Play It Safe (23 page)

“Got a big crowd?” I asked.

“Honey, this is Vegas and my headliner has the best tits, ass, legs and head of hair in this entire fuckin’ city and you’ve lived here almost three years, you know this and livin’ here for three years, you know this is sayin’ something. Men got dicks. And lotsa them roll in and outta this town daily. So yeah, even though it costs a hundred and fifty dollars to try real hard to see you then leave and spend the next year convincing yourself you caught a glimpse, the place is fuckin’ packed,” Lash answered.

By the way, I discovered I had two talents.

I could play pool.

And I could strip.

That was to say, strip like Lash’s girls stripped.

I was the headliner of Lash’s Burlesque Show. Front row seats cost three hundred dollars. The back seats one hundred and fifty.

Lash had twenty girls.

But they all came to see me.

I knew this. Lash knew this. The girls knew this (one of the reasons why my one and only true friend in this world was Lash because even though they pretended, they all hated me behind my back).

Three hundred dollars for a front row and I danced two times during the show. Both times for five minutes, two of those minutes in nothing but sequined panties and spike-heeled fuck-me shoes with two huge, feathered fans held around me and no one ever saw a thing.

I had long legs, great hair, a firm, round ass and a pretty face but it wasn’t that.

The way I danced could make a man who’d depended on Viagra for a decade get hard.

So, clearly, the talents God bestowed on me led me to the path of my life.

I’d learned the hard way to follow and not veer off to try and find some ridiculous dream that included imperfect town squares and handsome cowboys with cute dimples but just go where life led me.

Even if that was a burlesque show run by a closeted gay man.

I made serious cake. Lash paid me a mint. And he sent a driver to get me and take me home mainly because the losers in the audience often thought they could fuck with me in the parking lot or trail me home.

Brutus (not his name, what I nicknamed him, his real name was Freddie), my driver was two hundred, fifty pounds of black man on a six foot five inch frame.

The losers who trailed me home drove on by when Brutus got out to open my door.

I also got my own dressing room. This was because I was the headliner.

This was also because Lash knew his other girls secretly hated me.

It wasn’t a lavish dressing room with chaise lounges and silk screens.

But it was better than sitting with those bitches who were fake being nice to me.

Lash came up behind my chair and put his hands to my shoulders as I dropped the makeup brush and went for the sequins I’d stick around my eyes.

“Right, Ivey, I asked, you answered, you lied, I’ll ask again,” he said softly. “How’s my girl tonight?”

At his strange question and tone, my hands arrested and my eyes went to his in the mirror.

“I’m doing fine, Lash.”

He held my eyes in the mirror a beat.

Then he whispered, “It’s his birthday.”

My throat constricted.

That was Lash. Something like that, he wouldn’t forget.

Then again, the first one he lived through with me I got drunk, blathered out the whole story and ended the night sobbing in his arms.

So that kind of shit made you remember.

“I’m fine, honey,” I whispered back.

He continued to hold my gaze. Then he squeezed my shoulders. Then he dropped his handsome head and touched his beautiful lips to my shoulder.

Then he let me go and walking out, reminded me, “You’re on in ten minutes.”

“Right,” I said to his back.

He went through the door.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

God, seriously, I loved Lash.

Then I leaned forward and stuck sequins around my eyes.

* * * * *

I was three and half minutes into the dance.

I could hide the hard in my eyes and around my mouth with makeup and spotlights.

They weren’t looking anyway.

All they saw was hair and flesh and all they could take in was the way I moved.

I started in a bra, corset, panties and feathered fans. I had ten sets. Purple with hints of pink and pale pink fans. Emerald green with hints of peacock blue with baby blue fans. Shocking pink with hints of red and red fans.

It went on.

I loved my getups. They were the bomb. And they were the bomb because Lash laid out a wad to get me he best.

The corset went first. Then the bra went. That was when the fans came in handy.

It was all twirls, bends, deep squats, sticking out and swaying my ass slowly, fan flashes and come-hither looks that came with a come-hither smile and fake bedroom eyes that weren’t hard to affect mostly because the makeup did all the work.

