by Shandi Boyes
For a man who appears to know nothing about gymnastics, he's got knowledge by the bucket loads. Just ten minutes of aerial ribboning equals an hour of cardio.
“Music?” I ask, nerves rattling in my tone.
He shoves a cherry-flavored lollipop into his mouth. “Who needs music? Your heart has its own beat; work with it.”
My lips crimp. “Okay... I can do this.” My words don’t have an ounce of confidence in them.
After a quick stretch to ensure I don't risk injury, I curl the satin ribbon around my arm before racing to the end of the stage. The satin catches me midair, winding around my body as I have trained it to do for years.
Within seconds, my love for aerial acrobatics overtakes the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I complete my routine with the precise accuracy awarded by years of study. I tumble, twist, and glide down the silk as if it is an extension of my body. I’ve always felt free dancing, but this is an entirely different experience. It is like I am soaring, flying freely in the air. I finally feel at peace when I’m floating amongst silk.
I plan to end my routine as practiced, with a daring death roll. I can only hope the quick calculations I made on arrival are accurate, or I'm two seconds away from landing with a smack on the hard wooden floor.
I land with mere millimeters to spare, my touchdown perfect. It looks risqué and on edge, yet graceful at the same time.
Smiling like a loon, I unwrap the satin from my thigh and stand to bow. I’m not bowing expecting an uproar of applause. I’m showing my thanks to the arts; I’m bowing in gratitude.
"Woohoo!" shouts a deep voice from the side. An ear-piercing wolf-whistle complements the lackey's praise. "Holy shit. That was as fucking hot as...fuck."
An unexpected giggle graces my smile. "Thank you," I reply, curtseying as if I've just performed for royalty.
After bolstering his praise with a bump of our hips, the unnamed man wraps his half-consumed lollipop into a crinkled package, stuffs it into his jeans pocket, then starts pulling down my ribbons.
He’s barely yanked on the pully twice when a husky voice to our side says, “Wait.”
The club owner throws his cell onto the glistening countertop before strutting our way. Yes, I said strut. He just needs to fan out some feathers, and his rooster walk will be as perfectly executed as my routine.
“That...thing you just did...”
“Aerial ribboning,” I fill in, still giddy.
He nods. “Yes... that. Can you do it with less of... this?” He waves his hand at my plain white tee and faded black shorts.
“Do you mean naked?” I double-check, confident in my intuition.
My clothes may be hideously outdated, but they leave nothing to the imagination. Even with my tee being a little baggy, my shorts are so tight-fitting, I couldn’t look any more naked unless I were naked.
The dark-haired man’s lips twitch as he struggles to hold in his smile. “Would you be open to the possibility of doing it nak—”
“No,” I interrupt him, not the least bit worried about my bitchy attitude.
Just like it always does, my ten-minute acrobatic routine stripped the anguish from my mind, leaving me free of turmoil. I was unsuccessful in securing a job today, but that doesn't mean I will be unsuccessful tomorrow. I hope.
I shift my eyes to the lackey watching our exchange with amusement slashed across his features. When I capture his attention, I nudge my head to the hoist, requesting he continue to lower my ribbons.
When he does as requested, I pad to my gym bag left dumped on the floor.
The club owner shadows me. “Topless?”
“No,” I answer, shaking my head.
He follows me off the stage, his desperation interesting me more than his suggestions. “What about a glittery little number with a few well-placed tassels...”
The rest of his sentence rams into his throat when I shoot him a vicious sideways glare. “I’m only here because your ad said you were looking for dancers. If it had mentioned the word stripper, I wouldn’t have auditioned.”
“Huh,” he huffs out with a chuckle. “Did you not see the big ‘Gentleman’s Club’ in bright red letters in numerous spots outside the club doors? You’re here, sweetheart...” He doesn’t emphasize his term of endearment as pleasantly as he did the first few times. “...because you are like every other girl who walked through those doors today. You’re desperate.”
Having no plausible defense, I remain quiet. I saw the signs he mentioned. They flashed into my eyes like big ass warnings, yet, I still walked through the doors because I am exactly what he said I am: desperate.
