Chasing Butterflies

by Beckie Stevenson

  “Jesus, you’ve had this booked for that long? And what’s so different about this one? Tits are tits, Jonny.”

  “This isn’t like that,” he tells me. His eyes sparkle with mischief and excitement, and it reminds me of when we were younger—when life wasn’t so shitty. When the past felt like something to cherish rather than regret. “They’re more like dancers than strippers. The website says that the girls train for three hours every single day and that some of them are ex-Olympic gymnasts. They make it into a real show, with music and lights and stuff. It’s just something I’ve always wanted to see, ever since I was old enough to know what a stripper was really.”

  “Wow,” I say, laughing at him. “I hope you don’t come in your briefs the second we walk through the doors.”

  Jonny laughs. “Gabriel, no fucker says briefs anymore.”

  “Boxers, then,” I say with a huff. “Whatever.”

  “What do you tell all those girls to take off when you’re talking dirty to them?”

  I smirk as I grab some olives off the bar. “Who says I tell them anything?”

  “Oh, right. I guess they just pull them off without you even asking, huh?”

  “Something like that,” I mumble.

  He laughs again and turns to face the guys. “Are you lot ready to move on to another bar?”

  “Yeah,” they all cheer. I drain the remains of my drink and turn around to hand it back to the barmaid. She smiles at me as she takes it and slides a serviette across the bar. I glance down, noticing a scribbled phone number, then shove the serviette in my pocket.

  “See you around,” she whispers.

  I nod, but I don’t say anything. I won’t call her and I won’t see her around. I’m not interested in a booty call.

  I follow the guys as they make their way out of the hotel and onto the bustling main street of central London. I’m not paying much attention as I trail behind them. We’ve already been out for half a night and only stopped by our hotel so some of the guys could get extra cash. It’s nearly midnight, and seeing as though I’ve been awake for twenty hours, I’d prefer to be back in my room getting ready for bed instead of heading off to some strip club that’ll be no different from any of the others I’ve been to.

  I sigh, hating how negative I always seem to feel. I’m in the early stages of starting up my own business, and while business is booming—I even have a waiting list that’s three months long—my days are filled with brutal, hard work.

  And I’m tired. I’m tired of not being able to sleep because my bones and muscles are hurting so much. I’m tired of feeling like my head is going to explode as I try to understand how I’ve ended up where I am right now.

  Even though I’m only twenty-four, I feel like I’m on the verge of having a mid-life crisis. My body feels like it’s fifty, and instead of looking forward to Jonny’s stag party, I’ve been dreading it. No guy my age should dread a weekend away with the boys in London.

  But I also know that my problems aren’t just physical. Every single day I ache with envy to the point that I can’t talk to some people anymore. I find myself not wanting to hire guys that are married or have children, even if they’re the best at what they do. I don’t want to hear about how happy they are in their lives or how great their wife is.

  It’s not that I’m not interested. I am. But I just hate how much I crave what they have. Even the ones that complain about their wives nagging them. Even the ones that come to an interview apologising for being so tired because their baby kept them up half the night.

  I should have all that.

  I want the nagging wife and baby that kept me up half the night.

  I want it all.

  I don’t have high hopes for Jonny’s strip joint, and as I walk inside and follow the rest of the guys into a large, private room, my hopes drop through the floor. It looks the same as all the others. It even smells like them too…like PVC and scented baby oil.

  “I can’t believe we’ve paid three hundred quid for this,” grumbles George. “If I’d have known it was included in the original price, I would have told them I wasn’t bothered and not paid them.” He sits beside me in one of the deep, leather tub-style chairs, looking annoyed.

  The topless waitress that led us in here stands in front of us all like a school teacher. “This is the VIP room,” she begins, waving her perfectly manicured, fake-tanned hand around. “This room is yours for the rest of the night, but the same rules apply in here as the rest of the club—rules I’m sure you all know by now. “No touching,” she says, wagging her finger at us. “There are security cameras, so don’t think just because you’re in a little room that you’re off the hook. You’ll start off with two dances from two different girls, and all the drinks you want. The third and final dance will be from The Papilio.” She shrugs as if she’s bored and then says, “Enjoy.”

  “Weird name,” whispers George, “but whatever.” He stands up and untucks his shirt from his trousers. “I’m going to go and try to drink my three hundred quid in vodka.”

  I start to check the emails on my phone while he’s at the bar. I can hear Jonny chatting with the other guys as I read through an email from my accountant.

  “So...” Jonny says as he slips into the seat George just vacated.

  I smile and tuck my phone back in my pocket. “So what?”

  “Are you going to at least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself?”

  I nod toward the empty stage. “There’s nothing to enjoy yet.”

  He narrows his dark eyes at me. “You’ll enjoy this. I promise.”

  I nod, even though I already know I won’t enjoy it. “Do you want a drink?”

  “No,” he says quickly. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m worried about you, Gabe. You don’t do anything but work, and when you’re not working, you’re thinking about working.”

  I sigh and push my fingers through my hair. “I have my own business, Jon. It’s tough.”

