by Alyne Robers
"Hey, New York!" Tanya yells after I serve my shots.
"It's Brooklyn," I tell her for the tenth time. I think she gets it wrong on purpose now.
"You have someone in VIP," she says.
"I'm on the floor tonight," I tell her, trying to hide the panic in my voice.
"He offered twice your rate and Jimmy said to do it."
I clench my jaw and head to the dressing room to freshen up. If Jimmy says to do something, you do it. If you refuse, you will lose your hours or stage time. Being the new girl, I can't afford to piss him off.
I walk slowly to the VIP rooms. I've only been back here a two other times since I started working here. You never know what to expect. My first was a group of girls that thought it would be fun to get a lap dance from a stripper. Jimmy thought that would be the best initiation for me. The last one was a rich, old guy. He watched. He paid. He left.
When I step inside the dim room, I lean against the closed door and wait for my eyes to adjust. It's dark with purple accent lighting in the ceiling and floor. I step up onto the small round stage, grabbing the pole in the center of the room and find my customer on the couch, waiting.
"Kane," I whisper. His arms are stretched across the back the leather couch, looking relaxed and comfortable.
"Brooklyn."
I lick my lips and step on the small button on the edge of the platform. The music fills the room and I spin around the pole so my back is to him. Having him watch me from across the room is one thing. Having him so close and all alone is different.
There's nowhere to hide. There is nothing in between us but thick air.
I use the pole as my only defense, using it for strength and distraction. I hide behind it, sliding down the pole and spreading my legs. Kane's eyes grow dark as he watches me spin around and use my body as the only weapon I possess.
"Come here," he says. His voice is low and gravelly.
I step down from the platform and stand between his spread legs. He leans forward but doesn't make a move to touch me. I'm buzzing with anticipation. Any other client and I would be praying they kept their hands off. But Kane is different and I don't know why.
Maybe because I know his name or because I think he invited me back here for reasons different than any other customer would. Maybe it's because when he looks at me, he's not just trying to see what is underneath the clothes. He’s trying to see what is underneath my skin.
I think that might be worse.
I unbutton the plaid top I have on. I was going for the young and innocent look. It usually pays well. Kane looks up at my face as I reveal the red lace bra underneath. I crawl onto his lap and he finally breaks eye contact.
He drinks in the exposed skin. He sighs and I feel the puff of breath on my neck. I roll my hips into him and feel a rumble in his chest. His arms are still on the back of the couch but his body is tense, no longer relaxed.
"Are you going to touch me?" I ask.
"No."
The tension is sparking in the air. There's a current of electricity between us that is impossible to ignore.
"Why not?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes."
His hands leave the couch and I brace myself, ready to feel them on my body. They don't though. He grips his knees, leaning closer to me.
"I want to touch to you, Brooklyn. But I won't pay for it."
His words are clear even though they are almost a whisper. I pretend the words don't sting and bend backward, arching my back and putting my body on display, hiding my face. I feel his breath roll over my exposed stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I pull myself up and find myself staring into his face. I see the struggle there, trying to hold back. There's conflict swirling in those dark eyes. I see a challenge in making him snap.
"Then why bring me back here?" I ask, reaching back and unsnapping the bra. The fabric falls between us, forgotten.
"To get you alone. To see you dance and move for me."
"But no touching?" I tease, running my hands over his wide shoulders.
Kane licks his lips, and for a second I think he will break his control. He brings his face closer and I can smell the alcohol on his breath. It's faint but enough to bring back memories I've been fighting.
"If I touch you, I won't be able to stop," he whispers, voice vibrating with need. "What will happen then?"
His words give me chills. I can't tell if it's from excitement or danger. My blood rushes in my veins and my heart pounds hard in my chest. A knock sounds at the door, signaling the time.
"Time is up," I say.
"For now."
I pull away, reality filtering back in. Kane leans away, letting me get up and watching me dress. The cloud of lust and want has faded and the cold is washing back over me.
Kane stands, watching me intently. He digs into his pocket for his wallet. I close my eyes, not wanting to see the money he pulls out for a tip. It will cheapen our time together, and he already paid before I came in the room.
"My card," he says and I open my eyes. "Call me if you want to know what could be."
Kane walks past me and leaves the VIP room where I stand confused and flustered. The card is black with gold printing. It's just a name and a phone number. I flip it over to find nothing on the back side.
By the time I leave the VIP room, my shift is over. I collect my pay in tips and for the dance with Kane at the bar. I sign up for a few more nights to work and change into jeans and a sweater before heading out into the back alley, ready to crawl into my own bed.
THREE
London
A warm hand is on my stomach. It’s heavy and firm on my bare skin. A familiar scent wraps around me before I'm pulled into a hard, bare chest.
"Why don't you have your shirt on, Miles?" I mumble, though I'm not surprised.
"It's hot," he says into my hair and if my eyes were open I would roll them. He just likes to snuggle.