“So, what is it? Are you paying a hefty tuition fee, running, or are you an addict?”
His eyes scan my body. I wouldn’t say it is an overly sleazy gawk, but it isn’t a friendly one either. “Considering you’re a little too old to be saddled with school fees, I’ll say it is one of the latter.”
I roll my eyes, not looking any more mature than my nearly twenty-nine years. “I’m not doing any of those things. Maybe I’m just a poor, lonely housewife who wants to stick it to her old man by shaking her moneymaker for paying clients instead of his lazy ass.”
I’m startled to within an inch of my life when he seizes my wrist and yanks me toward him. I’m five seconds from showing him aerial ribboning isn’t the only way I’ve kept fit the past ten years. I also practice martial arts.
He's saved from discovering my love of boxing when his lackey says, "Come on, Pete, let her go."
Pete ignores his request. “No track marks on your arms. Where do you shoot up? Between your toes?” His eyes drop to my bare feet.
I yank my arm out of his grip. “I’m not a drug addict.”
“So you’re running?” he surmises, reading between the lines.
“I didn’t say that,” I snarl, snatching my ribbon from where it landed on stage.
I need to leave, and I need to leave now. I raise my eyes to the man observing me with worry. He's no longer sucking on a lollipop like someone much younger; his squinted gaze is bouncing between Pete and me.
When the late-hanging sun reflects in his glistening eyes, it dawns on me why I felt immediately comfortable around him. He has wise, old eyes like my dad had.
God, I miss him. Every. Single. Day.
There is only one person I’ve missed nearly as much. He's the same man who restored my faith in humanity before destroying it beyond repair. The one man I’ll always love even when I hate. Ryan.
I thought our five-year separation when we were teens was torture, but it was nothing compared to the past ten years. Ryan deceived me, yet the man who creeps into my dreams isn't a liar or a cheat. He's the boy I fell madly in love with when I was six. The man who chased away my demons while making me feel whole. He's a knight in shining armor, but instead of riding in on a white horse, he had a dark blue bike with recently removed training wheels.
I dared Ryan to step out of his comfort zone that day, and he challenged me to step into mine. If it weren't for his words of wisdom whispered in my ear every night, I would never have the courage to do what I am doing right now. To an outsider, it looks like I've hit rock bottom. To me, I'm striving for better—one day at a time.
After stuffing my ribbons and bolts into my gym bag, I return my eyes to the stranger, who is once again sucking on his beloved lollipop.
“Thank you,” I mouth, my worry about being homeless incapable of excusing my manners.
He grins around his treat before dipping his chin. “Until next time.”
Smiling at his assumption there will be a next time, I pivot on my heels and stalk to the main entrance, tugging on my hoodie on my way. Nothing against this club, but I’d rather not be seen entering and exiting it.
My quick strides across the highly buffed floors slow when an Italian accent shouts, "I'll pay you fifty dollars a night to do your routine." They come to a complete stop when he continues, "I'll even let you keep your clothes on."
&n
bsp; Although tempted by his offer, I’d never survive on three hundred and fifty dollars a week, so I negotiate, “Fifty dollars a routine.”
Pete laughs, amused by my negotiation skills. “That’s fifty dollars for ten, twenty minutes max. No fucking chance,” he scoffs. “I could have my dick sucked for less than that.”
“Fifty dollars for thirty seconds of work? Your odds don’t stack up, Pete,” pipes up a husky voice from the side.
"Shut up, Jet," Pete snarls, glaring at his right-hand man. After returning his slit eyes to mine, he says, "Fifty dollars a night. Take it or leave it."
“Okay,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders like it’s no big deal. “It was nice meeting you.” My praise isn’t for him; it is for Jet.
I wait for Jet to dip his chin again, acknowledging my comment before I continue for the door, praying I didn’t misread the desperation in Pete’s voice. I really really need this job. I thought my mom left my dad and me high and dry the first time she vanished. It was nothing compared to the second fleecing she issued me months after his death. That old saying about not having two nickels to rub together—that’s been the story of my life the past four years. Except now, I’m not just broke; I’m homeless as well.
