Indigo: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #2

© 2014 Nikki Roman. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This novel is a work of fiction, Other than where some historical figures have been named, all names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

Music pulsates and vibrates through me, luring me to get up and dance. I tap my nails to the beat of the music on the tiny tempered glass table, watching my glass of Coke sweat. I could dance, I could join Ella on that stage, maybe earn a few bucks… if Mom wasn’t Hawk-eyeing me.

Ella sets her feet shoulder-length apart. She whips her hair in a circle and slides down the pole, her spine and hands caressing it.

I could do that. It’s not much different to ballet.

She clomps off stage in velvet blue high-heels; bra and G-string stuffed with dollar bills. Lowering herself on the lap of a man with a beer belly and scruffy facial hair, she grinds her body into his pelvic bone like a pepper mill, her face frozen in a grimace.

I can guess at what she is thinking: Anything for money. Anything so she can afford her Gucci purse and cigarettes.

She lifts herself off the man’s crotch, and then holds her hand out for payment. He lounges back in his chair, a disgusting, satisfied grin on his face.

“Where’s my dough?” she asks, hands automatically flinging to her hips, eyes narrowing into two thin slits.

“Your dough?” the man says with an exaggerated chuckle. “You’re a hoe; I save my money for important things, like beer and burgers. Now, why would I want to put my hard-earned money in your sweaty tits?” He cocks his head at her, his eyebrows raised and his mouth pulled to one side in a half smirk.

Ella’s face crumbles.
No, don’t cry.

In one cutting slap, she wipes the smirk right off his face. “Do you think I wanted to put my sweaty tits in your face for a measly dollar?” she says, her eyes burning with fury. “
Keep your money
.”

Ella puts her back to him, as he lies there in endless contentment, helpless as a Raggedy Ann doll, arms hanging at his sides, legs wide open and jeans rumpled from her dance. She stabs the dance floor with her heels, coming toward me.

“Bailey, is that you? Bailey Sykes? You were so little, the last time I saw you.” She pulls up a chair.

“You were too,” I say.

“Wow, are you a looker or what? I always knew you were pretty but… Bailey, you’re gorgeous, really. You could get so many tips here…
unlike me
.” She rolls her eyes, and flips her hair behind her shoulders. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” I confess.

“That guy comes here every Friday night, and every Friday night I give him a lap dance… he never pays.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

“I guess I’m holding out hope. I need all the cash I can get. I’m almost twenty years old, I can’t live off Mommy, like you do.”

“My mom can’t afford me either,” I say, with a dismissive wave of my hand.

“Why don’t you get a job?”

“Never put much thought into it… not a bad idea, though.”

“How old are you babe, eighteen?”

Ella straddles her chair the same way she did the man. Her breasts sparkle under the misty neon lights, and I can’t stop staring at them. “Sixteen,” I say, breaking my stare.

“A baby.” She takes a sip of my Coke and sticks her tongue out. “Soda. What, Mommy couldn’t get you a shot?”

“I’m not a baby,” I say.

She tugs on my hair, twisting it around her fingers. “Are you a
virgin
?” she says in a megaphone voice. The whole club goes quiet to hear my answer.

I glare at Ella.

“Ah,
the virgin stare
.”

“Shut up,” I say.

“You have to be eighteen to work here.” And just like that the music picks back up again, my proclamation lost in a throbbing, techno beat. “Let me get you a shot.”

My eyes follow the way she straightens her back, displaying her chest when she asks the bartender for a shot. He smiles and hands her two; she kisses him full-on, and then makes her way back to me.

“I got just what you need,” she says pouring the shots into my Coke.

“I have to be eighteen to dance here?”

She snickers. “Your mom would never agree to it. Besides, you’re too young and innocent.”

“What does innocence have to do with it?”

Anyway, I really don’t think I qualify as being innocent anymore, not after taking my mom’s Walther to school in a botched attempt to gun down my classmates.

“I gotta get back on stage before the other girls start taking my men,” Ella says. “It was nice seeing you again.”

I sniff my Coke, the pungent smell of liquor wafts from it. Taking a tiny sip, I jerk my head back from the biting, sour liquid and push the glass away from me.

Mom, balancing a tray of empty shot glasses on one hand, comes to stand beside my table. “You didn’t drink your Coke. What’s wrong?” she says. “Do you want to go home?”

I look out at the gyrating bodies bathed in a flashing, neon haze, and realize that this is the last place on Earth I want to be. “Yeah, I’m out of here.”

Mom reaches for my Coke, but I jump from my seat and remove it from the table before she can taste the liquor in it. “Mine,” I jest.

Pushing the straw aside, I chug it down. It comes up my nose, the liquor burning me inside out. I cough and sputter. Mom blinks at me in concern; she sets her tray down.

“You’re going to choke, slow down. I could have gotten another if you didn’t want to share.”

“No, I’m good,” I cough out. “I’m gonna drive home now, okay? I’ll probably be asleep when you come home, so I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“Okay,” she says. “Drive safe, there are a lot of drunks out there tonight.” She picks up her tray and glances sideways at the empty shot glasses.

At least you’re not one of them
. I grab my purse and raise my hand goodbye.

I unlock my car, get in, and rest my head on the steering wheel. The horn goes off and I jump at the sudden noise.

I put the keys in the ignition and the car shudders to life, spitting out smoke. It rattles the whole way home, like a toddler’s push toy.

I pull into the driveway of our new apartment at Bay Breeze Villas. I turn off the engine and place the keys on the passenger seat. This is my nightly ritual after having come home from a drive to the nearest gas station for chips and a soda. Except tonight I come from Indigo. It was Mom’s way of getting me out of the apartment.

