So. Long.: Bad Boy Next Door (64 page)

What I don’t say out loud is that I hid only when dad got
drunk and wanted to beat his frustrations out on someone—that
someone
being
me, since I was the only one in close enough proximity to his fists.

The kitchen appliances have all been torn from their proper
places. It also looks like someone’s torn out the sheetrock to get to the
copper pipes that were probably in the walls, but are now missing. Not sure it
renders this space any less useful than it was when I lived here. Dad wasn’t
much of a cook. Shit; at six years old, I cooked more than he did. Mac and
cheese was my specialty. Hell, I even learned to make it without milk or
butter.

My fingers drag through my hair for the fifteenth time since
I got off the bus. The words Trudi wants—the words that would tell my story—they
just aren’t there. I can’t begin to explain how seeing this place affects me
sixteen years after I last saw it. Last saw my dad.

I stop in front of the bathroom door. My stomach turns as,
in my memory, the tile and walls are suddenly clean again.

I was barely five years old, and Mom was on the floor, her
head lolled to the side. Blank eyes stared at me. A brown bottle lay next to
her limp hand.

I turn from the scene in my mind. Trudi jumps out of my way
as I bolt out of the house, almost tearing the back door from its rusty hinges.
My racing heart sends a roar of blood through my ears as I lean forward, hands
on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

A palm lands on my back. I jump away.

Trudi twists her fingers in front of her. “Sorry—so sorry. I
didn’t know you’d have such a strong reaction.”

I rub my face and wipe my stinging eyes. “Neither did I.”

When I raise my head, two cameras point in my direction.

Shit. All of that on film.

I stalk away. “Fuck this. I’m outta here.”

I wait it out on the bus with a tumbler of whiskey while the
crew finishes whatever the fuck they’re doing. I’ve had enough of Memory Lane
for the day. Time to do something else. Get out of my own head.

SIX

Job hunting in rural Louisiana is a fucking joke. The temp
agency has exactly zero positions available right now. Fucking waste of time
and gas money. Why the hell the woman couldn’t have said that before I came
down, I don’t know. Of course, she told me they’d keep me on file. As if being
on
file
will make a difference in the here and now.

Sadie flounces through the heavy wooden door of the lingerie
shop as though she lives here. Hell, for all I know, she might.

Six feet into the store, I stop at a rack with some lacy
things. I lift the hem of a see-through nightie.

Sadie dodges around a display of Porn-to-go videos and grabs
my arm, yanking me along behind her. “Not those. You need the stuff back here.”

The dread in the pit of my stomach spreads into my chest and
through my limbs.

No.

Suck it up and press on.

I can do this.

I mean, it’s not like it sits right around the corner from
Aunt Delores’s place. It’s a good forty minute drive from my hometown and all
these years later, I doubt I’ll see anyone I know, or anyone who’ll recognize
me.

Besides, the pay sounds good—amazing actually. So much more
than I’d make even at a
good
job. And Aunt Delores needs the money to
fix all the shit going wrong with her house. Gold may not fall out of my pussy,
but maybe a few dollar bills will—if I’m willing to show a little skin. A
lot
of skin.

Fuck, who am I kidding? I’ll have to show
all
the
skin. That’s what strippers do—bare it all.

Sadie grabs three skimpy outfits off the rack, one of them a
pair of camouflage shorts with Velcro at the side seams. “Oh, look! This is
perfect.”

I fake a smile. “Nice. My color too.”

She pulls my hair up, holding it at the nape of my neck. “I
bet all the guys were after you. Probably not too many Marines that look like
you. Do you get a lot of dick?”

I close the door to the changing room. “Sadie. I appreciate
the career advice. And if the money is half as good as you say it is I’ll be
really
be grateful for it. But I’m not telling you how much I get laid.”

Never. I never get laid anymore.

“Aw, c’mon, Cuz. Well, at least tell me about the guys. Were
all those Marines muscled and hot?”

I wriggle into the shorts. “Some of them are pretty to look
at. Some are
only
pretty to look at. Trust me. I got a lot more respect
from the ones I
didn’t
fuck.”

I step out of the changing room and pirouette in front of
the three-sided mirror in the corner. The camo shorts let my ass cheeks hang
out and are about as tight as Dick’s hatband, but I guess that’s what I want if
I’m going to get this job.

Sadie giggles and rolls her eyes. “Maybe I should join up
and see what it’s like.”

“The guys at my duty station were great—until they sunk their
cock into you. Then they became one of two people. Either complete assholes or
the kind you can’t get rid of, even with
cock
roach spray, neither of
which do I have the time or the inclination to fuck.”

Sadie’s jaw drops for a moment. “Now
that
is just
sad.”

