Nocturnes (2 page)

The dancer kicks out a hip my way as her gaze falls to the green. She moseys over, bends down, and says in my ear without touching me, “You looking to get up close and personal, hon?” She cups the tits overflowing the banks of her silver-studded bra and makes fleshy waves with a twitch of her wrists.

“You looking to have your world turned upside down?” I squeeze my flaccid cock.

“Dancing only, Romeo. But if you’ve got sixty bucks, I’ll give you a private show you’ll never forget.” The cloying scent of Juicy Fruit holds my nose hostage. Not my favorite, but I’m pretty sure I can talk her into blowing me. Then her breath will smell like Rax’s Juicy Cum.

“I’ve got forty.” My tongue isn’t working properly. I may have slurred. “But I’m not paying. If anything, you should pay me.”

Her expression turns cold, and she backs away. “You’re in the wrong club, sugar.”

I grab her arm before she can escape. The bouncer who’s been eyeing me from the corner all night starts toward us, and I let go. “Hands off, I got it.”

The guy halts, shaking his head.

I turn to the stripper. “How about we renegotiate? Forty bucks for a five-minute song with you grinding my dick so hard, it takes a crowbar to pry you off?”

“Look around you.” Hips swaying, she gestures to the packed house, folds herself in half, and rolls her body straight up. A dramatic hair flip follows. “It’s Mardi Gras. Guys are throwing around Ben Franklins like it’s the end of the world. And that’s just for regular dances. It’s sixty or you can find yourself another dancer, sweet pea.”

Sixty fucking dollars for a girl to wave her tits in my face for
one
song. I lean into the plush black chair and prop my elbow on the armrest. “Like I said. You should be paying me. Do you have any idea who I am?”

“No.” Her voice falters as a hint of attraction makes itself known via the twitch in her lip. She studies me for a long moment, her ass still shaking to the bass-thumping tune. Weighing her options, no doubt. I play disinterested and glance at the girl one table over. That always gets ’em.

“Fine. Forty. Meet me in the VIP room after my set.” And she’s gone in a flash, back to her precious pole with its unreasonable demands for
climbing
and
working
and…exploiting human flesh like it’s…well…human flesh.

What’s the allure for these women? Lots of effort and very little payoff sometimes. I prefer things easy and cheap and uncomplicated.

Like Toombs.

I had a willing submissive at my disposal any time I wanted him. When Jinx came along, we had a hot ménage with the potential to become something more permanent. The three of us. Together.

Or maybe just Jinx and me. Or Toombs and me. Hell, any combination of me and them would have been fine.

But unlike the pole, I blew it. All because I lied about some people I fucked. And some deals I made.

I should be more like poles, and just say, “Fuck it. I dare you to defy me and my big steely phallus.”

The dancer blocking my view to the metal cock contorts her body into positions well suited for pornos and freak shows. She’s flexible. I’ll give her that. And pretty, but far from perfect. The scars from her recent boob job haven’t fully healed. A few stray stretch marks line the ass cheeks sneaking out the bottom of her three-sizes-too-small boy shorts. Her blond hair looks good from far away, but up close, it has the texture of dried straw. This girl has a few things going for her, but too many flaws for my taste.

Well, if I’m honest,
everyone
has too many flaws.

Except Lola. She was unforgettable. A stripper I met in Jacksonville a few months ago, she had black hair like a horse’s—long, jet as night, with a hint of wildness. Her body language bragged of an untamed, unbreakable spirit. Strong.

Pure, pale skin. Tall. Slender. Toned without being overly muscular. Her voice was low and even. When she gripped the pole, she commanded it, owned it, made it her bitch, and she did so effortlessly.

The dancer performing for me now masters every spin, cuts loose admirable flying moves, inverting, corkscrewing…

But she’s too mechanical. Too by-the-book. Too
practiced.

Not like wild and free Lola.

Lola is my ideal woman. The fantasy I can always turn to when real life gets to be too much. The one I still jerk off to at least three times a week. The girl who haunts my dreams—both the awake and asleep kinds. In my mindscape’s reality, she caters to my every whim, fucks me on command, and worships me like a rock star should be worshipped. A sub begging me to dominate her in every way.