The men ate it up.

Two dances, ten minutes, six nights a week and Lash paid me five hundred dollars a night.

The best gig
ever.

I was whipping my fans back to front, torso bent slightly forward, head tipped back, lips parted, ends tipped up. I could feel my hair tumbling down my back, my ass pointed out and swinging slowly when my come-hither eyes moved through the tables at the side of the stage and I saw him.

Gray.

Gray.

My heart stopped beating and my eyes locked to his but I didn’t stop dancing.

Oh no.

The show must go on.

Even if the love of your life who crushed your heart who you hadn’t seen in three years was sitting by a stage while you were essentially doing a striptease on said stage.

He looked good. God, amazing. The same, a little older as he would look seeing as he was older, three years older.

Today.

He was sitting, lounged back, one arm out, forearm resting on the table, ankle resting on his opposite knee.

Yes, he looked amazing.

And he looked
pissed.

I tore my eyes from him to see Shim and Roan with him.

Boys trip to Vegas.

Fuck me.

Gray’s friends didn’t look happy either.

My eyes left their vicinity; I worked the stage, the crowd, my body and my fans.

I knew how this happened.

I didn’t let Lash use me for any of his promotional materials and I explained to him why. If someone I hustled in the past happened into Lash’s club, they might not recognize me. If they did, they certainly couldn’t get through the bouncers or Brutus.

But if I was on pamphlets and billboards, that was a different story.

And they might try to find me.

It sucked for Lash at first but then he loved it when he found it worked in his favor. Pictures told a thousand words but mouths had a bunch more and if people talked about me, and if you couldn’t see me unless you paid to see me, you wanted to see me, you paid to see me. Not on a billboard, pamphlet, poster or magazine ad.

And I danced under the name “Rue”. Lash made it up, thought it was funny. His name was actually Lash, his parents gave him that name. He wanted me to call myself “Larue” but I convinced him that was too corny.

So Rue it was.

Only a select few people in the inner sanctum (namely, Lash and Brutus) knew my name was Ivey.

No one knew I danced here unless they saw me.

And not a lot of people would recognize me under all this makeup, big hair and sequins.

Not to mention, most men didn’t look at my face.

I finished the dance, took my applause like a professional, smile on my face. Then I got the fuck out of there, flashing one of my fans in a farewell wave per usual as I strutted offstage, back bare, ass covered in sequined emerald green panties, come-hither look thrown over my shoulder, other fan pressed to the front of me.

Once out of the spotlight and backstage, I ran to my dressing room.

I tossed down the fans, snatched up my robe and pulled it on, tugging the belt tightly.

Then I paced.

Gray was out there.

Gray was out there!

God.

God!

Could I go out there for the next dance?

I had to go out there for the next dance.

But Gray was out there.

And he looked amazing.

And pissed.

Why did he look pissed?

What did he have to be pissed about?

He certainly didn’t have anything to be pissed about.

Hell, he was lucky I didn’t jump off the stage and beat him with my feathered fan.

He was a dick like all men were dicks (except Lash but it was my experience gay men weren’t dicks except, according to Lash, to other gay men, primarily lovers turning dick before becoming ex-lovers, the way of the world no matter which way you swung).

I went to my dressing table, snatched up my phone and called Brutus.

“Yo!” he answered, the sounds of the club in the background seeing as when Brutus wasn’t picking me up and driving me home he was a bouncer.

“Brutus, baby, it’s Ivey.”

“Woman, got caller ID, you don’t have to identify yourself every time you call me.”

Brutus said this a lot.

He went on.

“And, my name is not fuckin’ Brutus.”

He said this a lot too.

As you can see, Brutus wasn’t a big fan of his nickname.

“Listen, can you pick me up out back tonight after the show?”

“Why?” he barked, alert at that. I only asked him that when I got a bad vibe or someone sent something to my dressing room who was in the audience and repeat with the bad vibe.

I’d learned.

“Just a feeling,” I told him.

