by Holly Ryan
As I watch the trees zip past my window, I evaluate Cohen out of the corner of my eye. I secretly evaluate his car, too, which is just as smoking hot. I don’t know much about cars, but it looks to be a brand new model, and it’s sporting some upgrades I’ve never even heard of, let alone seen in person. The car is flawless, both inside and out. The seats are thick leather, padded and hand-stitched, colored black and traced with a bright, racer red. The touch screen panel above the center console is bigger than my Ipad at home, and words and symbols dance across the screen alongside a small blue 3D rendition of his car that rotates as we drive.
I wonder what he does to be able to afford this, but I don’t ask out of fear of being too forward. “So,” I say to break the silence, “since we’re going to McDonald’s, can I buy you some breakfast? As the official thanks for saving my life.”
“You’re not going to drop that, are you?”
We pull up to the drive thru and take our place behind a big, red SUV. I can’t believe there’s actually a line at this hour, but then again I guess it is breakfast time on a weekday.
“Well, it’s not like it’s an everyday thing. Not for me, anyway. And if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you knew what you were doing. You were so calm about it, so… in control. What are you, some kind of vigilante or something?” I’m still trying to refrain myself from asking the obvious: What do you do? Not that I actually think he’s a vigilante or anything. But don’t superheroes always have kick ass cars?
I thought it was funny, but Cohen doesn’t. His jaw tenses. His gaze empties, and the faintest deep, nearly invisible flash of pain glazes over them. Holding his eyes, the hair stands up on the back of my neck, but not out of fear of him; out of a mysterious fear of what he holds within him.
He gives a crooked smile, then exhales and then looks down at his lap. I look away, uncomfortable with the fact that without knowing how, I opened something in him. I went somewhere too deep, way too soon. I breathe out in synch with him, sending the invisible heaviness between us into the air.
COHEN
I didn’t want to tell her my last name. Not so soon, anyway. People can get the wrong idea about someone if they learn that they have a lot of money – and us Thatchers are pretty well known around these parts. It was mere luck that she didn’t put two and two together.
Once we order, she pulls out her card and tries to pass it across me. I gently brush it away. “That’s not going to happen,” I say, my voice matter-of-fact.
“Come on,” she insists. “It would make me feel better.”
I give her a look. “It’s McDonald’s.”
She laughs and then concedes, sliding her card back into her wallet.
I’m not sure what to make of Stella. Not yet, anyway. She’s good company, and from what I’ve seen so far, she’s a decent person. As for me stepping in to help her – the truth goes deep. It’s not something I can easily explain, which is why I told her that I didn’t know why I did what I did. That wasn’t a lie; I don’t know why I did it, but somewhere within me I think I might. I guess the whole hero thing is ingrained in me now that I failed at it the first time. And there is some odd, unnamable thing in her reminds me of the one I so miserably failed to help.
I’m ravaged, so I order a lot of food, but Stella only wants an ice cream cone, which is cute.
She takes it out of my hand as I find us a place to park. The sun will be coming up in a few hours, but for now it’s still pitch black out, with only the street lights to illuminate us.
“I’m surprised you wanted to do this,” I say, digging into my food.
“Why’s that?” She delicately licks at her cone.
“Because it’s late,” I answer. “Don’t you want to go home after your shift and get some sleep?”
“Not really. I can get by on four hours of sleep. On a good night, I get six, and that’s if I’m lucky. Plus, when it comes to this job you have to be a total night owl. If you’re not one already, it’ll turn you into one.”
“That makes sense.”
“Well, what about you?” She takes another lick.
“What about me?”
“Is this not late for you?”
“I don’t sleep much these days. This is totally normal for me.”
“So you’re a night owl, too.”
“I’m a night owl, too.”
I may be a night owl the same as her, but I do have to be at work tomorrow. Or, I guess that would be today, considering the time. My work days aren’t usually like that; I run the show, so I can get there whenever I want, or at least whenever is most convenient for me. But tomorrow is different because we have a meeting about a possible company merger, and it’s important. I brush that thought aside, though. I’m enjoying my time with her too much to care about work. I haven’t had a simple night out like this in the longest time. People surround me all day at work, and many of them are even what I’d consider friends… yet I still feel lonely.
“You were hungry,” she says as un-judgmentally as she can.
I didn’t realize that I’m practically shoving the food in my mouth. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You shouldn’t do that to yourself.”
I reach over, toward her side of the console. She tenses as my hand comes close to brushing her knee. Then I start toying with the button that controls the seat warmer, and she watches me closely, realizing that I didn’t mean it like that. She visibly relaxes. I finish the last bite of my burger, then clean everything up and adjust my back in my seat.
I say, “I shouldn’t, but I could say the same thing about you.”
She seems taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“What you do back there,” I gesture in the direction we came from, back at the club. “It’s not good for you.”
“I know stripping’s not good for me,” she says defensively. “But it’s a necessity right now. I have to do it.”
“Money?”
She pauses for a moment before nodding her head. “Yes, money.”