“All I’ll tell you is this: after a few months of banging
pretty much any guy old enough to buy booze, I gave it up. I did date this one
guy a few times, but—well, let’s just say he wasn’t who I wanted. And if I
can’t have who I want, I’d rather do without.”

She turns side eyes on me. “That must be
some
cock.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t just the cock though.”

Sadie darts away and reappears just as quickly with a pair
of platform fuck-me shoes with heels no less than six inches long.

She pushes them against my chest. “Here, try these on.”

“No fucking way. I’ll break my damned ankles in these
things.”

“All the girls wear them,” she sing-songs.

I snatch the shoes from her hands. “Fuck all the girls.”

* * *

The outside of the place doesn’t look like much. Plain
building, no windows. Glass doors, blacked out. A neon sign perches high on the
rooftop. The blinking XXX alternates with LIVE GIRLS.

What the fuck? Like someone’s gonna pay to see
dead
girls. Then again, there probably is some sick fuck out there that would.

I follow Sadie inside. Darkness fights for dominance over
flashing lights and more neon signs. Music blares, sending vibrations through
my bones. A bar takes up half of one wall, topped by glass shelves. Back lit
liquor bottles neatly glow in rows over the beer taps.

A large stage takes up the center of the almost abandoned
room, surrounded by four smaller squares off each corner, creating a pinwheel
pattern that’s reflected in the mirrored tiles on the ceiling. Shiny brass poles
connect the stage to the mirrors above, one for each section.

Three of the five poles have girls hanging off them in
various positions. One girl has her legs pointed to the ceiling. Another is
near the top, one leg wrapping the pole as she slowly spirals toward the
bottom. The third looks like maybe she’s trying to do a headstand, using the
pole in place of a wall?

Shit. I didn’t even think about the poles.

I wonder how imperative it is that I be able to swing on a
pole with any level of expertise. Because, if it’s super important, I’m
screwed.

I grab the strap on Sadie’s big shoulder bag. “Hey, wait
up.”

She turns and smiles. “Don’t worry, Lou. They’re gonna love
that you were a Marine.”

“
Am
a Marine—always a Marine.”

“Okay, if you say so.” She takes my hand. “C’mon, I’ll
introduce you to Lonnie.”

“I used to know a Lonnie. Is this one a jackass too?”

“He’s a creeper, but you can ignore him most of the time, as
long as you’re nice to the customers. The bouncers are all good guys though.
You’ll like Hank and Bo. Sling and Rocky are great too.”

“I have to get the job first. Got any tips for me?”

“Don’t break your ankle.”

“Yeah, thanks. That’s at the top of my list of things
not
to do.”

My stomach clenches as we approach the bar and the two guys
leaning against it, one on either side of the counter.

Oh, God. I’m never going to make it through this.

Sadie pushes me forward, almost knocking me over. “Hey,
Lonnie. This is my cuz, Loula Mae.”

“I go by Lou.” I toss her a frown and put out my hand as he
turns to me.

Ah, shit.

Should’ve known.

Lonnie, the very one I knew—and hated—back in high school,
chews on a toothpick as he looks me up and down with a smile that climbs up my
spine, one vertebrae at a time, leaving oily hand prints behind.

I do my best to wipe the surprise and disgust from my face.

Fuck my luck.

Fuck my
life
.

This is just—ugh.

He dismisses the lanky bartender with a wave of his hand.
“Well, if it isn’t little Loula Mae Fontaine. How’re you doing, Darlin’? Did ya
miss me?”

I cock my head to the side. “I’m sorry, do we know each
other?”

His grin fades, but then renews itself. “Ah, you’re funny.
Well, the last few years have been good to you, Honey.”

Sadie throws her arm around my shoulder. “Lou’s looking for
a job. I told her you might have an opening, especially since Valorie left last
week.”

Again, Lonnie takes his time looking me over. His eyes seem
to touch every bump and dip. “You know, I kinda always expected to see you come
looking for a job here some day. Took you longer than I thought it would.”

My nails dig into my palms. It’s all I can do not to turn
and stalk out.

Remember, this is for Aunt Delores. She needs me.

Lonnie pulls the toothpick from the corner of his mouth and
points to the staircase on the far wall. “Go on up and change. I’ll give you an
audition.”

I swallow my trepidation and nod. “Thanks.”

“No club dancing; that shit’s not for the stage.”

I nod. Fuck if I know the difference between club and stage
dancing, but I’ll get a quick one-oh-one from Sadie.

He points to the DJ behind the short wall in the corner.
“How do you want to be introduced?”

“Introduced?” I take a step back, looking to Sadie for an
explanation.

She pops her gum. “You know—stage name? I go by Sassie.”

Shit. Stage name.

What the hell?

Okay, think. Stripper. Slutty. I blurt out the first name
that pops into my head. “Honey.”

Lonnie quirks an eyebrow. “Honey?”