  “I’m know it is,” he says, “and you’re doing a great job. But you’re earning an absolute ton of money now. Why can’t you hire a manager or a couple of guys to do some of the manual labour? Surely there are some perks to owning your own fucking business.”

  “I like things done a certain way,” I tell him, being a lot more honest with him than I originally intended. “I don’t trust the other guys to do it right.”

  Jonny shakes his head as the lights begin to dim. “You’ve got to learn to trust others. Hire someone. Check their references and then make them work alongside you so they can learn your style. You’re the boss. They do what you fucking say. And if you’re still unsure, you can check in regularly or something. You don’t have to do everything yourself. You’re going to have a heart attack.”

  “Maybe,” I say, realising that he has a point. “I guess I could advertise.”

  “You should,” he tells me, nodding at the stage as the first girl comes out. “And then you should think about having a life again. One that isn’t just about work,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. George hands him a bottle and I watch as he sips some beer before standing up. “I’m going to the front to get a better view.”

  George huffs when he sits back down. “Well, this one certainly isn’t worth any more than what I’ve paid before.”

  I look up at the girl, realising I haven’t bothered to look at her properly before now, and see dark, curly hair and black stockings. “They’re all the same in the end anyway,” I mumble.

  George laughs. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound like you’re talking from experience. But then we all know that the last thing Gabriel King has been doing is spending time in strip clubs.”

  “Not you too,” I groan.

  He holds up his hands, making the vodka slosh out of his glass. “I’m not saying anything else, except I’d like to see you more, especially when you’re not my boss.”

  I nod and l
ook towards the stage, my eyes quickly finding the girl. She dances quite well, but like I told George, they’re all the same. “Maybe you’re right,” I finally tell him. “Maybe I have been a little…preoccupied.”

  Halfway through the first girl’s dance, I decide I’m going to drink myself stupid. If I can’t get some decent sleep naturally, then I may as well drink my way into a sleep-coma instead.

  I sit on a stool at the little bar that’s situated at the back of the darkened room and watch the next girl like I’m supposed to. I’m watching her, but I’m not really watching her. She could be anyone up there. In fact, I’m pretty sure she could morph an extra head and I wouldn’t notice. I haven’t noticed half the things I should have lately.

  I order whiskey after whiskey after whiskey. Sometimes I love drinking, but most of the time I hate it. I especially hate how it makes you forget the pain you’ve been feeling. It wipes all the bad shit away, and when all you’re left with is the good shit, it hurts ten times as much when you wake up the next day. And I want to remember the pain. The anger. The feeling of having my world completely ripped to shreds.

  It’s about five whiskeys later when the lights go out. It’s pitch black, and I can hear the guys whispering and murmuring excitedly as they get ready for the finale. I couldn’t give a shit about this pappy-woman, or whatever she’s called. I mean, how different can she be?

  “You might want to go and get a better seat,” the waitress tells me.

  “I’m okay here,” I say, waving my glass at her. I hear her click her tongue, but then I feel more liquid being poured into my glass.

  I blink a few times into the darkness, realising that there’s a cold, hazy, purple-coloured mist that’s hovering in the air around us. The darkness has almost blinded me, forcing the rest of my senses to go into overdrive. I shudder when the coolness drifts over my skin, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  My eyes are still trying to adjust to the absence of light when I ask, “Is that dry ice?”

  “Yes,” the waitress says from somewhere behind me. “It’s all part of the show.”

  When the hauntingly shrill yet beautiful operatic voice begins to float through the speakers, I feel almost violent chills instantly explode over my whole body. I sit stock-still as I try to place where I’ve heard the familiar voice before. Then my eyes snap to the stage, and I notice how empty and big it looks without a girl dancing around on it. The female singer’s voice continues to make me feel as if she’s standing right next to me, whispering words about the pain of losing love and the torture she put herself through as she tried to find it again. I’m sure I know this song.

  A single streak of purple-coloured light shines down onto the stage from somewhere behind me when the dancer finally steps out. She’s wearing a brightly coloured mask, the sort people wear when they go to a masquerade ball. It hides half of her face, twinkling and glittering in the hint of light. Her long hair falls in big, bouncing curls over her bare shoulders, right down to her narrow waist. She’s short, but her legs look long and lean. Strong.

  It feels as if the world has stopped spinning just for her as she moves with a fluid-like motion over the stage, captivating us with the way her hips sway and swirl. When the chorus of the song peaks, the dancer twists and turns so majestically that I can’t believe I’m actually watching another human. She’s like a breeze, swirling and swooping over an open field on a blustery day.

  “You can breathe, you know,” the waitress says. “And you can shut your mouth too.”

  I don’t bother turning around to tell her to mind her own business, but I do shut my mouth. I can’t stop staring at the girl onstage. I can’t stop looking at the curve of her hips and thinking about how good they’d feel moving around on top of me. Her ample breasts are encased in a dusty pink lace bra that has delicate little straps. Her matching knickers are the complete opposite to the thongs and G-strings I normally see at places like this. It’s kind of refreshing, actually. This girl isn’t a stripper. She’s a dancer. And a very good one.