“I bet you even know his name,” Mom said.

“His name? I think it’s Mason…Grey…but really, that’s just a guess.”

To be honest, the cashier at Seven-Eleven and I are on a need-to-know basis, even though sometimes things I don’t
really
need to know slip out, like how he always chews five pieces of gum in his mouth at once, or how he hasn’t paid child support in over a year.

Mom took me to Indigo tonight, hoping that my strange affair with late night runs to the gas station- for everything but gas- would subside. However, after having my fill of spiked Coca-Cola, sweating bodies, and enough flashing lights to cause even a non-epileptic to seizure- I’m only left sitting here alone in my car with a late-night hankering for the salty, hydrogenated taste of powdered nacho cheese.

My stomach growling, I dig around in the backseat and fish out one of my precious orange lifesavers. I pop four little white pills into my mouth and wash them down with a swig of Sky Blue Vodka. I may hate the taste of vodka, but I certainly can’t deny how wonderful it makes me feel after it has won the fight against my gag reflex. Couple it with Vicodin and I’m in heaven, floating on clouds. And without it, I wouldn’t be here.

Without Clad I wouldn’t be here
, I think, my mouth opening in a short gasp.
Without Clad
. The wind is knocked out of me—a punch to the gut each time Clad manages to needle his way into my thoughts. The guilt washes over me, drowning me, and suddenly I am in the retention pond again—dying.

The bottle rolls out of my hand and under the seat. The outside of my sneakers become wet as it pours out. I slip the empty pill bottle into my pocket with the intention of adding it to my collection later.

I pick my head off the steering wheel. Through the windshield masked by the splattered corpses of love bugs, the apartment complex juts out in harsh, jagged lines; its obnoxiously bright colors made tolerable by the black sky.

I step out and carefully shut the driver’s side door. Visions of my car falling apart from a single door slam enter my mind. I linger in front of it a moment longer, making sure it will stay intact, before taking the sidewalk up to the apartment.

I have traded my red door at Parkway Village for one the exact same pink as Pepto-Bismol—
if only it could cure my nausea.
I enter the space-ish apartment. There are two bedrooms; one for me and one for Mom. The couch Mom used to sleep on is rarely habited now. I stay in my room and she stays in hers. It’s easier, this way, to pretend things are normal and that I didn’t take her gun to school for a field trip.

My room is nearest the bathroom, like it was in our old apartment. The bathroom is where I spend most of my time, the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl against my sweaty palms, the hot drizzle of the shower scorching bad memories and hectic thoughts away.

A bedroom usually consists of a bed, a dresser, and various knickknacks that define who its occupant is. My room has no bed, has no dresser, only a closet full of unworn clothes and a pyramid of prescription bottles below my always-open window. I have built a sanctuary, a new domain where I can be at peace with myself.

I peel my sneakers off my blistered feet and wriggle out of my pants. I lie down on the floor, my ear and cheek pressed against the cool wood. The floor is solid; when I knock there is a repercussion, a reply that assures me of its solidity. Not like my pillow, which my head would sink into and become lost in.

Angel scampers into my room, a ratty dishtowel held in his tiny, sharp teeth. He covers himself with it and lies down on my spread-out hair; the smell of my shampoo is comforting to him. I know he wonders what happened to my bed—his bed—but he couldn’t possibly understand how the mattress and sheets felt like a swamp to me, sinking into warm mud bound by vines.

Through the window a cool breeze blows. The moon is a light orange color that it has borrowed from the sun. All is quiet, but not the tranquil quiet with chirping crickets in the background and croaking frogs. It is an eerie silence; I can make out Angel’s shallow breathing and that’s it. The silence puts me on edge because I know silence is the worst thing for me to hear. When the world has gone quiet it can only mean one thing-
it is plotting a way to shake up my life and break me again.

The front door opens, and I hold my breath in waiting. Angel will bark if it is an intruder. His ears perk up; he opens one eye but holds back his bark. Mom puts her purse and keys on the kitchen table. Then she joins me on the floor. “How’s my little floor dweller doing?” she asks. “Are you asleep yet?”

She pulls my hair out from underneath Angel, triggering a growl.

“Wide awake,” I say.

“Want me to lie with you? I could play with your hair until you fall asleep, or rub your arm.”

“No, you need your sleep… the baby needs his sleep.”

Mom rests a hand on her round belly, a smile crossing her lips. “What do you think, boy or girl?”

“Definitely a boy,” I say.

Her eyes turn down to her stomach as if she could see through it and know the sex of the fetus. “A girl…another beautiful baby girl.”

“I hope not.” I scowl. “I don’t need a little sister pestering me all the time. And what kind of role model would I be for her?”

“Oh, you could teach her so many things. You’ve been through it all and still you are here.”

“You didn’t think I would be?”

“I thought I lost you so many times… sometimes, I still feel that you’re gone. When you lie on your floor like this, or beg me to convince the doctor you need more Vicodin.”

“I’m here physically.”

“There are times I think you aren’t here physically, either. Like you’re invisible, just a ghost of who you used to be.”

I lay my hand on top of her protruding stomach. “Like the baby, you can’t see him but he’s there. You know because your stomach is growing and you feel him kick sometimes. I’m like that, you see me and feel me in only small amounts, but I still exist… only on a lower level, now.”

“You talk just like your father did. Always knowing the right things to say that will calm me.”

There’s a thump against my hand and I recoil. “Gas or baby?”