Nocturnes (3 page)

I didn’t have to read lips to know what he meant. It was the same thing he said to me every night when he tucked me in bed. “Tанцевать.”

Dance.

Once I got his message, the light leaking out of him dimmed, and then he joined Mama. I watched their souls leave their bodies, mingle together, and dissipate into thin air like two heat waves rippling off hot asphalt.

The drunk driver who hit my parents sat on the sidewalk, head buried between his legs, shoulders quaking, mumbling, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Yeah. Me too.

The basement of Nocturnes has nothing on my former life in Peaceful Valley, Washington. Yeah, that’s actually the name of the town where I grew up. Ironic, isn’t it?

I glance down at the worn silver ring on my left hand and twist it.

“Who’s the client?” Kristina resumes her mascara wanding.

“No idea. Only name I heard was John.”

She pauses. “If it’s the same one I heard Joy talking about yesterday, you’re in for fun. He brings buddies. And he videos.”

“Great.” My butt cheeks clench, and I shake my head.

Kristina twists open a tube of lipstick and glides the red over her lips. She blots the excess with a tissue. “The other day, one of my clients theorized about why I chose this life. He said, ‘People like you do it for the money, the free sex, or to get back at your parents.’”

“Was he right?”

She swivels on her stool and faces me. “Yes and no. I signed up for all of those reasons. Yeah, Hell’s gonna buy me a new car and all the shoes I want. It satisfies my less conventional cravings, and it’s a great ‘fuck you’ to the ’rents. But it’s not where I want to be five years from now.”

“No? I thought you liked getting your freak on.” Kristina’s a sexual submissive. I imagine Hell would be more like Heaven to her.

“A little freaky-deaky once in a while is fine, but dancing?
That’s
my passion. Whether it’s here, another club, or on goddamn Broadway, I gotta dance.” Her eyes spark, and her body animates. “We’re given one lifetime to spend on Planet Earth. If you can’t love what you do while you’re here, then what’s the point?”

I nod. I get that. With no family and very few friends, dancing’s all I’ve
ever
had. I like making people happy with my body. God gave me this beautiful gift, and though I may not be using it exactly as Mamochka and Papochka intended, it fulfills me.

I started out with a promising future as ballet dancer, but my life derailed when that drunk driver voided my parental warranty and introduced me to foster care. There are no ballet lessons in foster homes. Just pity, extra mouths to feed, and occasional abuse. I’m not saying my life has been bad. It just didn’t turn out as warm and cozy as I thought it would. But cold and hard is all I’ve ever known, and it works for me.

If my business in Hell continues to grow, I’ll have saved enough to pay cash for a house in the Garden District by the time I’m thirty. Then, like Kristina, I can dance because I
want
to, not because I
have
to.

All my parents wanted for me was a better life than they had. Considering how abruptly theirs ended, I can’t do much worse.

I shake my head. It’s been over a decade, and I still don’t like thinking about them. I can’t look past the mangled bodies to the happy days we shared before then. The good times are buried too deep under the haze of regrets and shattered dreams to see anything more.

But my skin is much thicker, my heart much tougher. That scared little girl shaking her papa’s limp arm, trying to wake him from death has grown into a hardened woman. When you face and conquer your darkest fears early on, anything else the universe throws your way is a cakewalk.

Swallowing over the uncharacteristic lump in my throat, I study myself in the mirror. My skin is appropriately whitened. My makeup is perfect. My lithe body is tight as a virgin’s pussy, eager to escape the confines of black lace and spandex into the raucous freedom of dazzling movement.

I stand. It’s time to make husbands forget their wives and to give frat boys something to fantasize about when they stumble back to their girlfriends. I pull up my acting Underoos, slide my “I’m-ready-to-conquer-the-world” attitude in place, and swagger to the door.

Two girls dressed in matching feather boas prance past me with their noses turned up. I get that a lot around here. If those jealous bitches knew about my other life downstairs, they’d shoot me with real daggers instead of the imaginary ones they’re so fond of.

“Try to have fun tonight. You look amazing.” Kristina beams.

Smirking after the snotty dancers, I rest my fingers on the handle and pop off a wink to Kristina. “I know.”

Her laughter echoes off the clanging door as I exit the dressing room.