“You got it, Ivey,” he told me.

“Thanks, honey,” I whispered.

“Shee-it, bitch, do anything, you whisper to me.”

Brutus was a tough guy, macho man, bodyguard-esque, driver, bouncer but he was also a big softie.

“Later,” I said.

“Later, babe,” he replied.

I flipped my phone shut.

Then I took in a deep breath.

Then I sat down at my dressing table and got down to the annoying twice nightly business of doing my makeup because different colored outfits meant different colored makeup.

And as I did this, I hoped that I didn’t get a message that Gray wanted to come back and see me.

I shouldn’t have worried.

I didn’t get a message.

And during my second number, Gray, Shim and Roan’s table was empty.

Tragedy

In my high-heeled designer sandals, designer jeans, cute designer top with my big, slouchy, scarily expensive designer purse on my shoulder, I walked out the backdoor of the club.

The black Lincoln Lash owned that Brutus drove, not only me but sometimes Lash or VIP guests, was parked five feet away, lights on, ready to roll.

I moved to it, my heels clicking on asphalt then I heard an unmistakable voice say, “Ivey.”

I stopped dead.

Gray.

Shit.

Shit!

I clenched my teeth, swallowed, got my shit together and turned.

It was lit well back there. There were cameras. Bouncers randomly and often did walk-throughs. Lash didn’t fuck around. The girls parked out there.

That was all good except now.

I could see him well.

And he was no less tall, broad or beautiful.

“Gray,” I replied, tipping my head back as he walked to me and got close.

“Yo! No contact with the talent!” Brutus shouted and I turned my head to look over my shoulder, seeing he was out of the car and moving our way.

“It’s okay, baby, he’s all right. I know him. He’s an old friend.”

Brutus stopped and stared at me. He’d known me the two years he’d been working there. As far as he knew, I fucked Lash and Lash was my only friend.

His eyes went to Gray then back to me then Gray then me.

Then he jerked his chin up and called, “I’m just in the car, Rue. High sign, you need me. I’ll keep my eye on you.”

“Thanks, honey,” I called back, watched him walk to the car, give us one last look then fold his big body behind the wheel.

I looked back to Gray.

His eyes were on the car then they came to me.

Then he murmured, “Old friend.”

Fathoms of concrete, years of building it and just hearing his voice, miles of it disintegrated.

“Boys’ weekend in Vegas?” I asked.

“Roan’s gettin’ married,” he answered.

“Anyone I know?”

“Don’t know. Probably. Probably not anyone you’d remember.”

I remembered everybody, every second in Mustang, every person I met, every fucking thing.

I didn’t tell him that.

“So stag weekend?” I guessed.

“Yeah,” Gray confirmed.

I fell silent.

How did people do this?

I had one boyfriend, one lover so I didn’t run into them everywhere I went. I didn’t have any experience with this kind of thing.

Well, whatever. I was me and I might be hard but I wasn’t rude.

“Would you like to go somewhere? Get a drink? Brutus will drive us.”

“No, Ivey, I wouldn’t fuckin’ like to go somewhere and get a fuckin’ drink.”

It took everything but I didn’t step back. I didn’t still. I didn’t press my lips together nor did I swallow against a suddenly dry throat.

I didn’t even flinch.

Yep, he was pissed.

“Jesus, fuck, you take your clothes off for money,” he whispered like he couldn’t believe it.

“Gray –”

“Three years ago, only eyes that saw that body were mine. Now thousands of fuckin’ guys have seen it.”

This was true.

“Your point?” I queried on an eyebrow raise.

“My point?” Gray flashed back, his eyes narrowing.

I sighed then asked, “Do we have to do this?”

He stared at me and I felt emotion shifting off him, filling the air, sliding into my nostrils, down my throat, suffocating me then suddenly his hand shot up. Thumb and finger capturing my chin, before I could do anything about it he tipped my head back, leaned in and studied me close.

He got three seconds in before I tore away from his touch.

Then my eyes sliced to him and before I could say anything, he did.