Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows (66 page)

It was one o'clock in the morning. The last performance was in progress—the performance she hated most. As she pranced around the stage, the heat from the brilliant klieg lights along with her strenuous gyrations pumped perspiration from every pore of her body. For reasons she would never understand, the drooling men in the audience liked looking at her glistening skin.

The lights blinded her. She was thankful she could not see the faces of the audience, but she could hear them—smell them.

“Take it off, Delilah. Take it all off,” someone shouted.

It's almost time, she thought as she turned her backside to the audience and seductively ran the middle finger of her right hand down the indentation between her buttocks. Delilah Delight—what a hell of a stage name, and yet, it has the erotic sound these jerks want.

The thick smoke lying heavily in the air was suffocating and the stench of alcohol brought her to the verge of regurgitation, as it always did, and still she smiled seductively, pranced and shook her body ridiculously. Why do I do this night after night?” she asked herself for perhaps the thousandth time. Because I make more in one night as a stripper than I could make in a month as a secretary, she reminded herself as she again faced the audience with feet wide apart.

She ground her hips against an imaginary lover and the audience hooted their approval. “Let's see some tit,” someone demanded over the din of loud drumming music and general lewd comments.

There's not much more to see, you dumb ass, she thought, clasping her hands behind her back and leaning over towards the gawking men. She wiggled her shoulders frantically, causing her large breasts to almost, but not quite, bounce out of the tiny red brassier she wore.

“Take off the bra!” someone demanded.

“Play with them thangs,” another customer demanded.

She again assumed a wide stance, bumping and grinding her hips, and squeezing her breasts while tilting her head upwards, as if in sexual ecstasy. Slowly—tantalizingly slowly—she moved her fingers to the clasp between her breasts. She teased the audience by slightly separating the cups and closing them again.

When the roar from the appreciative voyeurs reached a fever pitch, she tossed the garment over her shoulders and wiggled it down her shapely arms. She pranced around the small stage, shaking her breasts and giving every customer a good view.

It's time, damn it. Come on, Shelly. You've done it every night except Mondays for the past year. You can do it once more. She pranced her way to the left rear of the horseshoe shaped little stage, squatted with knees wide apart and sidestepped to her left, stroking her aching thighs and red g-string covered crotch.

When she reached the right rear of the elevated platform, she moved to center stage and slowly duck-walked to the front, sensuously pushing the fabric between her labia with the middle finger of her right hand and fondling her breasts with the long, graceful fingers of her left hand. Only those with stage-side tables could hear her imitation moans of pleasure, but the well-rehearsed expression on her face conveyed the false message all the way to the tables in the back of the room.

She stopped when she reached the front edge of the stage, lay on her back, lifted her legs into the air and slipped her hand under the crotch of her g-string. She moved the back of her hand against the fabric, making the salivating men think she was furiously masturbating. I wonder how many of you idiots are jerking off right now?

“Okay, guys,” a male voice boomed from the speaker system, “the time has come. Number one two one three, come on down!"

She strained to get a peek at tonight's tormentor as two bouncers placed portable steps on one side of the stage. For a change, she thought, he's decent looking—tall, thin and a mop of black hair.

She rolled over and balanced on her hands and knees. She wagged her dangling breasts while crawling towards the top of the stairs as the bouncers briefed tonight's lucky customer on what he could and could not do. One false move, Hayseed, and my guys will beat the shit out of you. It's happened before and will happen again if you get out of line.

She watched the serious-faced man climb the steps and kissed his shoes when he stood before her. She felt his hands on her arms and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Following the script, she locked her arms around his neck and lifted her head for the expected kiss.

He placed his hands lightly on her back, bypassed her lips and pressed his cheek against hers. “Fake it,” he said into her ear.

What the hell do you think I've been doing all night?

He offered her his open lips, but when she pressed hers against him, she did not feel his tongue probing her mouth. What the fuck...?

He again nuzzled his cheek next to hers as she ground her pubic mound against him. He has an erection and a damn big dick. What's wrong with this guy? “Fondle my ass, Dummy,” she demanded.