Wow, the VIP section is packed tonight. Frazzled-looking waitresses rush to and from the bar, their trays brimming. Every table is occupied, most capped at capacity. Loud voices, catcalls, and whistles battle for dominance. Promises of sex and booze and debauchery are ever present in Nocturnes, but tonight on Mardi Gras, a new level of excitement tinges the air. I’ve only been working here for a couple of months, but this is the most crowded I’ve ever seen the place.

I make my way through the throng to the client waiting for me at table six. Pierre is a regular. Visits every Tuesday to see me specifically. He’s a good tipper and a polite Southern gentleman, unlike so many of the assholes who come here looking for cheap thrills and free sex.

I sneak up behind Pierre and toss my arms around his neck. He smells good. Clean. I wish they were all like him.

“How’s it going, darlin’?” he asks in his smooth Cajun accent, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening with his wide smile. He kisses my wrist.

I circle around and plop gently into his lap. He may be in his 70s, but Pierre’s peter still thinks he’s twenty-three. The little devil’s already banging on my back door through his seersucker suit when the music starts.

“I’m fine now that I’ve found you.” I plump his gin-blossomed cheek, kick my leg up, arc it around to straddle him, and let Nine Inch Nails guide me on a hard-core exploration of Pierre’s Southern Territory. I grind to the heavy synth bass, stifling his erection with my black-laced crotch, and bury his face in my cleavage. The old buzzard eats it up.

Танцевать.

Yes, Papa. I’m still dancing.

Focusing on the wall, I force the memories gathering renewed momentum and their accompanying emotions into the little urn lodged inside my soul. All feelings go there. No room for them out in the open where they might be exposed. What’s left under my skin is cold detachment glossed over with happy stripper sprinkles and expertly engineered smiles.

The lid on the urn closes with a bang, and Eve Belikov is buried once again.

Now that I’ve initiated Drama-Free Mode, all bets are off. I unleash my sexual energy on Monsieur Pierre. The goal is to give him the thrill of his life, condensed into the space of a three-minute song.

About ten other girls, including the two with the boas, are entertaining customers, but all eyes in the VIP section are on me. I’ve got the best body in the house—hell, maybe the best body in the great state of Louisiana. That’s why the women here hate me, and the men cartoon-trample their own tongues just to get a whiff of my perfume.

My kind of beauty is a blessing and a curse.

At the halfway mark of the song, I coyly slip the left strap of my bikini top off my shoulder, the exposed breast just out of Pierre’s mouth’s reach. I ride his rigid cock for a couple of fast strokes. At the chorus, I shove down the other strap, twist my hips hard enough to pop the top off his erection, and milk him using only my thighs and eyes.

Trent Reznor and I aim to dispose of Pierre’s raging hard-on, and we don’t take no for an answer. Pierre’s head tips back, his frail body goes rigid for a few seconds as his balls empty their contents inside his pants, and he relaxes into the plush black chair. He smiles at me like the sweet little letch he is, then covers my palm with the hundred I know is hidden inside his.

Same dance. Same quick release. Same pay. Every Tuesday. Pierre may be the one constant in my life.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he says, his aged voice barely loud enough to pierce the riveting thumps blasting through the speakers.

“You’re welcome.” I continue dancing until the song ends, keeping my gaze on his while I slide the money under my garter. When the final cymbal crashes and silence disrupts its wake, I dismount and press a long kiss into Pierre’s cheek, giving him plenty of time to enjoy my perfume and the exposed tits crushing his chest. I’m guessing the guy at the table behind us is getting an eyeful of my G-stringed ass too. Hope he enjoys the freebie.

“Will I see you next week?” I whisper in Pierre’s ear, throwing in a little extra breath.

He adjusts in his seat and grins. “You betcha.”

“I can’t wait.” With a couple flicks of the wrists, my flimsy clothing is back in place. I trail my fingers along his arm, glide away, and steel myself for my second shift. I have about thirty minutes and no clue what’s in store for me in Hell.

On my way to the dressing room, one of the waitresses stops me. “Pierre sent this for you.” She holds up a round tray with a shot in the middle.

“He’s such a sweetie.” I take the glass and raise it in salute to red-faced Pierre.

He waves and exits through the black curtain. I set the glass back on the tray as soon as he’s gone.

I lean close to the waitress. “You mind giving this to Kristina when she finishes her set? I don’t drink.”