I stop halfway through the main entrance door when Pete shouts, “One hundred dollars a night, and you keep your tips.” The last half of his sentence is forced, as if it pained him to say.
I crank my neck back to the stage. “How much will that be?”
Once again, my question isn’t directed at Pete. It is for the dirty-blond with a devastating grin. Jet—my stranger/ally.
Jet purses his lips. "Normal girls. . . Fifty, maybe a hundred a night. You..." The smile on his face forces my knees together. "An easy two hundred."
"A night?" I clarify, wanting to make sure we are on the same wavelength.
Jet’s smile reveals he didn’t miss the shock in my tone. “Easy,” he guarantees in a rumble.
My eyes bounce between him and Pete while contemplating a reply. That’s more per night than any job I’ve been offered, but can I do this? Can I take something I love and sex it up to entice dirty old men out of their hard-earned money?
Yes. Yes, I can. For her, I’ll do anything.
“I can wear my clothes?” This time, my question is for Pete.
He points to my rundown getup. “Do you have anything more enticing than that?”
It shames me, but I shake my head.
“Give her a wardrobe budget—”
“Shut up, Jet!” Pete demands again, the veins in his neck bulging like he’s about to have a coronary.
Pete runs his eyes down my body enough times to creep me out before he pushes off his feet and heads my way. If Jet weren't eyeing him with as much caution as me, I'd be fleeing. Mercifully, his reassuring glance keeps my feet planted on the ground. He has my back, even though we were only strangers minutes ago.
“Although I’d rather you wear one of the outfits we have out back, you’re not going to do that, are you?” Pete asks, smiling a slick grin.
I shake my head.
Huffing, his hand slips into his trouser pocket to dig out a bundle of bills. “Keep your receipt. I plan to claim anything you buy on my taxes.”
His command shocks me. I didn’t think businesses like this kept records anymore. I assumed when Col went down, all legitimate business dealings for establishments like this went right along with him.
Realizing his business dealings have no impact on me, I accept the three hundred dollar bills Pete is thrusting at me before nodding.
“We open at 9 PM. Make sure you are here no later than 8.”
Not waiting for me to reply, Pete spins on his heels and stalks back to the stage Jet is standing on, giving me the thumbs up. Pretending I can’t feel my stomach swirling at the base of my throat, I return his gesture.
Chapter 8
Savannah
“Ten minutes, Abby.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m coming,” I assure Jet, glaring at my reflection in the mirror.
My father would be rolling in his grave if he could see me now. Not only am I wearing a bathing suit as if it is an outfit, but my makeup is also done in a palette that can only be described with one word: trashy. The red lipstick is classic old Hollywood, but my dark shadowed eyes and contoured cheeks make me look years younger than I am, and much more risqué than my celibate lifestyle entails.
After adding a few more pins to the rich chocolate brown wig I’ve been wearing the past three weeks, I stand to make sure the girly parts of my body are covered. Well, as hidden as they can be in a two-piece someone my age shouldn't be wearing.
I fan my sweaty cheeks with my hand when I take my position in the wings of the stage, waiting for my introduction. The crowd has grown dramatically the past few weeks, and are graciously missing the vicious chants and unmissable boos my first routine was welcomed with.
The clients at Vipers were as unimpressed with my dressed form as Pete was the first time he saw it. Fortunately, the topless waitresses’ mingling around the club kept their interest at bay long enough I could perform my routine without incident.
When I finished, pin-drop silence spread across the club. I was sure I was seconds away from being pummeled with rotten tomatoes.
Something was pummeled that night.
Mercifully, it wasn’t my body with rotting fruit.
It was my eardrums.
The crowd of approximately thirty men responded in the same manner Jet did the first time he saw my routine. They cheered. They clapped. Then they threw money at my feet.
