Wherever the Dandelion Falls (18 page)

Faye seemed to be turning the idea over, unsure if she should ask more questions.

"Do you know any prostitutes?"

I paused, remembering how shocked and upset Kimi had been. I didn't want to alarm Faye. But given that I probably wouldn't see her again, I figured it was safe. "I am one."

Faye looked up, startled.

"You are?"

"Anyone who has sex in exchange for something is a prostitute. My exchange happens to be money, which keeps things simple. Sex, payment, and I'm done. Women have been doing that since the dawn of time."

"But isn't that just because they had to? To survive?"

I shook my head, but gently. "I don't need to do it to survive. It's a choice. I could get another job and pay the same bills."

"Oh. Okay." Faye looked down at her notes, brow furrowing. She looked lost and confused. She kept pausing awkwardly, as though she were choosing words carefully. "Do you ever feel... Like, after work, do you ever feel..."

Poor journalism skills aside, I felt bad for her. She looked embarrassed, and I knew what she was trying to ask. Even if it was an insulting question, I helped her out.

"Dirty?" I offered.

She nodded, relief passing over her face.

"No," I said. "If I felt dirty after work, I wouldn't do it." Then I amended, "Actually I do feel dirty after work, but only in the sense that I want to take a shower because I'm sweaty from dancing for four to six hours. It's a workout, you know? But I feel clean too, like after running a few miles or something."

Faye frowned, confusion growing more prevalent in her face.

There was a long pause and I got the sense I had stumped her.

"Did I surprise you with some of my answers?" I asked.

"A little bit," Faye admitted. "I have a few more questions, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," I said.

"How do your parents feel about your work?"

I tried not to visibly deflate.

"They don't know," I admitted. "My sister does. She has a hard time with it. She's very... traditional. She wishes I had chosen something else."

"Like neuroscience?" Faye asked

"Like neuroscience," I smiled.

"Huh..." Faye said, forehead crinkling in confusion as she scanned her notes.

I looked at Faye's confused expression with sympathy for a minute before I delicately clicked her recording device off. She looked startled.

"I'm not the interview you wanted, am I?"

"Of course you were," Faye said, sounding too forced to be convincing.

"Hm," I said. "Because it kind of seems like maybe you wanted to interview a sad stripper instead of a happy stripper."

Faye bit her lip in embarrassment. "That's what my editor was expecting... But it's cool that you're not. I wouldn't want you to be sad. I'm just not sure where to go with the article."

I nodded, taking in the confusion on Faye's face. "Lots of people want to hear how sex work is awful and corrupt and full of miserable half-humans. And there is plenty of that in the industry, but you find that in any profession."

Faye looked overwhelmed. "I guess," she said, biting her lip.

"You came here looking for a story about a junkie and how she supports her habit, and instead you got a normal, independent girl who cries during
The Notebook
and anxiously awaits the next episode of
Downton Abbey
."

Faye sat staring at her notes, puzzled for a minute. I wanted to take her under my wing like Callie had done for me when I was new at Jezebel Rose.

"Do you want an inside look at what I do?" I offered.

Faye shifted in her chair. “That - That's okay," she said. "I'm not into that."

I realized I had phrased my offer poorly. "I meant a backstage tour, not a free show."

Faye looked embarrassed. "Oh... Right. Um..." She looked around, uncertain.

"You can talk to the other girls and see if any of them are sad. And I can show you what I mean about the Box. Not during working hours, of course."

"Really?" Faye said, sounding intrigued but shy.

"Of course," I chirped. "The only rule is no alcohol, men, or sex in the dressing room." I gave her a playful wink.

Faye ducked her head in embarrassment. "I don't think that will be an issue."

"Great," I said, patting the table decisively. "Let's meet Saturday morning at ten. The club won't be open, but a few of the dancers will be around after our union meeting. I'll make sure it's not scary."

Faye gave me a shy smile. "Okay."

When I got to work a few hours later, I was still fuming. I thought I'd be able to channel my anger into energy to serve as many customers as possible, but I must have come across differently than usual, because Dave took a moment to put his hand on my arm.

"What's going on? You're all... stormy," he said, brow furrowing in concern.

"I got screwed over by someone I liked," I grumbled.

Dave's shoulders drooped with sympathetic disappointment. “Wanna close with me so we can talk about it?"

Even though I wasn't sure it was a good idea to talk about Faye when I was still so angry, I shrugged and said, "Sure."

He gave me a consoling pat on the arm and turned back to the bar where Chad was waiting impatiently with a twenty in his "man-icured" hands.

After Dave locked the door that night, we busied ourselves setting the chairs and tables in their places, sweeping and wiping down with practiced speed. When we finished, Dave patted a barstool. "Sit down, sister," he said. "Tell me about your love life."

