Read Liberty Begins (The Liberty Series) Online
Authors: Leigh James
Liberty Begins (The Liberty Series)
LIBERTY BEGINS
A NOVEL
BY
LEIGH JAMES
Liberty Begins
© 2013 Leigh James
All Rights Reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Art designed by Leigh Berry.
For my mother,
Otherwise Known as Cha Cha the Great
TABLE OF CONTENTS
5.
WHAT’S BEHIND DOOR NUMBER THREE
6.
BUG OUT
9.
CLOSER
10.
KNOCK KNOCK
11.
TRAINING DAY
13.
TMI
15.
BULL’S-EYE
17.
THE CLIENT
“Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”
Galatians 6:7
PREFACE
I didn’t know how long I had been lying on the floor, looking up at the man who had ripped my family apart. In that moment, staring into each other’s eyes, I remembered everything, every lie he’d ever told me. His eyes told me he was afraid.
He should be. It was his turn.
“Liberty, you can do this,” a voice said, squeezing my shoulder. That voice filled my body with warmth, with hope. “You’re not alone.”
I thought about everything that had brought me here, to this dirty floor in this dirty building. I had finally found a home, far away from here. But I needed to let my enemy know that I hadn’t forgotten about him, about what he did. He didn’t deserve to sleep at night, to enjoy a hot meal, to watch baseball. He didn’t deserve normal.
He deserved justice.
“Let’s finish this. It’s okay,” that loving voice whispered in my ear, and I knew he was right.
I closed my eyes and fired.
CHAPTER ONE
There was only one thing that had ever made me more nervous than going to work at that club. That was being alone with my mother’s boyfriend, Ray. There were at least some parts of my job that were redeemable. I couldn’t say the same for Ray
.
But I didn’t have time to think about that now, which was good, because I never really could stand thinking about him. Right now I had to go to work. And at work I had to stay alert.
It’s Thursday, our busy night, when the convention-goers are out for their last hurrah and the weekend
tourists are
just starting. At The Treasure Chest, we always make our best money on Thursdays. They don’t have as many girls on as Friday and Saturday, and we all have a lot more opportunity for attention. Not that I want it. I know that doesn’t make sense to anybody, but it’s the truth. I get there at nine and in the locker room the girls are talking, trying on their crazy, tiny outfits, teasing each other. I always listen to them before we go out on the floor. It soothes me to be around the hum of other people after being in my quiet apartment all day. They talk about the crazy things their kids had done that day, the fights they’d had with their boyfriends, how they had waxed their own bikini lines and how bad it hurt — but how aerodynamic it would make them. I did my own waxing, too, but I couldn’t make up funny stories about it like Adriana or Keisha could, so I just kept quiet. I pretty much always kept quiet. All the other girls had plenty of things to say, to fill up the space.
The Treasure Chest is considered upscale for Vegas, and we have some of the prettiest girls. There are about thirty of us in total, mostly young with a couple of lifers thrown in. In stripping, you’re a lifer if you’ve done it for ten years or more. Most of us, myself included, start at twenty one. So even though the lifers are still relatively young, they’re getting old for this place and they know it. They make jokes about getting traded down to the Gulch. “At least the drinks are cheap!” Tracey says sometimes, after a shift where she can’t get anyone to go to the Champagne Room. She laughs when she says it, but her eyes look hooded and I think she might be scared. You don’t make good money at the Gulch, and from what I hear the management encourages mileage.
I’m always nervous before I go out, and I don’t like putting on my outfit, but I do enjoy the makeup. For those few precious minutes in front of the mirror, it was like I was a little girl again, digging through my mother’s overstuffed makeup bag. I had better makeup here, more expensive stuff, but I remember the distinct smell of her inexpensive, sparkly eyeshadows and blush. If hopefulness had a scent, that’s what it smelled like, even though her compacts were cracked and plastic. It promised transformation, something better than what was already there. I would lock myself in the bathroom and rummage through her bag whenever she was napping on the couch, holding my breath so she wouldn’t wake up and catch me. And after, as I looked up at myself in the mirror, all of ten with bright blue eyeshadow on, I thought I looked pretty. Not as pretty as my mom, but no one was as pretty as my mom.