  When the music declares that the singer’s giving up on love and life and all that comes with it, the girl on the stage changes her style. The way she moves is mind-blowing, like she’s been drugged, and it makes her long, white hair flap behind her.

  Then her hands are running up the curves of her body until she flicks her hair up into her hands, quickly spinning around before letting it all fall back down.

  I suddenly feel sick.

  My eyes roam over her again, this time for completely different reasons. Dainty frame. Long, snow-white hair. A tattoo on her back of a twisting vine with butterflies flying around it.

  The drink I’ve been holding slips out of my hand and smashes on the floor. I start to shake my head, even though I know no one can see me. Just then I spy Jonny as he turns around to look at me, and he appears as shocked as I feel. Good. At least he didn’t know. At least this wasn’t a set-up.

  I turn away, not wanting to look at her—not wanting to see what she’s become. What she’s been reduced to. How did she get here? How did she end up like this?

  I want to leave. I want to stay.

  I want to talk to her. I want to never talk to her again.

  “Is she really not going to let her tits out?” George asks, coming to stand next to me. “Man, that body. I’d pay another hundred to see those tits.”

  I want to punch him, but then I remember that George doesn’t know who she is. George is just treating her like any other dancer. But she isn’t just any dancer. She’s my dancer. My Yara.

  Chapter 23

  Yara

  I love music. Music—and dancing—saved my life. If it weren’t for dancing and the club, I don’t know what I would have done.

  Things were looking bleak for me. I’d seen things. Done things. Things I’d had to do to survive after I left Eleze. And I know that if I had carried on doing them, then I would have been half the woman I am today.

  I close my eyes and listen to the crescendo of the song. I don’t think it’s my dancing that makes me the star performer here. Most of the girls in this place can dance better than me—in my opinion—and I hear them whisper behind my back about the fact that I won’t expose my breasts. I think it’s my music and the routines I perform, and the way I choreograph it all…lights off with a spotlight synchronised to every movement of my body, which moves to the music as if they’re connected. I can see it in their eyes: the moment when the song rushes into their ears before trickling into their hearts and seeping into their bones where it buries itself inside their souls. I don’t know how, but I know that what they see is something they’ll never forget.

  But although I love dancing with all my heart, I can’t wait for Christmas break. It’s been a long, scorching-hot summer and it hasn’t eased off, not even in the last few weeks. I’ve danced almost every night, doing multiple routines, six days a week for seven whole months. I’m tired. My body is tired. Even my mind is tired.

  The spotlight is bright, and I can only just make out the outline of the men that are sitting right at the very front. I look away quickly, not wanting to see their faces. Some of them look at me in awe, like I’m a goddess that they want to worship. As flattering as that may be, I know it’s only because they like what my body is doing and probably want to do something to my body.

  Some of them look at me like they’re judging me. And I don’t want to be judged. They don’t have any idea what goes on in my life or why I’m even up here in the first place. They see a half-naked girl on a stage and assume that I’m scum. That I don’t have a brain. That I have to do what I’m doing just to get by. I want to tell those people that if I were that desperate, I’d take my clothes off and show my tits just like they sometimes chant for me to do.

  Sometimes I laugh at how embarrassed I am about taking my clothes off now. I often think about the first time I met Gabriel and how he must have seen my breasts before he even saw my face. I feel my heart squeeze a
t the thought of him and concentrate on finishing my dance instead. Thinking about Gabriel never ends well for me anyway. Not even after all these years.

  As soon as my dance is finished, the spotlight vanishes and the room is plunged into darkness again. I don’t wait a single second before disappearing offstage.

  I push through the door and into the dressing room that I occupy alone, because most of the other girls can’t stand to be around me. Fine with me. I like to have the quiet of the room to come back to once my show is done.

  I don’t need those girls anyway. They don’t know me, and they haven’t even tried to get to know me. They’ve assumed. Guessed. And they’ve guessed wrong. They also remind me too much of Jasmine and her friends, and the less I think about Jasmine, the better.

  My mental health might have improved drastically over the last five years, but my memory of that day hasn’t diminished at all. The guilt I felt that morning still runs right through me today. I’d give anything to erase that day. Even if I had to take back all the memories I cherish of Gabriel, I’d do it. I’d forget him in a heartbeat if I could wipe my hands clean of the blood I see on them every time I look at them.

  I flop down onto the padded, velvet seat in front of my dressing table and pull my mask off. When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I still see the same electric-blue eyes that I saw when I was younger. My face might have changed somewhat because I’m no longer a young girl with puppy fat, and my body is stronger and leaner than it was before, but my eyes are the same. And I hate looking at them.

  I hate the way they stir up the memories that I’ve tried to bury. I hate that all I can hear when I see them is Gabriel saying that they reminded him of pale sapphires…that my eyes were the first thing he loved about me.

  I sigh, wishing I could cherish those memories instead of regretting them. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I regret, but leaving Gabriel the way I did is my single biggest regret—and I think it always will be. But deep down, I know I did the right thing. I just hope he knows that now.