Sure, it’s empty and futile to wish for things that aren’t yours for the taking. I had something pretty fucking close to perfection with Toombs and Jinx before Letty blabbed to him about my “cheating.” Then Jinx got high and mighty with me about “coming clean” and all the fucking
apologies
I owe Toombs. He knew what he was in for. He knew I was trolling behind his back. The guy’s not fucking stupid.

Still…

Haven’t gotten laid since he and Jinx ditched me a few days ago. Haven’t even popped wood. Though, that could be due to the massive influx of alcohol saturating my system over the last week. It’s certainly not because I give a shit.

I look down to my lap. “Dicks. Who needs ’em?”

The song ends, and the stripper finishes her dance to a round of whoops from the horny frat boys waving dollar bills on the other side of the circular stage. She stabs me with a pointed glare. I pick up my last shot and stand, hoisting the liquid gold in a salute to Betty Bummybritches or whatever the fuck her stripper name is.

The guys sitting on either side give me a quick once-over as I wobble and steady myself with a palm to the bar.

“Here’s to all the people who keep my life interesting. Toombs the Pussy for ditching me over a woman. Jinx the Village Wench for stealing my best friend. And Lola for pushing me off the deep end and leaving me without a life jacket. If only she were here to catch my fall. Since she’s not…”

Glug, glug, glug…

“Ah…” I wipe my mouth on my leather jacket sleeve and kiss the glass’s gaping whore mouth to the bar. “Long live King Rax and his mighty G-spot detector.”
Pelvic thrust.

A roar of cheers wells around me, transporting me to my happy place—onstage with Killer Buzz Float, basking in the glow of hot spotlights and a screaming audience. The room spins. My body tilts. I run a hand down the front of my shirt to squeeze the package below.

“Fuck you, soulless fucks,” I shout into the microphone. “You don’t know jack shit about me or what I been through. It ain’t none of your business anyways.” I slash my guitar to the Village Wench’s drumstick four-count. My vision dissolves into something sub-sensory as a shifting grid manifests before my eyes. A concert unfolds in my aural passageways. My head bangs to the beats, my right arm thrashes, and my fingers work the guitar frets. Then the crowd silences, and the vision clears to reveal…

Oh shit. Big Bouncer Man is heading my way, and this time, he’s not backing down. My brain does the scrambler shuffle.

Killer Buzz Float’s manager Jillian told me if I fuck up one more time, I’m out of the band.

Quick. Act sober.

I straighten and check my breath against my palm. Damn, I need a Tic Tac for real. Done sucking off Jose Cuervo for now, I lean over to the guy sitting nearest to me. “You got some gum or mints, man?”

The dude lifts a smug brow. I consider kicking his chair legs out from under him, but then he reaches into his pocket and produces a pack of Big Red. I snag a piece and pop it in my mouth. The bouncer plants his feet shoulder-width apart right in front of me and crosses his meaty arms over his chest. No shit, his arms look like fucking Popeye’s. Bowling-pin arms. I spit a laugh from between my teeth, nearly losing my gum.

“You got a problem,
son
?” the big, bald motherfucker says. His eyes are black and beady. Like a Chihuahua’s.

“No, sir, I do not. Do you got a problem,” I inspect his nametag, “Duane?” This time, I don’t even try to contain my laughter.
Duane.
His parents might as well have named him Dana. Or Teddy.

Such a shame about Duane. Gonna hit ’im with my cane. He ain’t got no brain. Duane, you so lame.

“You’re my only problem at the moment. I think it’s time you left.”

God, stop being a pain, Duane.

I plaster a fake look of outrage across my face and execute a full-body shake. “How dare you,” I say with my best British accent.

“Duane, I got this one.” The stripper marches up and weaves her arm through the crook of my elbow. “Come on, honey.”

“Bitch is outta here if he steps out of line once more,” Duane calls after us.

Fuck that shit. I don’t care how big that motherfucker is. I’ll take his ass out in front of God and everybody. I start to throw Stripper Girl off, but she clutches me tightly. “Calm down.” The words eek through her clenched teeth. “Just come with me, sugar.”

I smear a sweaty lock of hair from my eyes and straighten my shirt. “I can take him.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You can barely stand.” She ushers me through the packed floor to a black curtain in the back of the club. Another
Nocturnes
sign hangs above the rod. Its neon glow is ominous. Like it knows something I don’t.