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll try to remember. It’s fucking nuts in here tonight.”

“Thanks.”

A guy gets up from one of the nearby tables. He’s unsteady on his feet, sporting a nasty black eye, and wearing the scowl of a man spurned by a stripper. I’m quite familiar with the look. I put it on clients’ faces pretty much every night. They think because we stare at them, we want them. That because they’re hot or stacked, we want to marry them. The truth is, we just want their money.

Though, I almost feel sorry for this one. He’s in bad shape. Looks like he got into a fight with a tractor. And lost.

He’s cute in a rock-star-lush kind of way. Long, wavy black hair. Unshaven. Snake-head tattoo ready to tear open his throat. And my favorite—twin lip rings at the corners of his mouth. How adorable. I’ll bet he thinks he can play guitar too.

I stop at his table on my way to the dressing room. I never pass up an opportunity to pick up more business. Not that I need it with the huge payment I’ll have coming after midnight.

“I’d hate to see what you did to the other guy,” I tease.

Shaking his disheveled locks out of his face, he says, “It was a girl. And my best friend. They both suck.” Then he looks up at me.

Recognition illuminates his expression, giving the illusion of sobriety for a split second. His mouth opens. Closes. Repeats.

“Holy fucking Christ.” He sputters, “Lola?”

Side A: “Lola”

There’s no such thing as fate. No way. No fucking way.

Yet, there she stands, not three feet away.

Lola.

Choirs of angels sing. Divine lights illuminate her halo. White, feathery wings twitch behind her. Meeting her again is a sign from God that I’m meant to fuck her. Tonight.

“Whadda ya doin’ here? I-I thought you lived in Jacksonville.” Why did I drink that last shot? I’m so fucked up, I can’t see straight. Which explains why it took me a few seconds to figure out the woman of my dreams is standing right in fucking front of me.

Fuck!

I should go to the bathroom and puke. This could be my one chance at getting with her. I can’t let booze blow it for me again. Last time—the only time—I met her, I drank so much, I ended up in the hospital with a pumped stomach. Alcohol poisoning. What a fucking bitch.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Her voice is just like I remember. Sex. Pure, airy, erection-inducing sex.

Wait. She doesn’t remember me? But, I’m unforgettable.
Does not compute.
“Rax Wrathbone. We met at a club in Florida…” I wait for her to nod, but she stares blankly. “I was with some friends. I may have been really wasted. Kinda like now. Except with a big bus.” Hearing my drunk ass spouting stupid shit makes me think maybe I shouldn’t be such a drunk. Drinking. Because…drunk.

“Yeah, I left Jacksonville a while back when an…opportunity opened up for me here. Sorry I don’t remember you, Rex. I meet a lot of guys.” She gestures to the men ogling her nearby. Caught staring with their proverbial pants down, they quickly look away.

“Not Rex.
Rax
. Like B
rax
ton Hicks contractions. Except
Rax
. R-A-X. You ever been pregnant?” I mentally slap an invisible hand to my mouth a second too late. Goddamn it.

She laughs and shakes her head. “No. Never been pregnant. I’ll catch you later.” She starts away, and I grab her arm.

“I’m sorry. I drank too much, but look, I wanna…”
Choose your words carefully, Wrathbone. Don’t say ‘I wanna fuck you.’ No matter what.
“I wanna fu—”

“Lola, you’re needed.” Duane the Meaty Bouncer Butcher appears out of nowhere and shuts my mouth for me. Thank God for small favors.

She nods, inhales, and flashes a curt smile. God, she’s fucking hot.

Bouncer Boy strides away, keeping his eyes on me.

Wait. She’s needed? No, she can’t leave yet.

“You’re not driving, are you?” Lola glances down at herself and pats her bare hips as if searching for something. “I usually keep cards handy, but I’ve got nowhere to put them in this get-up. If you need a cab, I have a friend who owns a taxi service.”

Staring at her pussy—mmm, lace is my favorite—I imagine pushing the delicate fabric between her legs aside and giving her an hour-long mouth-to-crotch revival session. The barely there cleft between her labia taunts me. A pair of lips begging to be French kissed. I pucker up.

“Uh…” Two fingers draw my chin upward, and my gaze collides with a pale-blue stare. “I’m up here, Rex.”