“No."

“Bastard! You'll get me fired."

She knew he moved his hands to the desired spot, but she could not feel his touch. “Fake it,” he repeated.

“Shit. Cornball, can you dance?” she improvised.

He nodded against her cheek, placed his right hand on the small of her back and offered her his left.

“You dance good, Asshole, but this is supposed to be a sex show. Play with my damn ass."

Reluctantly he slipped his right hand to her hip.

“Smile, damn it,” she demanded through her own rehearsed upturned lips. “You're supposed to be enjoying my body."

They danced around the stage while the customers hooted. “Strip the bitch,” someone demanded.

When they returned to the front of the tiny stage, she pleaded with him. “You've got to do it. Take off my g-string."

“No."

Again improvising, she grabbed his crotch. The crowd roared their approval. “Follow the damn script,” she begged.

“Only if you'll go out with me after the show."

“I'm not a whore."

“I would have no interest in you if I thought you were."

“I don't date customers."

“Then I won't pull down your g-string and kiss your snatch."

“I have a two year old kid."

“Boy or girl?"

“Girl."

“I like kids."

“You're not my type."

“Breakfast at the Pancake Barn right after the show."

“I have to get home. The babysitter will be frantic."

“Then breakfast at your place."

“I'm not going to fuck you."

“I never have sex on a first date."

“Shit,” she said in surrender.

He knelt at her feet and slowly pulled down the damp shred of crimson cloth. He placed his closed lips against her shaved labia and held the position as she exaggeratedly ground her hips against his face, her hands pulling at his thick hair.

He bent his face lower and kissed her naked feet and painted toenails.

She again faked sexual ecstasy and, knowing only he could hear, said, “Get lost, Shithead."

He stood quickly, anguish showing on his face. She gave the signal as she stroked her breasts and the bouncers quickly escorted the man from the stage.

“You promised!” he shouted.

She ignored him, accepted the stage prop filter tipped cigarette from a bouncer, squatted, inserted the cigarette between her vaginal lips and, with knees obscenely parted, sidestepped one final time around the stage as a spotlight followed, focused on the area between her widely spread thighs. The audience knew this was the grande finale and, as one, stood and applauded her performance.

She showered and saw one of the bouncers sitting in her dressing room when she emerged, dripping wet. As usual, he was holding a towel, and she waited for him to approach and dry her off.

“Old number one two one three didn't seem very interested in your delicious body, tonight,” he commented as he kneaded her breasts with towel wrapped hands.

She nodded. His touch was always so sensual. “Stage fright,” she said.

“Maybe.” He knelt and applied the towel to her most private area. “What was it you promised him?"

“The bastard wanted a date after the show."

“He's probably lurking outside,” he said as he stood and lowered his pants.

“Probably,” she agreed, watching him step out of his boxers.

“I'll take care of it,” he said, “but it'll cost you."

She smiled as she removed a foil package from her purse. “I know."

He sat in a straight-backed chair and she rolled on the condom. She straddled him and impaled herself. He's so tiny I'm never sure he's inside me, she thought as she ground her hips against the muscular giant. She used her stage moan when he sucked her left nipple because she knew he liked the illusion he was giving her pleasure. He grunted.

“Twenty seconds,” she grinned. “I think that's a record."

“Fuck you,” he laughed as he pulled off the condom and tossed it into the trashcan.

He watched her dress while pulling on his shorts and pants. “I'll check the alley. Give me a couple of minutes."

She relaxed at the dressing table and examined her reflection in the mirror. It's my big boobs, wide hips and tiny waist that turns them on, she thought. It's certainly not my face. She chuckled as she looked at her shoulder length auburn hair, gray-green eyes, trimmed but bushy eyebrows, high cheekbones and long, slender nose. She grinned at her reflection. My best facial feature, she observed as she studied her pouting lips.

A knock at the dressing room door brought her back to reality. “Tiny says the coast is clear."

