Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  Then again, that incident could also be seen as Carlos having pulled the wool over my eyes.

  Katherine continues to have the presence of mind to save me. Her fists may not be clenched, but her voice sure sounds strained. “I wouldn’t call it harassment, but I am far from comfortable with how he is handling the situation. What did he say?”

  Again Dina’s head jerks toward me. “Nothing. I thought he was with you, so I called your name. He paused, then sped up and practically dragged the girl he was with to the elevators. When he started kissing her, I didn’t know if he was hiding his face so I wouldn’t tell you he had already moved on, or if he was trying to make you jealous. Either way, I figured you were free now.”

  So there is plenty of reasonable doubt.

  “You are not sure it was him?” Katherine asks.

  Dina chuckles. “Well, he was wearing a baseball hat in a nice place.”

  Yep, it was Carlos. Thank God we are only living in sin.

  What am I saying? No wonder why he hasn’t proposed! He said he planned to on Valentine’s Day, but didn’t because he lost his job. Maybe he is staying unemployed as an excuse not to. I’d rather he’d be honest, especially since he was the one who brought up marriage in the first place.

  I need to step back. The person Dina saw may sound like Carlos, but that is also the classic disguise of every celebrity, which Toronto happens to have a decent amount of. So far, all facts are circumstantial. I wish someone would tell that to my heart so it could pick itself up off of the floor.

  Dina shrugs. “Oh well, Bailey’s happiness is what matters.” She pats my arm before walking off. “I always knew you could do better.”

  Katherine touches my shoulder. Concern radiates out of her hand and into my soul. “You okay?”

  The empty pit under the knot in my throat slowly fills with the truth I’ve denied for so long. Everyone suspects Carlos has been up to something—Katherine, my sister, and even me. With a hearty sigh, I lean back and let the counter hold my weight. “I can admit it to you, yet I can scarcely admit it to myself.” I look dead into Katherine’s eyes, which is brave considering I know how she will answer my question. “You also think it was him, don’t you?”

  Her soft tone and downcast eyes convey she is well aware of the hurt her words carry. “One hundred percent sure? No. More like ninety-five. Without her looking directly at him … Dina has only seen him at the occasional work party, you know? And with a hat on …”

  Tears well and threaten to stream. Carlos and I were once great together. At least I think we were. It has been so long since we’ve had good times it is hard to remember what they were like.

  Our problems have to stem from the stress of losing his job. It can’t be I am not worthy of loyalty, can it? What is so wrong with me he wants someone else?

  Oh! I need to knock off this self-loathing. I am worthy of love. I am also not deserving of suffering.

  “What do you want to do?” Katherine’s tone says she is in this with me whether I want to spy on him or rip his balls off.

  My voice cracks with pain, despite my determination. “We have to get you ready. These lipsticks have to risk their lives with Elsie.” I swipe up my stuff. Tucking the warm glass under my arm takes my pulse down a notch. However, when I pick up the rest of my belongings, I find the few things that were so easy to carry before seem too have multiplied, and I struggle to keep them from falling. Katherine reaches to help, and I shake my head. “Come on. Let’s get to my trailer before I break down.” I practically sprint out the door. Katherine races to catch up. “No talking about this, okay? I need time to process everything.”

  Rapidly she nods. “You know I am always here for you, right?”

  I not only know it, I thank God for it. Time and again Katherine and I have asked ourselves how we get so busy each is the only close friend the other has. Our lives are ridiculous. “I do, and I’m counting on you and my sister, because I may really need you both later. My gut screams I’m headed for a fall.”

  Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me

  DALE

  Leeza grabs the card key from my hand and jams it into my hotel room door with the intensity of a mom fighting to free her first born from a blazing building. I’m scarcely registering she’s flipped the lights on when her jerk to my tie lands me in the room. In a beat, her skirt is on the floor.