Miles has known us since we were four years old. The moment we saw the little boy with curly brown hair, we claimed him as our own. Miles became our best friend and the most important person in our lives over the years. The three of us have been through every major life milestone together.
He is just as constant in my life as Brooklyn. He's one of the few who can tell us apart almost instantly. It was Miles who threw us in the car in the middle of the night and drove us three states away. At twenty-five years old, we ran away from home. Without Miles, I'm not sure where we would be.
Miles is turquoise. He's a little blue and a little green. Refreshing, compassionate, and protective. Calming and soothing.
"You smell like the beach," he mumbles into my hair.
"Photo shoot yesterday," I say, letting him pull me in closer. "Why are you here so early?"
"Wanted breakfast."
And this is why Miles takes such good care of us. We do the same for him. He has his own apartment a few blocks away, but he's here more than he's home.
I roll out of his hold and realize it's almost noon. I throw on a pair of shorts over my panties and stumble to the kitchen. We don't have much yet, but we found a skillet and toaster at a Goodwill a few weeks ago. When we moved here, we only had what was in our bedrooms. That didn't include grownup stuff like plates and cooking ware.
Miles finally joins me, thankfully now dressed, when he smells the bacon. I always feel guilty when I stare at his body.
"Brooklyn work last night?" he asks as I hand him a paper plate with bacon and toast.
"Yeah. And I had a shoot so we have enough for the bills already," I tell him. He always worries about us on our own.
"We should go home," he says as he leans against the counter. "Your dad is getting worse."
"I can't."
He knows that. Yet for the last two weeks, he has mentioned going back.
"He's in the Sun Ray Hospital now," he adds. "My mom has been checking on him."
My dad was sick when we left. He was sick most of ou
r lives actually. Being two girls growing up without a mother was hard enough. Without a father was even harder.
We didn't have anyone to teach us about boys, or sex and drugs. Miles's mom was the one who taught us about our periods and bought us pads and tampons. She was the one who sat us down and warned us not to get pregnant or leave drinks unattended. She was the closest thing to a mom we had.
We didn't have a father to tell us our skirts were too short or give a curfew. He wasn't the doting dad who took us to girl scouts and softball games. He was just as absent as our mother most days.
The times when we did have his attention were worse.
"I'm not going back, Miles. We worked so hard to start over."
Everyone called Dad sick. Whispers traveled in our small town and everyone knew what he was like. Neighbors offered their help but he never got better. Brooklyn and I stayed around, forgoing college to stay home and take care of him.
When he came stumbling into the house late at night, or drove his car through the front of the house, or got sick all over the kitchen, no one was there to help. No one could stop him when he went into his rages or didn't come home for days on end.
Two kids were left to raise a grown man. A grown man who should have known better. Even as we grew up and reached our twenties, we could never leave him. He needed us even though he didn't deserve us.
"Why help us leave if you are only going to try to make us go back?" I ask as I loudly slam my hand on the counter. The skin of my palm stings.
"I won't make you do anything," he says, coming to cup my cheeks. "I just thought you would want to know. It's not like you to just run away."
I smack his hands off me and step back.
"I am not running away. I am a fucking adult. We are saving ourselves," I hiss.
Miles raises his hands in surrender, but I can tell from the way he is biting on his lip that he wants to say more.
"Take your breakfast to go."
"London, I'm sorry," he says, coming at me with his puppy dog eyes.
"It's fine, Miles. We moved here so we wouldn't need to be responsible for my father. We don't need to be sucked under with him, and I though you understood that. I thought you supported that."
"I do. I just love you and don't want you to one day regret this."
I turn away from him and stare down at the crack linoleum of the counter. It's an ugly green but it matches the chipped olive green of the cupboards.
I feel his arm wrap around my waist and the warmth of his chest on my back. Miles kisses my hair before pulling away quickly. I don't move until I hear the front door shut behind him.
One of the things I love about him is that he knows when to push and when to stop.
"Were you fighting with Miles?" Brooklyn asks as she shuffles out of her bedroom.
"Yeah."
Brooklyn tilts her head to meet my eyes. When someone's expressions are exactly like your own, you can read them like a book. There's no guessing when she looks at my face.
"Dad?" she asks me, her eyes filled with worry.
I can read her because it's like looking in a mirror. Her expressions are my own.
"He's in Sun Ray, he said."
Brooklyn nods. "Rehab or psychiatric?"
"I didn't ask." Neither would make a difference. Just like the other times. "Miles thinks we should go home and see him."
"And you told him to get out."
I shrug and lean back against the counter. I hate fighting with Miles but it happens every now and then. We will be back to normal in a few hours.
Brooklyn chews on her nails and leans next to me. I have the urge to ease her mind. One of us has to be the strong one and hold us together. Right now, it's me.
"So how did work go last night? You take the stage yet?" I ask, changing the subject. We are done revolving our lives around our dad.
"It went okay. I didn't go on stage yet," she says as she starts to make some ramen.
