Wherever the Dandelion Falls (13 page)

As if knowing that what she had told me was upsetting, Faye patted my arm.

"I just figured you should know who you're working for, you know? I don't want him to take advantage of how much you like him."

I nodded, feeling my body simultaneously cringe and droop towards the concrete.

But for some reason — goddammit, Riley
—
I felt the need to defend him.

"He's not like that. He wouldn't... he wouldn't do that. I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. He's a good boss."

Faye bit her lips and gave a disbelieving nod. She knew I didn't believe what I was saying, but she wasn't going to call me on it.

We reached her car and she clicked the locks open. I climbed up into the cab of the SUV, my heaviness requiring effort. I sank back into the seat, grateful that Faye turned on music. She asked how to get to my house and I gave fatigued directions.

When she pulled up in front of my apartment, she put the car in park but kept the engine running. She gave me an apologetic smile as I unclicked my seatbelt and thanked her for trying to cheer me up. I was about to say goodnight when she said, "Riley?"

I paused with my hand on the door and looked at her.

She took a breath, avoiding eye contact as she said. "I know you're hung up on Dr. Turner. But... I think you should take a long, hard look at him and ask yourself if you like
him
or the
idea
of him. I mean, who wouldn't want to be with a handsome, intelligent, wealthy man?"

"You," I said, trying to break the tension that was seeping into every crevice of Faye's car.

Faye gave me a brief, appreciative chuckle. "True. But spend some time thinking about who he is versus who you want him to be. Because he's done some pretty crappy stuff. Maybe it'd be nice to be less into him than you are."

I nodded, the suspicion that Faye was right starting to unsettle me.

“Other people deserve a shot with you, you know,” she said, giving me a playful and alarming wink.

Was she hinting at something? I felt my anxiety surge.

Faye put the car back in gear, signaling she wasn't expecting a response.

"Have a good night," she said.

I gave her a nervous smile as I collected my purse from the floor. I was so flustered by what she'd said that I couldn't formulate a response. So I settled for saying
thank you
and
goodnight.

The next morning I shuffled into my desk and buried myself in the drone of data entry. The morning passed without incident, and when I had to walk by Dr. Turner's office on the way to the copier, he didn't look up. I didn't hear anything from him all morning until he called me in to ask about a report I was supposed to turn in by the end of the week. I assured him it was going well, and he nodded, still not making eye contact.

"Oh, by the way, how was your lunch with Vance last week?" he asked, threading his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair, finally looking up.

I cringed. Did he know what had happened and was poking around for information? Was he purposely making me uncomfortable? After what Faye had told me, I wasn't sure what he was capable of.

But he'd only asked me about my lunch with Vance, not what had happened over the weekend, so I gave a strained smile and said, "It was nice."

"Must have been," Dr. Turner said, smirking as he pointed to a vase of flowers in the corner. "Those arrived for you a little while ago."

I looked back and forth between Dr. Turner and the flowers, confused. Had Vance sent me flowers at work? Was that his lame apology for making me feel cheap and disposable?

But I couldn't snub the flowers in front of Dr. Turner. So I feigned delight as I walked to the shelf where the vase was resting.

"You play your cards right, you could end up dating a Turner," Dr. Turner said, giving me a stomach-turning wink.

And with that single comment, I knew that Dr. Turner was just as much of an asshole as Faye thought he was.

I avoided eye contact as I hurried away from Dr. Turner and his sliminess.

When I got back to my desk, I debated tossing the bouquet in the trash. But I saw a card tucked between a tulip and a spriggy purple thing and had to know what pitiful apology Vance had made. I needed more reasons to be angry because my anger was helping me climb out of my shame. I opened the card and read the typed message.

For the prettiest, smartest girl in San Francisco. I hope you have a wonderful day.

There was no name attached to it, but I knew immediately the flowers weren't from Vance. If he was going to send me flowers, it would be to apologize, not to wish me a wonderful day.

There was only one person who could have sent those flowers. Blushing and smiling to myself, I took out my phone and texted her.

Thank you :)

Faye immediately wrote back,
For what?

You know, silly
, I typed.
You really cheered me up.

Any time :)
she wrote back
. Want to hang out later this week?

I paused, not sure what she was asking. If she'd asked me out to dinner, I would have assumed she was asking me on a date.

But she hadn't asked me out on a date. She'd asked to hang out, just like we'd hung out twice before. Aside from my nerves and the bombshell she'd dropped on me about Dr. Turner, I'd had a great time every time I'd seen her.

So I wrote back,
Sure
.

As I slipped my phone back into my purse, I felt good enough to hold my head up high through the rest of my day.

People have this strange idea that once you strip, you're permanently marred. You can no longer reach the pinnacle of human accomplishment or be a good mother or wife or employee. All of that is bullshit. I am still the same girl I was before I stripped and I still want the same things. I know I am worthy.