It was the girliest thing he'd ever said, and it made me smile to see his burly body trying to mock the feminine mannerisms of some of our customers. I sat down and watched as he pulled out two beers, holding a finger to his lips to signal we weren't going to tell the bosses we were sneaking alcohol. I nodded and he capped the bottles before plopping all two hundred pounds of meat and muscle onto a stool next to me.

I sighed, feeling the energy from the night start to die down as I thought about Faye.

"I've been seeing someone for a few week. I went to her house to surprise her with cookies this afternoon and she had another girl there and they had definitely been fucking."

Dave gave me a sympathetic frown and asked, "How long you been seeing her?"

"We met here two weeks ago. She took me home with her after my shift."

Dave nodded again. "And since then, you've gone out?"

"We went out for drinks on Friday and she came over to watch a movie with me and Justine last night."

Dave's frown deepened. "But did you go on a date?"

"Yeah."

"Did she call it a date?"

"No."

"And you slept with her?"

I nodded.

"Did she say she wanted to date you?"

"No."

Dave's frown lifted and he gave me a wince. "That doesn't sound like dating to me."

I started to get angry again, wanting him to understand how uncool it was for Faye to sleep with multiple girls at the same time. "But she was fucking another girl this afternoon after we were cuddling on the couch last night! People can't just do that!"

Now Dave looked at me like I'd just emerged from under a rock and had no idea how the world worked. "You don't think the guys that come here do that?" he said, lifting his beer to his lips.

"I know they do, but I didn't think
she
would do that."

"Because she's a girl and girls are different?" Dave asked, challenging me.

"No, I just-"

I stumbled, realizing he had a point. I was holding Faye to a different standard because she was a girl. "I just - I thought she liked me."

"Maybe she
does
," Dave said. "That doesn't mean she had to stop sleeping with people the second she met you. Some of the happiest couples I know sleep with other people openly. And I mean, shit, you've known her what, ten days? Talk about U-Hauling..." He shook his head and took another sip.

"I'm not U-Hauling, I just..." Giving up, I sighed.

Dave softened, putting his big bear hand on my knee. "I get it," he said. "It's tough for us romantics. We want to believe the best in people."

I sighed in agreement, frustrated by my own dreaminess, and took a sip in commiseration.

Dave took another swing and pointed at me. "One thing I've learned since I moved out here is that you have to go after what you want. It doesn't just happen to you. So if you like this girl and want to date her, tell her. The worst she could say is no."

My stomach twisted at the thought of telling Faye that I'd been upset because I
liked
her. Talking about that kind of stuff made me feel so young and nervous. The thought of her rejecting me was pretty bad. Being told I was only worth what my body could do for her wasn't something I wanted to risk.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm probably just a notch in her bedpost."

Dave shrugged and took another sip. "That's up to you, now, isn't it?"

I sighed, feeling like it was unfair that the responsibility of writing my own romantic comedy was falling to me. Wanting to avoid thinking about it, I changed the subject.

"How'd it go with that guy the other week?" I asked.

Dave's smile turned sheepish and he said, "We're going to see Beach Blanket Babylon next weekend."

Elevated by his happiness, I gave him a playful punch in the arm. "You get em, slayer."

He blushed deeper and gave me a forceless push back.

Despite Dave's soothing and reasoning, I had no plans to contact Faye. If she was interested in me as more than just a booty call, she'd have to prove it, which I didn't expect her to do.

So it came as a shock when she showed up at Jules' the following night. It felt like seeing a ghost when I turned around and saw her beautiful face and guilty expression between the throngs of shiny, preened men. She gave a little wave and stood with her shoulders braced, trying not to be jostled by the impatient customers around her.

Not knowing how to respond, I asked Abby to take her order. If Faye wanted to talk to me, she'd have to do it at another time.

When Abby tried to get Faye's order, I couldn't avoid looking. Faye pointed at me as she spoke, and I knew she was asking to talk to me. Abby looked back at me and rolled her eyes, exhausted by the weird game of telephone we were playing. Finally I gave up and went over to Faye.

"If you want to talk to me, you'll have to do it outside of work."

"When do you get off?"

"I close," I said.

I still heard the nasal voice of the girl in her apartment piercing the air, asking for a pair of clean panties. Were they the same panties Faye had worn when she was with me?

"Okay," Faye said, biting her lip. Then she took a seat at the end of the bar and crossed her arms, waiting. Her shoulders curled and she looked small and young, out of place amidst the laughter and gaiety of the other customers.

Even if I was angry with her, I'd been harsh. As Dave and Justine had pointed out, I had no claims to her outside my imagination. It wasn't her fault I'd gotten out of hand.