I shrug. “Sure, why not? Seems appropriate to me, and that’s
what you called me a second ago.”

He chuckles. “All right. Honey it is.”

“Okay then, go show us what you’ve got,
Honey
. I
can’t wait to see this.”

As I turn, his hand lands on my ass.

I spin back to face him as I step away from his groping
fingers. “Anything else?”

“You can touch the guys, but they can’t touch you.”

I look him dead in the eye. “Don’t worry, if
anyone
,
including
you
,
gets too handsy, I’ll kick their fucking ass.”

SEVEN

Thugs One and Two help me with my lines. They’re stilted and
awkward, but I can’t waste the time I have, so here we are. Plus, they don’t
have to do it—it isn’t exactly in their job description.

“Hey, I appreciate you guys helping me out with this. I know
it’s not the most comfortable thing for some people to read out loud, much less
read from a script.” I pour each of us a drink.

They both decline when I try to hand them their glasses.

“Fine. More for me.”

By the time the crew loads onto the bus, I’m four drinks in
and starting to relax.

Trudi plops into the plush chair beside mine. “Thanks for
doing that. I think we got some good stuff. Now. Let’s go do something fun, or
at least a little less—emotionally strenuous.”

“Yeah. Let’s do that. Hey, someone pour me another drink,
will ya?”

Thug One hands me a new tumbler. I frown at him. “What’s
this shit? Too much ice.”

He sighs and digs into the glass with his fingers, tossing
two cubes into the small galley sink. He splashes another finger of bourbon
into the cup before returning it.

I down the fiery liquid in one gulp and pass it to him
again. He frowns, but pours me another anyway. Trudi grabs it before I get my
hand on it, chugging, only to sputter and cough as she pulls the glass from her
lips.

“That’s what you get for drinking a man’s drink.” I grin.
Serves her right. Take my fucking bourbon.

She waves her hand in front of her face, her eyes watering.
“Whatever. You don’t need any more of that shit right now.”

“What do you want from me, Tru? I gave you all I can give
for one day.”

She nods. “All right. I get it. So…what did you do for fun
when you were eighteen?”

Fun. Was eighteen ever fun?

Her
face looms in my memories though. Her smile, her
laugh. The way she’d snuggle into my arms. The way we laughed about everything
and everyone that seemed to be working against us. I had fun with Lou. But I
can’t tell Trudi that. That part of my life is off limits. The
curious public
doesn’t have to know every tiny detail of my past.

So I smile and lie. “There’s this little place outside of
Slidell. I used to go up there with my buddy.”

I rub my sweaty palms on the backs of my camo shorts.
Everything from my elbows to my knees trembles as I step onto the stage. The
lights blind me for a second.

I pull back. Oh Lord, is this how Mom felt the first time
she turned a trick?

Please, God, don’t let me become my mother.

No. It’s okay. I got this. Just follow Sadie—um,
Sassie’s
—instructions
to spray and wipe the pole with the cleaning solution they keep near the side
of the stage. One thing at a time.

As I spritz the brass, I train my eyes on the floor, the
walls, the lights, anywhere, avoiding the faces of the handful of people in the
club. Luckily, it’s pretty dead at this hour. Aside from Lonnie, his bartender,
and the three bouncers stationed around the perimeter, there’s only one table
of guests. They’re the ones I avoid the most as I wipe the pole.

If I don’t look, they aren’t there.

Sadie—I mean,
Sassie
—says they’ll play a short song.
Just a short one. I can do this.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and upper lip. I stand with
my fists at my hips, feet planted shoulder width apart, trying to swallow the
sick feeling that’s climbed into my mouth and throat. This feeling isn’t too
different from what I got that first day of boot camp, stepping off the bus,
waiting to be yelled at by the drill instructors. It’s just another day.

“Everyone, please welcome Honey to the stage.” The
announcement seems to thunder through my core.

The music begins. I close my eyes as I start to move.

Trudi and I sit with our backs three feet from the stage.
She wasn’t really excited when I told the crew about this place. But it serves
her ass right after the house and the way she suggested we go have
fun
.
As if I feel like doing anything. Much less something fun.

Her lips form a tight line.

I lean to her. “Fun, right?”

She glares.

I lean back in my chair and fold my hands over my chest. I
dig my phone from my pocket. Six voice messages. All from Arianne.

Fuck me. Can the woman not take a hint? I clear the messages
without listening. Screw that. I’m done with this.

The next message is from Bob. “Buck, listen. Not sure what
your deal is with Arianne, but I just got a call from McDowell’s assistant at
Razor Wire. He’s apparently not sure why you’d ignore his daughter. Fucking
call her. You don’t want to lose a chance at that part because you fucked the
wrong girl.”

I text him.