The thing is, the customers seemed to be doing everything they could to tear down that sense of worthiness. On my second night, I ventured toward a table of young men wearing polo shirts and khakis and drinking Stella Artois. I figured they would be likely buyers. I chatted them up for a few minutes, asking where they went to college — it was a fair assumption — and trying to boost their egos by subtly feeling their muscles and giggling. Some sort of nonverbal bro conversation happened after about five minutes, because one guy seemed to be the chosen bro for the night when his buddies all chipped in to buy him a dance. The bill was folded into my garter and when the next song started, I rose.

And then the boys turned on their friend, jeering when he made any expression of approval or appreciation of me, or dared to show any sign of arousal. When I realized he was hard, I did my best to shield that from his friends, though I wasn't exactly excited about it. I felt bad for him.

When their taunting turned to include me, I wanted to kick them in the balls.

"She's totally his type. Tits aren't as big as April's though."

"Maybe if you juice her up she'll rub one out for you. Be a nice change from your hand, huh?"

"You like those thick thighs, buddy?"

I couldn't believe these boys were speaking as though my nakedness made me deaf. I tried to ignore their juvenile jeering, but it was impossible. I closed my eyes, giving myself a second to calm down, but it only made their teasing louder. I felt like a snake trapped in a basket being poked with a stick, forced to press against the confines of my captivity with serpentine grace until the song faded out and I could rise from servitude and escape.

I decided to steer clear of the younger customers for a while. I saw a middle-aged man alone in a booth toward the back, and after taking a moment to breathe and let the ickiness of the frat boys slick off my glittery skin, I approached him with my subtle prey-stalking stripper walk. I slid into his booth and crossed my legs.

"Hey," I cooed. "How's your night going?"

He answered my breasts with a vague, "Not bad."

When I offered him a dance after a few minutes of small talk, he nodded and put a twenty on the table. I gave him my best delighted giggle, which sounded fake but never seemed to bother the customers, and stood to close the curtain around us.

Nine Inch Nail's
Closer
started throbbing through the speakers. It was a good tempo for my "new girl" moves. After my first few undulations against him, I saw his hands fidgeting on the seat. Then, though he knew he wasn't supposed to, he raised them to hold my thighs, creeping up toward my ass.

"Ah, ah, ah!" I admonished, giving him a playful waggle of my finger. "No touching." He exhaled in frustration and I leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "You know you come here for the teasing."

I leaned back and winked before turning around to grind my ass against him.

I didn't particularly like the physical sensation of giving lap dances. It's strange to wriggle against a stranger. But there was one part I did like, and that was how my reservoir of sexual confidence was filled by the men I danced for. Every flash of tongue against their dry lips, every adjustment of their hips and legs while I danced, every wide-eyed stare told me that I was desirable. I filled their fantasy, and in doing so, had become superhuman. I had exceeded the capacity of a real woman in their eyes. And to some degree, I believed it.

But not being a real woman had its limits. Many men thought I didn't have boundaries. So when he placed his hands on my thighs again, I rolled my eyes, glad he couldn't see.

"Seems you've got some wandering hands there," I said, trying to walk the line of playful and warning as I turned around. "What are we gonna do about that?"

I removed his hands from my body and set them on the bench with a bit of force, letting him know I wasn't going to play around. He complied for a minute, but as the bass of the song became more urgent, his hands lifted up to my ass again, gripping me
tight
.

I slid my hands under his wrists and tried to spatula his hands off, but he only held me tighter, pressing me down hard against his groin as his fingers dug into my ass. His face set in a determined frown as he lifted forward out of his chair and started attacking my neck with his whiskey-scented mouth. His tongue slid over my neck like a predatory slug as he started jerking his pelvis into me.

I panicked. I was alone in a booth with an aggressive customer. No one could see me. I doubted anyone would be able to hear me if I screamed. So I did the only thing I could think of. I took his throat in my hand and pushed his head back against the wall as hard as I could, being sure to dig the heel of my hand against his Adam's apple.

"Let go!" I growled.

He struggled for a minute, during which I pushed harder, and he finally relented. As soon as I could, I reached for his half-empty drink and threw it in his face. He yelped as the alcohol burned his eyes, cursing at me. I yanked the curtain back, wanting to rip it from the wall entirely.

As I stormed toward the dressing room, I knew I was done. As soon as I was out of sight, I ripped off my shoes and peeled off my eyelashes. Leaning against my locker, I took gulping breaths. I let the fear rush through me as if a barrel of ice water had been dumped over my head. As soon as the coldness subsided, I started to cry.

I was naked except for a pair of sheer panties, alone in a dressing room at a strip club, crying.

Before I had time to collect myself and count my bills for payout and go home, the door swung open and Summer walked in.

"Having a hard time, Forget-Me-Not?" she asked as she rummaged through her locker.

Angry at her mocking, I turned around so she couldn't see me as I tried to open my locker. But the lock was jammed and I ended up spinning the dial over and over as I tried to mask my sniffling.

She approached me, inflated breasts almost brushing my shoulder as she lowered her voice to a softer tone. "Hey, hustle clubs aren't for everyone," she said, sounding almost sympathetic. "It can be tough."

I sniffled for a minute before I nodded.

I saw her breasts bounce as she turned away and picked something out of her locker. It was a business card, which she handed to me. "Try this place," she said. "It's much more quaint. No direct contact with customers."