  I told myself I would not wind up like this tonight. After all, exotic dancers like Leeza want respect just like all other women. I planned to give her only that, no matter what—but my inner beast has again proven it is incapable of listening to my mind. How can I blame it? Leeza’s blue contact-covered eyes are suddenly deep, like those of a snake ready to strike. Despite our hard and heavy make out session in the car, her over-sprayed blonde hair is still worthy of an eighties video vixen. Fingers with perfectly manicured, red fingernails, squared at the tips, grab her white blouse and rip, sending buttons pinging off of the walls. Underneath is the predictable picture—black lace bra, panties, garter, and thigh highs covering a body Hustler would fork over loads for.

  My crass suspicions have been confirmed. Her obvious focus on getting here, her ability to maintain the perfect appearance no matter how heavily we go at it, and the expensive lingerie she is eager to expose are screams for attention. I tried to show her she could be appreciated in other ways—that people are often worthier of more than they give themselves credit for—and I did it with the intention of not winding up like this.

  At least I think my aim was pure. Experience and the amount of pigment in my skin have shown me not to let my head get wrapped up in stereotypes. Leeza dressing just south of the line between nice and trashy doesn’t mean I should see her as a streetwalker with daddy issues. Not all who strip for a living do it because they feel every dollar stuck in their panties is a sign of approval for their existence. It seems the only women I meet are career-driven peers or ones like Leeza who work where I take clients with Macho King complexes, which happens to be strip clubs.

  Brief conversations with Leeza gave me the impression she is more than a hot body with a painted face. (And painted it is. Judging by the conversation that led us here, I’m pretty sure she never shows her real face to anyone, which I find a shame. I’m betting what is under this Canadian woman’s concealer is no different from what is under the makeup of the women back home in Los Angeles, which is nothing worth hiding.) And yes, considering what I am looking for, I should have known better than to pick up an exotic dancer. But the right woman hasn’t walked up to me, nor have I tripped over her, so what is wrong with doing a little digging in unlikely places? Determination helps me close deals many consider unobtainable, so it eventually has to come through in my personal life as well.

  These are all valid reasons to have a night of fun, aren’t they? Besides, our date started with the best of intentions. Night after night, Leeza gave my client much-desired attention. Of course I made sure she was well compensated, which is ultimately what led me here. Originally I had no notions of spending extra time with her. But last night at the club, when I went to grab an extra fifty for her tip, my Glen Miller, lucky charm, guitar pick jumped out of my wallet and gleamed at me. Was it screaming to spend more money by treating her to a nice meal without ulterior motives? Time and again I told myself the idea was brilliant. I even made a point of opening our dinner conversation in a way that gave her total control. “So, tell me a little about you,” I said.

  Leeza’s brows raised. I waited as her eyes circled the room, followed by her picking at her nails. Did I make her uncomfortable, or was I the most boring date in existence? Maybe my tone was off. “Like what?” she finally asked.

  “Well, anything you’d care to share.”

  Her lips pulled in, and her eyes showed confusion over where to start. Maybe I should have asked something direct, but I didn’t want to put her on the spot. Also, I know her only by her profession. If I asked how long she had been taking her clothes off for money, I’
m certain Mom would have appeared out of nowhere and smacked me.

  Finally, Leeza looked up, and a smile crossed her face. How she flipped her hair and ran her eyes down my tie like it was in the way nearly made focusing on conversation impossible. Damn her lips looked tasty—so tasty I nearly had to slap myself back into reality. I must have been determined to do right, because not jumping when I could was crazy. Instead, I blurted the first question that came to mind. “What type of music do you love?” A person’s passions say a lot about them, so music seemed a great place to start. Besides, if a woman ever busts out with a love of Ellington, I’m proposing—search over, case closed.

  Again she drew my attention awry, this time with one of those perfectly manicured nails as it stroked my hand. “I only listen to the stuff at the club. What else matters?” While her eyes honed in on mine, desire slid down my throat and into my groin. Dear mother of all that is holy. How I wanted—

  Son of a bitch, Dale, pull it together. “What about when you go out? Do you like to dance?”