I lean on the counter and watch her cook. Brooklyn is fierce and confident on the outside. On the inside, she is just as scared of failure as I am. Taking that stage is terrifying for her. Unlike me, she will take the risks and challenges, using the fear as a fuel. I play it safe.
"I did do a VIP dance," she tells me with a smirk. "Really hot guy, too. He lives in the building actually. He paid extra and insisted on me."
"You just danced for him?"
"Yeah, London. You should see him though. He wouldn't need to pay me for doing whatever he wanted me to do."
I laugh at her while she pours the noodles in a bowl and heads to the couch. She pulls her knees up to balance the bowl on them. She's finally getting back to being her old self—the girl who lived life loudly and had men falling at her feet. Since we moved, she retreated into herself a little, keeping to herself. It was scary.
"He loves you," she says with a mouthful of food.
"He loves us both."
"He loves you more. He just wants you to let him in."
"How much more in can he get? We moved to Florida with him."
Brooklyn rolls her eyes and snorts around her spoon. Everyone back home just assumes Miles and I will end up together. On paper, Miles seems like the perfect man for me. I should be the good girl, ending up with the charming boy next door.
"He's our best friend, Brooklyn. And I don't know if I need a relationship right now."
Brooklyn sighs and sets her empty bowl on the beat-up coffee table we found at a flea market. I sit back and wait for the speech.
"No, no one really needs a relationship. Doesn't mean you don't get to have one. Doesn't mean Miles can't be more to you than a mid-morning cuddle buddy."
"It would ruin our friendship."
"Doesn't have to. He obviously isn't planning on going anywhere. He moved down here too, London. He did that for you. He has nothing to run from."
"He did that for both of us."
"Maybe." She shrugs. "He isn't crawling into my bed in the middle of the night when his gigs end."
After the move, Miles joined a local band as a guitarist and found his own apartment. He could have gone home, but he insisted he didn't want to leave us. As much as he does love us both, he treats me a little differently than he does Brooklyn.
I sigh and lean my head back. When did it all get so complicated?
"I feel like I should concentrate on getting us back on our feet and getting Through the Lens going."
"London, you don't need to take care of both of us all the damn time. We raised ourselves and have been through it all together. Together. Now, we came down here to start over . . . so start over."
I bite my lip and look at her. She's so full of confidence, never afraid to just take what she wants. I am terrified, thinking of all the ways it could go wrong or ruin our friendship. Ruin everything.
"I think it's time we take control of our lives."
She's right. For too long we bended, molded, and melted for each other and everyone else. We left to have a life. I just don't know what that life looks like yet.
I have something I never had before. A chance to be just London. Not London and Brooklyn. Not one half of something, but just me.
For the first time in my life I can have something to myself. I can be myself.
FOUR
Brooklyn
Some might think that stripping is degrading. People might think that it's the last resort to keep afloat when you're being pulled under too deep. It's embarrassing, disgusting, and shameful.
If find it empowering, enlightening, and exciting. It's my way of controlling my life and the audience.
In this club, I never feel ashamed or dirty. I feel sexy and powerful. I am still the rebel and I'm okay with that. I feel alive.
Sometimes you just need to own who you really are.
I watch another girl work the pole. Money carpets the shiny stage.
I'm envious of her but not because of the dollar bills that she will earn. It's her moves and the way she gracefully fl
oats across the stage. Her body swings around the silver pole as though she is weightless. She bends and twirls, contorting her body so that you can't tear your eyes away from her.
Tonight, I will take the pole for the first time during business hours. I've been watching the girls and practicing before and after my shift when no one is around. I'm ready to feel the rush of performing for the crowd. Performing in the VIP rooms is very different from being on the stage.
I wear a red leather bra with a matching thong. Covering it all, I have on an oversized leather jacket. I found it at a thrift shop. Even though I'm swimming in it, it's what's underneath that they want to see. My black boots come to my knees and my makeup is dark. I look like a badass.
Curiously, I scan the tables for Kane. I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or relieved that he's not here.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my bare thighs. I will be up soon and I run the routine over in my head.
The men who drool over the dancers have no idea what goes into a performance. They see skin and fantasy. They have no idea the strength and preparation, not only physically but mentally, that goes into the three minutes they see.
The rush is what we are all chasing in this dim and loud room.
When I know the song is coming to an end, I go to wait at the steps. Even with my nerves fried, my hands are surprisingly steady. On the outside, I look confident and ready.
The lights dim and I feel the dancer before me brush past me as she exists. I take the three stairs to the stage and face my back to the audience.
Raising both hands above my head, I grab the pole. The silver pole holds my spine straight and separates me from the men watching me. I'm still in the darkness as the first few beats of the song fill the room. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes as the red spotlight hits me.
Catcalls and whistles come from behind me but I concentrate on the music. My body slowly slides down the pole and I spread my knees. The men yell because they can't see what I'm showing off. It drives me to keep going.