So now, it always comforted me, the sparkly eyeshadow, the black mascara, the hot pink blush, the process of transforming my face into something that made people stare. My beautiful mask. Playing dress up with my face was so much more fun than playing dress up with my body; because if you looked at just my done-up face, I could be anybody. I was almost perfect. I could be one of those girls out to dinner with my fiancé, having a
two hundred dollar
bottle of wine and not even blinking when the bill came. I could be any one of those girls at a club, from a
suburb across the country, who’s just in the city for the weekend. With a face like this, I could be waiting for my boyfriend to bring me a twenty-dollar drink that I might not even finish. I could be wearing a beautiful dress and a thousand-dollar watch, have a decent apartment and good job to go back to, and parents and siblings somewhere, all hoping I’m being safe and waiting to hear about my crazy weekend in Vegas.
But I don’t actually have any girlfriends, and my watch is a cheap plastic glow-in-the-dark one I bought at Walmart. I’m not from the suburbs, and I’ve never had one of those nice, ridiculously expensive dinners at a five-star restaurant with anyone. I don’t know who my father is and my mother, rest her soul, is dead. My sister’s gone. No one cares if I’m safe. The only place I’m going after work is my cheap apartment in the scary part of town, with my mask off before I even leave the building. I will eat macaroni and cheese that came from a box and go to bed, alone. So no, I’m not wearing a nice dress tonight. In fact, underneath my white button-down shirt and short plaid skirt that resembles a schoolgirl’s uniform — a slutty schoolgirl’s uniform — I’m wearing a leather thong and a black bra that has cut-outs for my nipples. And hot pink fake-suede sky-high spike heels.
I think I’m a little bitter. But I know I shouldn’t complain, because a lot of people have it worse.
I try to concentrate on my sparkly eyeshadow in the mirror until Alex tells me it’s time to go out. I was first and being first on a shift meant you were a warm-up act; the girls that came on later were usually the prettiest and got the biggest tips from the late-night, liquored up crowd. The Treasure Chest was different from most other Vegas clubs this way — girls actually wanted to dance onstage here. At some of the other, bigger clubs there were over a hundred, sometimes two hundred, girls who worked there. A lot of the dancers didn’t want to bother going out on stage when they could let the newbies do it and they could go into the crowd and do lap dances, where if they hustled they could make a lot more.
All of the other girls at the Chest were big on going out into the crowd, too, but because there were less of us and it was a smaller club we all wanted to dance onstage. It’s what we were known for. The other girls used that to leverage the crowd, to give them a little taste so they’d want to buy an appetizer, an entree, and dessert. So going out first, before prime time, meant you were either in trouble with management, the crowd didn’t like you, or both. Usually it was both.
Tonight for me it was because I was in trouble. Alex was punishing me by making me dance for the college boys who only drank light beer and could only afford happy hour. There were enough girls tonight that I wouldn’t be on stage when the conventioneers and post-steakhouse crowd showed up. Those guys got bottle service and tipped in tens, not ones. If you didn’t get that stage time you wouldn’t be able to get them interested, thinking about you, and clamoring for individual dances.
When I was first hired, six months ago, I got all the best shifts, all the best slots. When Alex interviewed me he asked if I had any experience. “No,” I said, looking at the floor, hoping it was dark enough inside that he didn’t see the blush creeping up my neck to my face; strippers couldn’t blush.
“Who needs experience?” he asked, and laughed. “You’re a perfect ten.”
People had always told me I was pretty. I got stared at a lot. I had long, thick, dirty blond hair, big blue eyes, and perfectly smooth skin. My sister Sasha, especially, used to get so mad that people were always nice to me. She said it was just because of the way I looked. She was pretty herself, and very smart, but she said none of it mattered when she was next to me.
“But look at Mom,” I would say. Mom was more beautiful than me and Sasha and every supermodel ever put together. She was tall and thin, with alabaster skin, long raven hair and beautiful, thick, naturally long black eyelashes. It was like living with Snow White. Wherever we went, complete strangers, male and female, would gape at her. Men would trip over themselves to open doors for her. Sasha and I used to joke that small birds and butterflies would follow her around. None of it mattered, though. Sometimes I think her looks made it worse. It made it too easy for her to get what she wanted, and what she wanted never seemed to be good for her.
“Look where it got
her
,” I would say, and Sasha would look over at Mom, passed out on the couch, and she would just shrug.
“You won’t make the same mistakes,” she’d said, and she was right about that. But just because I wasn’t strung out it still wasn’t easy, like she seemed to think it was going to be. Being pretty didn’t mean you’d never be lonely. I would tell her that now….if I knew where she was.