“Thanks, Bud,” she called through the closed door.

Shelly Brooks saw Tiny's shadowy hulk as she slipped into the alley. “Did you have to work him over?” she asked.

“Naw. There's no sign of him. I guess he gave up."

She kissed the bodyguard lightly and slipped beneath the steering wheel of her red Escort, not certain whether she was relieved or disappointed. She eased out of the alley, made a left turn and headed for her small apartment.

She was always amazed at the amount of traffic in downtown Charlotte, even during the wee hours of the morning, and fought it for three miles until she gratefully came to her exit, turned off Independence Boulevard and automatically weaved her way through the twists and turns of her residential area. Her thighs ached and her eyelids drooped as she turned into the parking lot beside her apartment building.

Suddenly she was wide-awake and her heart thumped against her ribcage as she saw, in the rearview mirror, headlights following her into the deserted lot. She parked beneath the closest mercury vapor lamp, opened the glove box and grabbed the 9mm pistol.

She checked the rearview mirror. He had parked on the opposite side of the lot and was rapidly approaching her Escort. She threw open the door, leaped to the pavement and, holding the weapon with both hands, aimed directly at him.

“Whoa!” he said as he stopped and raised his hands. “For God's sake, don't shoot. You owe me breakfast."

She lowered the pistol, still holding it with both trembling hands.

He slowly resumed his approach. “I believe you would have shot me,” he said, smiling faintly.

“In a heartbeat, Scumbag. Get lost."

“Delilah, think a minute. When was the last time you had a customer on stage who treated you with respect?"

“You weren't supposed to treat me with respect,” she hissed. “It's a damn sex show. You were supposed to be hot for my body."

“I'm hot for more than your body,” he said. “Do you remember the old song,
Some Enchanted Evening
where strangers’ eyes meet across a crowded room and somehow they know they're meant for each other?"

“What do you want from me?"

“Pancakes and conversation."

“I don't know how to make pancakes."

“Scrambles eggs?"

“I'm tired."

“Ten minutes of conversation?"

“Go away."

“Delilah, please."

She relented. Reaching into the Escort, she replaced the pistol, picked up her purse, locked the car and said, “My name is Shelly Brooks."

He followed two steps behind her as she hurried into the building and to the last apartment on the right of the hallway. She inserted a key in the lock, softly tapped three times on the door, paused and tapped three more times. She opened the door to the scowling face of the elderly babysitter.

“You're late again."

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Jordan. The show ran late."

The blue-haired lady glanced at Shelly's companion. “I warned you about bringing your work home with you."

“I've told you before,” Shelly said as she closed the door, “I'm not a streetwalker. I'm an exotic dancer. This is not a customer. He's just my friend, uh..."

“Sam Pond,” Sam said, extending his hand to the wary widow.

“Sam,” Shelly said, “this is Beatrice Jordan, my neighbor and babysitter."

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Beatrice eyed the couple suspiciously, then concentrated on Shelly. “I think Annie may be coming down with the sniffles. I gave her a baby aspirin and she seems to be sleeping peacefully."

“I hope she didn't give you any trouble."

Beatrice shook her head. “She's a little angel. She deserves better than you. Shelly, I'm giving you notice. I'm too old to stay up all hours of the night, not knowing whether or when you will come home."

Shelly watched the elderly lady shoulder her huge purse. “Two weeks?"

“And not a day longer."

Shelly opened the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Jordan. I'll begin looking for someone immediately."

Sam cocked his head to one side as Shelly closed the door. “You don't seem very concerned."

Shelly smiled. “She gives me her notice at least once a week. She doesn't mean it. She needs the money."

“May I see Annie?"

“Don't wake her."

Shelly led the way to the little girl's bedroom. The mercury vapor lamp in the parking lot revealed the two-year-old's golden curls.

“She ... she's beautiful,” Sam whispered.

“She's a pain in the ass,” Shelly replied as she retraced her steps to the living room. “I have no pancakes and I'm not cooking eggs at this hour. A beer will have to do."