And I’m not ready for that, but I can’t say that to Dawson.
I don’t know how to formulate any of this into words.
“We’re not…this isn’t…” I grasp at anything to tell him, even cheap half-truths that aren’t real reasons. “We’re from different worlds. It won’t work. And I’m your employee.”
He backs away, and I see the knowledge of my lies on his face, in the hardness of his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. It’s not you, it’s me. We’re too different.” He spins on his heel. “Whatever.”
And then he’s gone and I’m partially on the sink, one heeled foot dangling over the marble floor, the knee of my other leg cocked across the counter. I turn and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; my makeup is smeared and running, my hair is rumpled, my clothes wrinkled and out of place. My eyes are sad, and my lips swollen.
I look lost.
Exactly how I feel.
I force myself to go through the motions of cleaning up, and then Dawson is outside the bathroom, dressed in a pair of pressed chinos and a white polo shirt. “Let’s go, Miss Amundsen. Time to work. We’re late.” His tone is hard and formal.
I follow, having gotten what I asked for.
He doesn’t say a word all the way to the restaurant.
Chapter 10
I can’t breathe. I’m behind the curtain at Exotic Nights, waiting to go out for my first stage dance of Friday night. My heart is palpitating, beating so hard I swear I can see it thumping under my skin. My stomach is roiling with nausea, so hard I’m not sure I’ll make it through this number without vomiting. I force a deep breath. I can do this. Nothing has changed. Nothing is different.
But that’s a lie. Such a lie. Everything is different. I’m different.
The deep breath turns into a low whining moan in the back of my throat. Candy is finishing her dance, and now Timothy is introducing me. The crowd of men goes wild. I even hear a few female voices. I still find it odd that women visit strip clubs like this.
“…Please help me welcome…Gracie!” Timothy shouts into the mic.
My cue. I run my palms over my stomach as if that will settle it, and then down my hips. I have to force my feet to move, force myself out onto the stage. The whistles and cheers and lewd shouts increase to a crescendo. Stage lights blind me. I have to blink several times, and I peer into the sea of faces. I see no one I know, thank god.
I close my eyes, do my best to empty myself of my nerves, and then begin my routine. I open my eyes and stare into the middle distance, not looking at any one face. As usual, by the end, I have over a hundred dollars in ones, fives, and a few tens. Tears mingle with the sweat on my face.
I rush back to the dressing room and the tiny bathroom, dropping the fistful of bills on the vanity as I pass. I close the toilet lid and sit down, letting the tears go.
Dawson’s face emerges in my mind’s eye.
You don’t belong here. You’re so much more than that shitty club.
All I can see, though, is the closed-off hardness of his eyes as we sat through the business dinner. I took notes, chimed in with a few ideas, and pretended that I didn’t see the hurt lingering behind Dawson’s shuttered expression. He had Greg take me home and walk me to my door.
Before he left, Greg handed me a business card. “You need anything, call me.” He wiped at his forehead with a knuckle. “This is from me, not him.”
When I got up the next morning, the Rover was back in the parking lot, and the keys were in my mailbox with a note.
It had two words: Be safe. It was signed with a casually dramatic letter “D” and nothing else. I still walked to classes but drove to work, grateful for his thoughtfulness even in the face of our awkward situation.
A fist pounds on the dressing room door. “Come on, Grey,” Timothy shouts. “Time to work the floor. It’s a busy Friday—we don’t have time for your emotional bullshit.”
I splash water on my face, touch up my makeup, and work the floor. I hate this part as much as dancing on stage. I’m face to face with raw lust.
I make a killing, which is good since tuition is due soon. The end of my shift nears, and the club begins to empty. I do two more stage numbers, and I cry after each one.
I leave the stage after my last dance, cry, retouch my makeup, and hit the floor for a few last table and lap dances. It’s almost three in the morning, and the club is mostly empty, except for a few scattered guys by themselves or in small knots. I’m about to clock out when a man gestures to me. He’s young and good-looking, dressed in what was a fancy suit, except now his jacket is off, and his dress shirt is unbuttoned and the tie removed. His torso is bare between the edges of his expensive shirt, tan and hard-looking and rippling with muscle. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, he’s sweating and his hand holding his beer shakes slightly. He eyes me hungrily, gaze lingering on my chest and hips. I unconsciously re-tie the knot in my shirt to make sure my br**sts stay in place; his gaze narrows at the gesture.
I stop a few feet away from him. “Five bucks for a table dance, ten for a lap dance.”
He pulls out a twenty, folded into fourths, and extends it between his index and middle finger. “Jus’ dance for me. Bring it over here.” His words are slurred, but his gaze is sharp and dangerous-looking.
A chill runs up my spine as I force myself closer to him. I suck in oxygen and make myself shimmy a little. He watches, lifting his beer bottle to his lips at frequent intervals. I make it sexier, swaying my hips, bending at the waist to give a glimpse down my cle**age. I force myself closer, and he smiles.
“Turn aroun’,” he slurs.
I turn around and shake my backside at him in time to the beat of the pop song on the house speakers. I arch my back and lean forward, pushing my bottom at his face. I feel his hands touch me, and I shift away from him. “Ah-ah. No touching.”
He doesn’t answer, just smiles with a leering curl of his lip. “Take off th’ shirt, babe.”
I smile back at him. “That’s only for stage dances. This is what you get on the floor. You want that, I can bring Candy or Monica over for you.”
He digs in his hip pocket and brings out a wad of hundred dollar bills and counts out ten. He rolls them up, and tucks them into the back pocket of my shorts, shoving the wad back into his pants pocket. “I said…take it off.” He hisses the last part clearly and lucidly, and my skin crawls at the threat of violence in the sound of his voice, in the anger of his gaze.