I curl my lip at it. Between the stupid signs, the poles, and the toxic number of tequila shots I’ve ingested, I’ve got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. “What does ‘Nocturnes’ mean, anyway?”

She faces me and smiles. “Night music. You like music?”

“No. I fucking hate it.”

“Then why are you here? Just looking for a piece of ass? You know you can’t touch the merchandise.” She slides her fingertips over the steam on her décolletage and barely touches them to her lips.

“I’m well aware.” I grin. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into. “Let’s get on with it.”
So we can hurry to your place afterward, and I can cut loose.

She studies me for several seconds. “If that’s what you want.”

“Oh yeah.” I send my gaze down to her big knockers and shrug off thoughts of Toombs and Jinx. I’m free of them. And tonight I’m making up for lost time.

She pushes the curtain aside, takes me by the hand, and leads me into darkness and temptation, the likes from which I hope to never return.

Side B (Eve’s Mix Tape): “Dance the Night Away”

“What do you think, Kristina? Blue or red earrings tonight?” I gather two handfuls of long black hair away from my ears and turn my head left and then right for my friend’s inspection in the mirror. Behind her, the Nocturnes dressing room is a distracting flurry of estrogen-laden chatter, gaudy colors, and hurried movement. But then, when is it not?

Sitting beside me on a pink-cushioned stool, Kristina purses her lips, apparently oblivious to the high-pitched ruckus. She taps a finger on the dresser. Frowns. “Neither. Stick with black. Or silver. Colors pale next to you. You’ve got too much…life.”

I roll my eyes. Funny, I was starting to worry I didn’t have enough. I pull the clip-ons off and toss them onto the polished wood before me. “I don’t have any black or silver. Do you know how hard it is to find non-pierced earrings? I had to commission most of mine from a jewelry artist in Jackson Square.”

“A small price to pay for being an angel in Nocturnes’s Hell, Eve.”

I whip my gaze around the room to see if anyone else heard her. Bitching and laughter go on about their business without so much as a dip in volume. I lower and harden my voice. “Don’t call me that here. Last thing I need is Rico breathing down my neck in real life. If he finds out my name or where I live…” I shiver. “Or if any of the other dancers get wind of…” I tip my chin south.
What goes on downstairs…
I mentally finish.

“Don’t worry about Rico.” Kristina crosses her long, bare legs under her short kimono, applies glue to a set of fake eyelashes, and then slaps them to her lids. She blinks three times. “Besides, he has access to your employment records anyway.”

“Don’t remind me.” Good thing I listed my “doing business as” name and former address on my application to Nocturnes. My old roommate promised to contact me if I got mail or phone calls. So far, so good.

It’s not that I think Rico will actually
do
anything, but I don’t like the way he looks at me. Menace lurks behind his eyes. I try to avoid him. And keep up religiously with my self-defense and kickboxing classes three times a week. Just in case.

“Are you going to Hell tonight?” Kristina whispers.

“Yeah, after I have my weekly lap dance with Pierre.” I powder down, rubbing white dust into my skin. The whiter, the better. Especially in Hell.

She meets my eyes in the mirror and pauses her mascara application. “Nervous?”

“Yes,” I lie. “It’s only my second time.”

Kristina smiles. “You’ll be great. And hey, even if it sucks, at least you’ll have a few days off afterward.”

I sigh. “Yeah.” Not a fan of days off.

My first time in Hell wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I’d heard the horror stories from girls who were finally “promoted,” only to discover they were in way over their heads. Charlie is very careful about who’s chosen, but rumor has it that only about four in ten dancers make it out of Hell with their sanity intact. Most go down there once and never return to Nocturnes.

But they’re not me. They haven’t lived through what I have. I haven’t cried since the day I walked home from school twelve years ago and came across my Russian immigrant parents’ car folded up like an accordion less than a block from our house. I remember blue lights spinning, an ambulance siren wailing, neighbors crying. Mama was already gone by the time I got there, her body twisted into a human pretzel like something out of a macabre cartoon. But Papa…

He reached out to me from the steaming wreckage. His face was so bloodied, for a moment, I refused to believe it was him. We locked eyes. Pumping his mouth open and shut like a fish gasping for oxygen, he tried to say something, but the blood filling his lungs turned his words into unintelligible gurgles.