch one of his chunky cheeks.
“The party is just getting started and is only gonna get better now that you two fine chulas are here.” He gyrated his plump body to the rhythm of the playing song. Without warning, he stopped on a dime, arm straight in the air and his finger pointed toward the ceiling in a disco pose, face serious but wholly ridiculous. “IDs, please.”
Although a wall blocked the view to the bar and the stage, the club felt unnaturally empty. Besides themselves and the bouncer, no one else could be seen or heard. An alarm clanged in Tatum’s head, but Heather was right. They were here and they should have great service. What could be better?
Returning home and finding Officer Murphy waiting in my bed completely naked except for a cowboy hat and a shit-eating grin. That’s what.
After showing their IDs and paying the outrageous cover, they headed in. When they turned the corner, Tatum fought the impulse to turn around and demand their money back. They had just entered hell.
The club was empty with the exception of a few ladies sitting near the stage and a table of women who, from the looks of the helium balloons floating up from their chairs, appeared to be celebrating a birthday. At the back, a fog machine coughed out a thin gray haze, adding to the oppressiveness of the dimly lit room. A lone male stripper with a paunch protruding over his zebra-print G-string swiveled his hips on the main stage. Two other dancers, if what they were doing could be called dancing, swayed back and forth on small elevated platforms in fluorescent thongs. Nearby black lights gave their unimpressive packages a strange iridescent glow.
Dark, smelling of stale beer and thoroughly sleazy, the place couldn’t be more dismal or disgusting. Far worse than she remembered from her last visit, which hadn’t been exactly spectacular. But at least then the strippers had been good-looking and fit, with fairly impressive moves, not a collection of potbellies in absurd thongs shuffling to and fro. If the three men currently shaking their bonbons provided a sampling of the dance ensemble, then things at good ol’ Iron Rods had gone from bad to downright hopeless.
Apparently sensing her desire to flee, Heather grabbed Tatum’s arm and dragged her to the bar. “Isn’t this fun? We’re going to have such a good time. What do you want to drink? I’m buying.” Ever the perky pompom princess, Heather lifted the corners of her lips in a smile, though in the gloomy light the effort resembled a grimace.
Wiping down glasses behind the bar stood a bald mountain of a man with skin the color of night. His thin T-shirt stretched tight over freakishly large muscles looked as though it would tear to shreds at any moment and left nothing to the imagination. A thick silver chain encircled his substantial neck and held a cross, which came to rest between two enormous pecs. Devoid of any expression, his face was the most intimidating Tatum had ever witnessed.
“What’s it going to be, ladies?” he asked in a voice so low and powerful it sounded unholy.
A shiver of fear pricked down Tatum’s spine. She took an involuntary step back. She opened her mouth to speak, but the ability to form words had fled to the safety of the next county. In her life, she’d never lost her power of speech or her capacity to launch zingers if the occasion called for it. The man was truly scary.
“Two vodka and club sodas, please,” Heather ordered, unaffected by the severity of the bartender’s looks.
Drinks in hand, they waded their way through a sea of tightly packed but empty tables and chairs to the stage. They had no difficulty finding a decent spot in the front row.
Overhead, the song playing through the crackling speakers slowly wound down, as did the redheaded stripper on the main stage.
“Ladies, put your hands together and show some love for Mad Dog,” an overly enthusiastic voice announced.
Tatum searched the dark room for the voice’s source. She found a narrow set of steps that led to a loft outfitted with electronic equipment. There a lone DJ sat, microphone in hand. She blinked, doubting her vision. With the exception of the color of his shirt, the disc jockey looked identical to the chubby bouncer.
The heavyset man tossed the mic to his left hand and flipped a switch with his right, starting another song. “Now coming onstage, the man you all have been waiting for. He’s a pirate with plenty of booty and an amazing treasure. Let’s make some noise for Captain Chris!”
The few ladies in the club clapped and screamed as a stripper in a ragtag pirate costume jumped out from behind a curtain onto the stage. He pranced around in black Army boots, dodging and weaving in a make-believe fight while slicing the air with a plastic sword.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tatum groaned. They were on the town to help her forget her troubles, yet the club and everything in it delivered nothing but disappointment. Rather than being lifted out of her funk, she could feel her frustration build.
Heather pushed Tatum’s shoulder. “Will you stop already? At least he’s better looking than the last guy.”
“That’s not saying much. My eighty-year-old Uncle Clyde looks better than the last guy.”
Maybe going out at all had been a bad idea. Her feelings were still too raw. Anger, melancholy and the sense of being an utter failure swirled around in her head like the ice in her cocktail. Every decision she’d ever made had revolved around being a professional dancer. If she couldn’t do that, what would she do for the rest of her life? Make macchiatos?
When the music crescendoed, the stripper ended his swordplay and tossed the fake weapon to the back of the stage. He stroked his chin as he regarded his audience, occasionally pointing and waggling his eyebrows at individual ladies. With an awkward flair, he removed the red-and-black-striped sash he wore as a headband and tossed it to an elderly female standing near the stage with several bills in her hand. Though the sash amounted to little more than a long scrap of fabric, the aging wo
man rubbed it against her cheek as though it were a prized possession. Piece by shabby piece, the stripper shed his costume while more ladies crowded around to tuck money in his thong or throw dollars at his feet.
Compared to the other dancers, Captain Chris was the most handsome and his physique was by far the best. But neither the club’s poor lighting nor his fake tan from a bottle could hide the block of white skin from his neck down and up his biceps where a shirt had protected his flesh from the sun.
“They should have named him Sailor Farmer Tan,” Tatum quipped. She took a sip from her drink and frowned. “We did ask for vodka in our club soda, right?”
“Huh?” Heather leaned over the small table. “I didn’t hear you. It’s so loud in here.”
“Taste your drink,” Tatum said into her roommate’s ear.
“Oh, okay.” She lifted the glass to her lips, waited a moment, then took another swig. She shook her head. “I don’t taste any alcohol.”
Watered-down drinks were the last straw. The wild concoction of emotions brewing within her bubbled over. The time for calm had passed. She needed action. Something to release the rage and hurt trapped inside. She’d had enough of being stomped on by life, and by God she would not sit still while this seedy little club stepped on her as well.
Tatum picked up both drinks and marched to the bar, fury feeding her temper. Something in her day was going to go right, and having a decent drink to dull her pain wasn’t too much to ask for. So what if Conan the bartender looked as though he could snap her in half. If he so much as blinked the wrong way, she’d jump over the counter and make him wish he’d never poured a drink in his life.
The bartender had his broad back to her and appeared deep in conversation at the end of the bar with another man she hadn’t noticed before. How she could have overlooked the stranger was a mystery.