  Her hand pressed into mine, sliding its way up my arm. Much like the firmness of her grip, her voice commanded my attention. “I think you already know the answer.”

  Memories of her wrapped around a pole brought about a stupid grin. My conscience tried to kick me in the head and wipe it off my face. How the hell was I supposed to focus? I grabbed her hand and honed in on her eyes as earnestly as I could given the image she had planted. “I meant with a partner. I’ve met the Leeza at the club, now I’d like to meet more. You seem like a fascinating woman.”

  Her head tilted, and her brows rose in the center. How she reminded me of a sweet lap dog made me feel I would be banging a puppy. “No one has ever asked me about music before. Shoot, no one has ever asked me much of anything. I don’t know how to respond.”

  God, her voice sounded so sweet—almost innocent. Was this the gateway to a solid conversation? “Then tell me something else about you. Anything.” Her shrug brought her hands up to her shoulders, serious about coming up empty. What kind of self-esteem issues keeps a person from talking about herself? There had to be something of substance about her. Maybe all that face paint reflected a love of art or a flair for the offbeat. “How about something you are proud of?”

  Her eyes filled with warmth, and a glossy, crimson smile arched across her face. Her back even straightened in response to the pride filling her. What she may burst out with had me enthralled. “My boobs are real.”

  In a disgustingly male move, my eyes shot straight to her tits. If that was not an invitation to drool, what is? I also became resigned to finding out if she was telling the truth about the nature of her anatomy, first hand. I have a hard time saying no if an offer is made, and she confirmed one was on the table when she added, “I’m looking forward to dessert without the calories.”

  My hormones rejoiced so hard I was almost able to push aside how my heart sank when Leeza turned aglow from the relief of being back in her element. After all, who can form a relationship with someone who doesn’t want to be understood? But hey, I was being made a golden offer, so why deny us a night of fun?

  So yeah, I am a pig because what started as an attempt not to be a stereotypical jerk thinking Leeza was a dolled up face with daddy issues is ending the way I knew it would—turning my mind off and letting my body enjoy the moment. But a tug at my soul tells I am more than an opportunist. The nasty truth is, if I think about how Leeza and I are two people with hearts and minds, yet seem incapable of conversation, I’ll be more lost than ever. I didn’t sign up to be like this. I had a life planned with Abby, and if she hadn’t been so selfish, we’d be married and strolling down the road of happily ever after.

  Sometimes being a playboy saves me from feeling my world has died.

  Maybe instead of jumping out at me, that guitar pick was trying to commit suicide.

  Even though it will only be for the weekend, thank God I have the sense to get the hell out of this town and head for home in the morning.

  I Got A Right To Sing The Blues

  BAILEY

  After merely a few minutes in my makeup chair, a lovely woman exits my trailer. Her beauty has little to do with the magic of makeup. Since she is only twenty, she has natural advantages I, a woman of nearly twice her age, don’t possess. Watching her walk out the door, and tilting her head to the sun as if its rays would not dare harm her, brings to mind every fine line on my face. It also forces me to remember my great grandmother’s words, “The number of years you have spent on this earth doesn’t matter; but wasting time when your years have taught you to know better does.” Truly, GranGran was the most insightful person I will ever meet. I miss her.

  Though I know it will put me in a time crunch later, I forgo preparing for my next human canvas. Instead, I grab my nineteen forties, Lucite purse, that reminds me of what I am missing in life, and head for the grocery store.

  A jolt of self-awareness makes my feet lock just shy of the door. I’m running—unwilling to admit my life isn’t what I strove for. At some point I have to face that, even if I do it in baby steps.

  I set my purse that some would call a relic on the counter and stare. For its age and wear, it looks pretty damn good. Yesterday, I looked good, too. Now, not only has twenty-four hours of questioning Carlos’s fidelity turned me into a red, puffy-eyed mess, but a purse made thirty years before I was looks fresher. Maybe I take better care of it than I do myself.