My heart all but breaks for her. Why should it though? Isn’t that how life has always been, almost since the beginning of time? Since the beginning of civilization, at least, we humans have been forced to do things we don’t want to do, all for the sake of money. But just because that’s how it’s been, and how it has to be for some people, doesn’t mean that’s how it should be.
I reach up and turn her face toward me. Her jaw falls open lightly, exposing a pair of perfectly straight, white teeth. “Hey,” I say to get her attention, as if I don’t already have it. “You don’t have to do anything for money.”
She shifts her eyes, confused. “Yes, I do.”
“What if I told you that you didn’t?”
“What do you mean?” Her cheek flushes against my hand.
I haven’t admitted it to myself until this point, but she really is gorgeous. Her dark hair is perfectly done, even after a night of hot, physical work. Her high cheekbones frame her face and draw attention to her almond-shaped brown eyes, leading down her to perfect lips. I tuck a lock of hair behind one of her ears.
Then I pull my eyes away from those lips and lower my hand, breaking the transfixion. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
She shakes her head, her hair slipping back out of place. “You haven’t offended me. I just don’t know what you mean.”
I take a breath. I have to be sure I want to say what I’m about to say. I have to be positive about it. About her. “What if I told you I wanted you to quit? And that I could help you do that?”
She tucks her hands away into her lap. She lifts her head toward the window and licks her lips. “I’m really, not…”
Shit. That came out wrong. She thinks I want something for it. Now she thinks I’m the same kind of creep that came on to her the other day, in the back of an alley and offered her cash. Yeah, I saw the whole thing. I was watching from the moment she disappeared while looking so distressed.
“No,
not like that,” I say, laughing to re-lighten the mood between us once more.
She looks back at me with pleading eyes, as though she’s desperate for me to correct myself.
“I, uh–” I clear my throat. It’s not like I’ve ever said anything like this before. “I’d like to see you not doing what you’re doing anymore, that’s all. It’s too dangerous.”
I stop to gauge her reaction; she’s watching me, intently curious, and it looks as though she has a lot to say, but she holds her tongue. The hum of cars whirring past is the only noise between our voices.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
I nod. “It is. I know. And you can tell me to get lost if you want to, but I have money. I can help you stop this.” There it is.
And now I’m wondering if I just made a mistake. None of this was my intention. It hadn’t so much as crossed my mind at the beginning of the night, and for a while there I felt relieved with the simple act of her agreeing to change her name. But this came over me just now, as a sort of impulse, as something good and slightly thrilling to do for her.
“I don’t understand,” she says again. “You want to give me money so I don’t have to dance?”
“Basically, yeah. I guess there’s no other way to put it. I’m offering that to you.”
She says slowly, “You’ll give me money.”
“I’ll give you money.”
“If I give up stripping.”
“That’s right. I’ll replace the money you’re making now so you can quit. I’ll send it to you every two weeks, an exact replacement of your paycheck.” I pause, realizing that she obviously works on tips. “Or at least the average of what you’d earn.”
“I could lie to you about how much I earn.”
“I guess you could. I’d never know.”
She still looks confused, like she’s trying to figure out some kind of catch. “Do I… have to see you? Or at least keep in touch?”
I shake my head. Great. She still thinks I’m a creep. Not as big of a creep as before, but the factor is still there. “You don’t have to do anything.”
She examines me, a smile starting to form, and I can tell she’s buying into the idea. “So, you’ll just send me this stream of money for nothing. Why would you do that? We barely know each other.”
“It’s wouldn’t be for nothing.” I want to say It’s for you to be able to stop doing what you’re doing. For you to be safe, because even though we barely know each other, I still want that for you. Just like I wanted it for the woman I couldn’t save. Instead, I say, “Look, I just think it’s wrong for someone to feel forced into anything. Especially when it’s something like what you’re doing. And I want to help you. Is that so wrong?”
“No,” she says. “I guess it’s not wrong.”
We both pause, unsure of what to say. In the end, I doubt she’ll agree to this. There are way too many variables. This is too random, and she’s right, she barely knows me and I barely know her.
I speak up. “And I guess I am a bit of a vigilante.”
At that, she smiles. Then she looks down into her hands. “I never thought someone would offer to do something like that.” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re welling up, tears ready to fall. “You’re a good person, Cohen.”
I could say the same about her.
STELLA
So, apparently he’s rich.
And by all accounts, he seems to be a genuinely good guy. When I told him as much, my heart was fluttering out of my chest. I did my best to hide it though. I don’t want him to know how I feel until I’m certain there’s at least a possibility he could feel the same way. That’s just how I roll. You know, the whole protected heart thing. I’m one of those girls, despite what people may think when they hear about what I do for a living.
I turn on the lights as I make my way into my apartment and plop my purse onto one of the tall barstools that sits in the center of my kitchen, throwing my coat and stripped-off sweater on top. I’m beat, and I’m starting to feel the familiar sensation of soreness in my legs. I usually get a little sore after a long night of dancing. Making my way through the kitchen, I pull down a glass and pour myself some red wine, then take a slow swig, relishing in the taste and relaxation.
Then, carrying the glass with me, I grab a novel and draw myself a hot bath. As I slip into the steaming water, I try to let everything from last night drift away. The close call, the anxiety surrounding it. The wine is helping with that. I lean my head back against the edge of the tub, resting my neck on a cushy rolled up towel. I want to think good thoughts right now, not ones of fear and danger.