-Arrianne=head case. Been trying to break it off w/her
4ever. Doesn’t know when to quit. She’s squatting at my place until she finds
another arrangement. But only b/c I’m not there.-

His reply comes almost immediately.

-Fuck it. Let her stay at your place; you aren’t even
there. What’s it gonna hurt?-

Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it when I’m
not half drunk.

The crew sits around the three small tables we’ve pushed
together, eyes rapt on the stage. The lights flash and the music cranks up.
Whoever Honey is, she must be doing a good job.

Hell, even Thugs One and Two gape, and those two are about
as serious as I’ve ever seen bodyguards. I hired them six months ago, when I
started having issues with paparazzi showing up everywhere, even the fucking
pool at a hotel where I was staying under an assumed name.

My attorney advised me to get someone to do my camera
breaking, nose smashing, and ass kicking for me, to keep me out of jail, and to
circumvent losing my hard earned money to some sue-happy lunatic. It was just
two
cameras—and one nose—though several asses, but those were without serious
injuries. I really don’t see the big deal.

When Thug Two’s perpetual frown twitches into a grin, I turn
to see what’s got him going.

My fucking gut lurches and a rush of adrenaline pours into
my veins. “Holy shit. That’s no fucking
Honey
!”

In the span of a heart beat I’m out of my chair, ripping my
T-shirt down the front and pulling it off. I bound onto the stage, arms out to
catch her.

She dances topless with her eyes half closed. Lou dodges me,
falling to her knees as her ankle twists under her.

I manage to toss the remnants of my shirt over her
shoulders. Her hands push at me until we come face to face. She stills. Her
eyes go wide, her mouth falling open.

I yell over the music, “What the fu—”

Two pairs of hands pull me away from her. I shake off one,
my fist flying to connect with the other’s jaw. I spin to block a blow to my
kidney from a third burly motherfucker.

Thug One and Thug Two each grab a bouncer, pulling them off
me. But the oversized guy with the dull eyes is enough for me to deal with. He
dodges my left hook, but fails to guard his gut as my fist connects. He grabs
his torso as he staggers back.

Lou rolls to her hands and knees as I reach for her. Her camo
Daisy Dukes reveal her tight ass.

 “What
the fuck
, Lou?”

Strong hands grasp at my arms again. I twist and duck, using
the momentum to break free. The music goes silent, but the pops and smacks
coming from the Thugs and their opponents, along with the grunts and shuffling
of feet, echo through the room.

Someone shouts. “Call the cops!”

Another answers, “Fuck the cops.”

The unmistakable sound of the pump action of a shotgun stops
all movement. Hands grip my forearms, pulling them behind me.

Lou growls as she limps to me, her platform shoes in one
hand, my ripped T in the other. She shoves the shirt into my chest and follows
it with a solid punch to my gut. The air whooshes from my lungs as I double
over. Damn, she got better at that.

“Buck, you’re an asshole.”

I suck in a gasp of air. “What the fuck are
you
doing
here?”

This is
not
what she was supposed to end up doing.

She snatches her top and a lacy bra from the floor, covering
her naked breasts. “I’m here
not
getting a job that I need, because now
I can’t fucking dance, you jackass.”

She turns away, limping off the stage, mumbling, “Damned
shoes. I knew I should’ve worn my combat boots.”

I take a step to follow her, but the hold on my arms
tightens behind me.

“Oh, no you don’t.” The guy who has hold of me pushes me to
the stairs leading off the stage.

At the bottom of the steps, the bouncer lets go of my arms.
Probably because Lonnie-fucking-Fisher stands there with a sawed-off shotgun
pointed at my crotch.

“Wow, it’s almost like a god damned class reunion. All these
blasts from the past.”

I spit in his face. “Fuck you, Fisher.”

He wipes his chin with the back of his arm and grins as he
slams the butt of the gun into my gut. A sharp pain explodes all the way into
my balls.

I snatch the weapon from him and flip it, popping him above
the eye with the stock.

He staggers backward as his hands fly up to cover the cut
seeping blood over his eyebrow. “What’d you do that for?”

“Shits and giggles and old time’s sake.”

Thugs One and Two flank me. Lonnie eyes the shotgun. My crew
gathers around, trying to herd me to the door.

Trudi’s hand tugs on my arm. “C’mon. Let’s head on out
before this makes the fucking news.”

I scan the room. She’s nowhere in sight.

I call, “Lou, where are you?”

Shuffling of feet and girls’ whispers are the only noise as
I wait.

No answer.

I left her here to go to college, and she ends up on a
stage, fucking taking her clothes off. I couldn’t have failed her more
miserably.

I bellow. “Lou!”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Buck.”

She comes around a mirrored column, barefoot, her top in place,
her bra hanging off her fingers. She favors her right foot, though she’s
obviously trying to hide her pain. Her skyscraper shoes are missing; in their
place is a purse.