Stripping wasn’t easy for me, but I needed the money. Waitressing was not an option. I couldn’t handle talking to people that much. So dancing was it. I had no clothes on, but at least I didn’t have to chat. At first Alex took care of me and gave me the good shifts because he had thought he had a chance with me. I had since heard that he did this with all the new girls, and that made me feel better. I didn’t want to be singled out. But Alex was getting enough play that he was okay — most of the time. You had to be firm. He was just looking for something beautiful for free in a town where nothing was free, not even the free drinks. But I wasn’t giving anything away. Some of the girls who weren’t the best looking managed to hang onto the best shifts; I didn’t like to think about how.
Next to me Adriana is adjusting her long, fake black ponytail and examining her eyeliner. “Are you up first?” she asks. I square my shoulders.
“Yup, he moved me,” I say, and manage a smile. “He wants me out on the floor. Alex is trying to make a point.”
“Always,” she says. “Tell him to keep his little point to himself.” She laughed. Adriana’s aunt was married to one of the owners, so Alex left her alone. She had a boyfriend and two little girls and kept her coveted place in the lineup because she was absolutely beautiful and could sell Champagne time better than anyone. At twenty-five, she was a legend at our club. All new hires had to train with her, myself included. She gave me twenty minutes my first day. That was it. She taught me how to maintain eye contact while I was on stage, to make the customer feel like he was the only guy in the room, even when I was looking at every guy in the room, and to get them to tip well and request private time with me.
She gave me all the basics, but I would never come close to her. I could memorize my lines, but I would never be an actress. Adriana, however, was a natural. She was born to do sales. She made it look so easy and night after night, guys paid thousands of dollars to have an hour with her. Men flew across the country to see her on a regular basis. One older guy, who was rumored to be a millionaire, had even proposed. I didn’t have her gift. I couldn’t look at someone like she did — like she knew who they were and they didn’t disgust her. Like she still wanted them and liked being with them. All while managing to get paid a large sum of money. It was a business transaction, and Adriana got that. I knew what it was supposed to be, but I couldn’t get over feeling like it was some sort of messy emotional exchange that I wasn’t at all capable of.
“You’re up,” she says and points with her chin to where Alex had appeared at the door. He looked like he had spent too much time in a tanning booth, which he probably had. Like so many other men in Vegas, he used too much hair product and had too many sparkly details on his too-expensive jeans. But this was his perpetual look, like he had no choice in the matter, and I couldn’t picture him any other way.
Alex was chewing spearmint gum loudly, and it seemed like I could have smelled it from halfway across the room, mingling with his cologne. My stomach hurt. I couldn’t tell if it was the smell of him that was making me nauseous or if it was my regular jitters. “Gonna go out on the floor tonight?” he asked, snapping his gum, smiling at me. He always smiled, even when there was no reason to.
I returned the smile from under the protection of my makeup. “Probably not,” I said, shrugging. I couldn’t go out on the floor. Not yet. He knew that.
“I don’t know how you’re paying your bills,” he said, returning my shrug, “but it’s your talent you’re wasting.”
I kept my smile plastered on and managed to laugh a little. “Talent? That’s a fancy word for what I’ve got.” Then I heard the music that I danced to. I touched his arm. “I gotta go,” I said, keeping my voice light. I had to play nice if I wanted to make rent this month. I needed all my shifts and maybe some extra. He smiled at me while snapping his gum and then slapped me on the ass on my way to the stage.
I said he was
usually
okay
.
I told myself that I probably deserved it, just for being here.
As for talent, Alex and I both knew I had none. Adriana had the brains, Keisha had this ethnic-goddess thing going on that drove the customers wild, as well as absolutely no problem telling them to knock it
off if they
started grabbing her body parts, and Tracey was just plain aggressive. So were many of the other girls. They just kept grinding it out, literally, moving from guy to guy.
My “talent,” if you could call it that, was my looks, and the fact that I seemed innocent. Alex told me that. He told me none of the bartenders or the other girls could figure out why I was stripping, when I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t swear, and wouldn’t give lap dances. In reality, I swore often and drank occasionally — I just didn’t do these things in front of other people. That bad girl behavior was not to be seen by others. I always went home right after my shift and usually brought a book to read for when I was in between stage time. This was not normal stripper behavior. Not that most of the girls were bad — but pretty much everybody needed a free drink when they were done with this kind of work. I probably did, too, but I always just went home, like the scaredy cat that I was.