I bring my hand to the front of my neck, to the area where one of the thugs had made to grab before Cohen stepped in. What would have happened here, if Cohen hadn’t been there?
So much for happy thoughts. I take another drink and scoot further into the water.
The possibility of quitting my job is a happy thought. I suspected Cohen had money because of his car, but I had no clue that he had that kind of money, and never in a million years would I have imagined that he’d offer such a thing out of the blue.
Cohen, a man I’ve only known for a few days. Been out on only one date with– actually, was that even a date? An early morning McDonald’s run we were practically forced into due to the club’s closing, sitting in a parking lot and eating ice cream and burgers out of a car. No. That was definitely not a date, even in the loosest sense of the term.
About an hour ago he dropped me back at my car, where we’d left it at the club, and we drove out together, eventually parting ways without another word.
But before I left him, he gave me his address and his phone number. He told me to call or stop by the next night so we can finish sorting things out. That is, if I decide to take him up on his offer. It’s a good enough plan, but I still haven’t agreed to anything, and I’m not sure that I will.
The whole money thing isn’t like me. As soon as he brought it up, I knew I probably wouldn’t go through with it, despite how undeniably tempting it was. I’m not the kind of person who can accept someone else’s handouts. I don’t have it in me, the same way that he doesn’t have it in him to fit in with the strip club crowd. It’s not a part of me, and it’s not something that can be faked.
I finish the glass of wine, tossing the last drop back, and when the water temperature starts to drop I get out and get myself ready for bed. I pull the stuffed animals off my bed in order to make my way under the sheets. Yes, I still sleep with stuffed animals, and no, I’m not ashamed, although I get that at my age it’s a pretty unique thing to do. And it can make for some interesting conversation if I should ever bring a guy home with me some night. If being the key word. I give one, my oldest teddy bear, a kiss on the nose before placing it on a nearby chair.
The few remaining cold weather birds we still have hanging around are starting to chirp. I hear them through my window as I lay my head down on my pillow, breathing in the sweet smells of peppermint and lavender emitting from the essential oil diffuser in the corner of my room. The sun will be up soon. I bundle my arms under the pillow, supporting my chin, and fight against closing my eyes. I want to see him again. I don’t want to see him for his money, or his car, or the fact that he’s incredibly good looking and smells delicious. Sorry, Lorelei. Smells sexy. All those things are great, don’t get me wrong. But there is more to him than that… something kind and attractive and potentially wonderful, and it’s that part of him that I want to see again.
I roll onto my back, my eyes still wide open in the half-darkness that’s now lighting my room.
He’s a night owl. Why, I wonder. One thing I learned during my studies in psychology is that very few people’s brains are that programmed for such a reversed sleep schedule unless they give it a good, forceful reason to be. Like me, with my job. My job pulls the night owl trait out of me, tooth and nail. I roll onto my side. It’s a given that there’s more to Cohen than meets the eye, so I don’t even know why I�
��m trying to figure it out on my own. He will have to help me with that.
Even apart from that, I have a lot to think about. If I accept his offer, that means I’ll have to give my notice of resignation to Mama May within the next day or two. And I know she won’t be happy, because I’m one of her best dancers. And Lorelei… Lorelei is a whole different story. She’ll require some explaining to. She’ll be working on her own from now on, at least until they can find someone to replace me. She won’t let me go without a fight.
My thoughts continue to swirl until they finally land back around and rest on Cohen.
I’m used to men throwing themselves all over me, both on stage and off, but it’s different with him. When I’m with him, the fact that I’m a stripper doesn’t seem to exist. In his eyes, I’m a normal person, as worthy of his attention as anyone else, and perhaps a bit more so. I saw it in the way he looked at me in the club, and I saw it in the way he pulled me away from those thugs, how the thought of participating in their evil acts so obviously didn’t even register in his mind – only the thoughts of vengeance, and me. He’s one hell of a sexy mystery, and I’ve never felt so intrigued.
Finally, I close my eyes. I pull the covers up to my chin and bundle them up with my fists, creating a warm cocoon of safety around my aching body, my lame attempt at somehow feeling someone else here with me. I fade into darkness to the sound of the birds.
I spend the following day wasting a few hours in the office, lazing through the necessities. When I return home, I busy myself with cleaning and organizing – my number one hobby when I’m not on the pole. Which, I think as I carefully dust around an outdated Christmas figurine that I never got around to putting away last month, makes my life incredibly lame. As lame as it is, I get through all of it the morning without giving much thought to Cohen, and for that, I’m impressed with myself.
When the afternoon starts to disappear, I messily stuff my cleaning supplies back under the sink and clap my hands. A clean apartment always makes me feel better, but I know what’s going on here. I’m avoiding shit, and I’d been trying to pull that wool over my own eyes. I’ve been avoiding noticing that I’m avoiding something. How messed up. I should already know what I’m going to tell Cohen, but thanks to these successful attempts at keeping myself too busy to think, I have no idea what’s going to happen when I go over there in a few hours.