As the night wore on and the crowd thinned, Faye continued to sit there, vigilant and undeterred by the entitled male customers who tried to get her to move. I tried to pretend she wasn't there, watching me like a hawk as I bent over to lift a tray of glasses out of dishwasher. I set it on the counter and started unloading it rapidly, feeling Faye's gaze heavy on me from the end of the bar. Her surveillance put me on edge.

I must have been more frazzled than I thought, because I whirled around too quickly and felt a thud before I heard a shatter and the tinkle of glass. Jumping a bit at the jolt, I felt a searing pain shoot through my hand. I looked down and saw a bright red gash zip up my palm, seeping out and dripping onto the bar floor, followed by an overwhelming sting that seized my whole arm.

"Fuck!" I yelled, looking down at the spatters of blood and shattered glass.

Before I knew what was happening, her hand was on my arm, guiding me to the sink.

“I - I cut my hand," I stammered.
Obviously
I had cut my hand. It was bleeding everywhere, stinging and throbbing and making me dizzy.

"Is there glass in it?" she asked.

I looked at it, feeling myself grow lightheaded at the rate of blood trickling out. I couldn't see any glass, just felt the sharp sting of the cut and the heat of the blood coming out.

I shook my head and Faye grabbed a clean bar towel, hurriedly wrapping it around my hand. "Put pressure on it," she hushed. Then she stepped back, looking toward one of the other bartenders. "Yo!" she called, pointing to me. "Riley cut her hand, I'm taking her to the emergency room!"

Something about the words
Emergency Room
made me spin faster. I didn't want to make a scene.

"It's fine," I hissed.

“No, it's not," Faye insisted. "You're gushing blood. You need medical attention."

Looking down at where the blood was starting to seep through the second layer of the towel, I realized Faye was right. I was scared and bleeding, and I didn't want to be in a room full of rowdy, drunk men.

"I'll drive," Faye said decisively. "I'm parked two blocks away. Wait outside," she instructed. "Hold it above your head and put pressure on it," she called over her shoulder as she pushed toward the door.

I felt myself starting to panic and was oddly relieved that Faye seemed to know what she was doing. I squeezed the towel around my hand, wincing as the sting sharpened, and lifted it above my shoulder. Carefully, I stepped around where Abby was starting to sweep up the bloody shattered glass, and retrieved my purse. I didn't even bother taking off my bar apron because that would have required two hands. Clumsily putting my purse over my shoulder, I walked out from behind the bar, braving the main floor as I kept my sight on the door.

I stood outside for only a minute before Faye's pale gold SUV came roaring up to the curb. She jerked it into park and got out, running around to open my door for me.

"Keep it elevated," she stressed, putting my seatbelt on for me as I kept my arms raised awkwardly to allow her space to strap me in. Then she sealed me in the car and ran back around to the driver's seat, shutting off the
ding ding ding
of the key alert and forcefully clicking her seatbelt in. She gave me a tense smile before looking over her shoulder and lurching away from the curb.

Although the car moved with urgency, it was a relief to sit in the quietness and watch the noise move around us. She turned off the radio and all I could hear was the engine and muffled noises from the city outside, mixed with the quiet chewing of her gum. I felt the same unwinding I felt every night when I got home and my ears could slowly drain all the noise from Jules' as I slipped into my yoga pants and t-shirt. I felt some semblance of that relief now, only my nerves were buzzing and every muscle was tense with worry about my hand.

"Is it bleeding through?" she asked.

I could see red seeping through some of the follicles in the towel, but it wasn't going to drip into my lap. I shook my head and she bobbed hers. "Keep putting pressure on it."

When we pulled into the emergency room, she dropped me off at the curb, promising she'd be in as soon as she could park.

"That's okay," I said. "I'll call Justine."

"At least let me wait with you until she gets here."

Too anxious to argue, I shrugged and closed the door, walking in the sliding doors of the hospital as Faye zoomed away, jerking to a halt at the stop sign at the end of loading zone.

I entered the waiting room and was overwhelmed with noise again. It felt like walking into Jules', only instead of glow sticks and drinks, people had ice packs and coffee and gauze. That, and there was no semblance of merriment or festivity. Nurses and attendants buzzed around like bartenders while the patients waited impatiently to place their orders and be served.

Once I reached the front of the line at the reception desk, I mumbled something about cutting my hand. The receptionist asked to see my membership card, and I was about to begin the awkward dance of getting my wallet out of my purse with one hand when I felt Faye slide up beside me.

"Let me get that," she said, gently taking my purse off my shoulder. "May I?"

I nodded, relieved to not be holding up the line as Faye dug around and took out my wallet, unzipping it for me. The receptionist maintained a blank stare as she punched my information into her keyboard. Then I was handed a slip of paper and told to wait until my name was called.