I was so damn excited, I bobbed down to gather the bills like the novice I was. After ushering me off stage, Jet explained it was his job to collect the tips at the end of each performance, and he would have them waiting at my dressing table by the end of the night. Although trust has become a significant issue for me the past ten + years, I held Jet to his word.
He didn’t disappoint.
I made one hundred and eighty-three dollars and fifteen cents in tips my first night. Although it was a little short of the figure Jet had assured earlier that day, it was pretty damn close, and I didn't remove an article of clothing.
The first week, my money went toward the deposit for a two-bedroom apartment. My second week, I used my earnings to have the gas and electric connected. This week, I'm aiming high. I need a car. I don't care what condition it is in. I just need it to get me from Point A to B. The four-mile walk from Vipers to my apartment is growing old fast. After twisting myself around two slips of silk for three hours in four-inch heels, I'm exhausted. A car will be a godsend.
The lights dim two times, announcing it is time for my performance to begin. I move to the X marked on the middle of the stage. Wanting to give his clients the same dramatic edge he got, Pete requested I start my routine as I did the first time he saw it: by leaping off the stage.
A smile touches my lips. You won’t believe how many clients hold out their hands, preparing to catch me. Doing my routine without any safety measures enhances the clients’ . . thrill level, which, in turn, increases my bank balance. It’s a win-win, really.
Once I have the silk positioned around my right arm, I twist my neck to Jet standing at the side of the stage. Although he's barely seen in the dim lighting, the white stick of his favorite cherry lollipop makes him identifiable.
Within seconds of me dipping my chin, advising I am ready, soft, sensual music filters around the club. I breathe out two times before sprinting for the end of the stage. Just as they do every time I perform, the regular clients of Vipers hold out their arms to catch me, and the newbies gasp in shock.
I love this. Even taking something I adore and ramping it up to entice larger tips can’t change my love of acrobatics. I get so immersed in my routine, within seconds I forget I am performing. I am simply free—floating amongst silk.
By the time my performance reaches the end of my playlist, I am sweating profusely and smiling without shame.
The crowd is even more robust than usual. My love of aerial ribboning is as contagious as the flu; they can't help but smile.
With it being Friday night, I climb to the very top of the silk rungs, wanting to achieve the most drastic death roll possible. I’m halfway through twisting the ribbon around my midsection when my eyes lower to calculate my risk. The satin slips from my sweaty grip when my eyes lock in a man at the edge of the stage. Usually, the stage lights hide the clients from my view, but since I’m positioned higher than the lighting, I have no trouble recognizing the blazing brown eyes and shoulder-length hair of a man I once knew.
“What the hell are you doing here, Brax?” I mutter to myself, my furious heart rate resonating in my tone.
I applied for positions on the outskirts of Ravenshoe as my old crew would never be caught dead in this part of town. Clearly, the years haven’t made me any smarter.
While I finish twisting the ribbon around my waist, I scan the club, praying Brax’s appreciation for skimpily dressed women isn’t shared by his friends—most notably, a man with ravishing blue eyes and cut facial features.
Failing to find any signs of Ryan in the club, I exhale three times before rolling down the silk. Though I’d like to say my eagerness to end my routine is compliments of the large bundle of money I see sitting mid-stage, that isn’t true.
I need to leave, and I need to leave now.
With my mind fritzed from seeing a familiar face, my calculations aren't as precise as usual. My worry about being spotted working at a strip club switches to panic when my tumble toward the wooden stage occurs at a faster rate than I usually descend. Moments away from impact, my thoughts drift. I want to pretend only one person is occupying my thoughts. Unfortunately, there isn't. He enters the equation no matter how angry I am. Ryan—my first and only love.
My heart lurches into my throat when my freefall stops within mere inches of the stage. I suck in ragged breaths as I scramble to my feet. I was so certain I was about to plunge to my death, I’m both stunned and relieved.
After ungracefully stumbling out of my ribbons, I curtsy to the wolf-whistling crowd before darting off the stage. I don’t know where I am going or what I am planning to do when I get there, but I’m shoving the cosmetics scattered around my station into my handbag like a madman within two seconds of hitting backstage.