  Flat out, something is wrong with my relationship. Even if Carlos isn’t cheating, it is clear he has stopped caring about us, and I have been trying to make up for it by picking up his end of the slack, thus sacrificing my own needs. Why have I not dug to the bottom of Carlos’s long bout with unemployment? Why have I not pressed him to take any job until he finds the right fit?

  I catch sight of my makeup counter. The mirror behind it reflects how my wide-legged trousers didn’t get pressed this morning, and I forgot to put on the lipstick that matches the red buttons on this silk blouse before I left home. I’ve been so frazzled I can’t even find the earring, necklace, and brooch set that go with this outfit. I could swear I put them back in the box with my rose gold, inlaid bracelet when I wore all of it last week. With the way things have been, they probably wound up under a pile of Carlos’s crap and got tossed in the trash.

  Again I feel like a schlumpy mess. Instead of looking like the forties doll I am used to seeing in the mirror, a train wreck stares back at me. To rub more salt into my wounds, although I was trained to put things away as I finish with them, brushes and palettes are scattered about. The state of disarray drives home part of the problem; I have too much going on. Being overwhelmed has made me lose sight of what is in front of me. Everywhere I turn, I’m trudging through muck, even though I should take a moment to get my head together. The real Bailey Kane doesn’t let herself get scattered, nor does she wallow.

  It is time to pop back into character and kick my own butt—starting with admitting my suspicions and weaknesses, not only to myself but also to the person who won’t let me flounder. It is also time to face my life, and it is long past time I called my ball-busting little sister.

  Without further thought and thus risking a slide back into self-pity, I whip out my phone and dial. Given the time difference between here in Toronto and there in Los Angeles, she should be settled into work by now.

  As soon as she answers, Darla jumps into conversation and tosses me into her world. “Guess what I found on my desk this morning. A four-inch mound of Tequila-flavored goo. Apparently the guys in the plant got a little festive last night and poured a drink to the candy gods directly into the jellybean tumbler. They claim the beans looked perfect when they left. However, the massive amount of alcohol caused the gelatin to break down overnight, and I had to scrape a glob off of my desk. They could have at least left me a lime and some salt.”

  Darla’s ability to forgo insipid small talk and dive into the heart of a conversation is my cue from the universe, s
hoving me to blurt my problems into the open. “I’m pretty sure Carlos is cheating.” Despite my fiery tone, my trembling voice shows anger is a crutch, supporting my heart during a battle with anguish. Suspecting infidelity won’t make finding out easier. My anger pushes on, yet the words crumble in my throat. “You know how since he got laid off, he’s been going fishing with his friends all the time?”

  “Yeah,” she says softly. Clearly my bravery is transparent. “Bailey, are you okay?”

  This is what I love about my sister; she can sell it straight, but she also knows people need understanding. If ever there were a time for her to let me have it over something long obvious to everyone, it’s now. I’ve really let myself get taken advantage of. “Yesterday, a coworker wanted to set me up with her brother because she saw someone, who looked suspiciously like Carlos, walking into a hotel last weekend with some cheap— with someone else. When he said he was going fishing, I thought he actually meant hooking fish, not some … God, I am such an idiot!”

  My head says doing something physical will keep pain at bay. I go for a sip of coffee, but realize something that will further agitate me is the last thing I, or anyone in my vicinity, needs. The bulldozer of reality is flattening me. Soon I’ll either be a mess of tears or on my way to rip Carlos’s balls off. Supposedly, he is not home until tonight, but how do I know that tramp—no, that possibly unsuspecting victim—isn’t in my bed with him now?

  “Yesterday?” Darla asks. “Why did you wait to call me? You know you deserve better than this, right?”

  My pain gets swallowed back. Breaking down won’t help. I have to be strong and face this. “Remember how GranGran always said to trust your gut? I needed time to hear what it was saying. And I do know I deserve better. I also know I need to kick him out.” I step deeper into the trailer, far away from the bright lights so no one can watch me fall apart.