More Than A Maybe (5 page)

There’s no time to think about any of it, no time to process it. The count goes on.

1, 2, 3, 4
— I complete my turn, let go of the pole.
5, 6, 7, 8
— I turn my back to the audience, flipping up the back of my skirt, giving them a lightning-quick flash of my ass. As my fingers find the knot holding my top closed, I feel the all-too-familiar twinge of apprehension about the size of my chest. I push it down though, hard, as best as I can — I have only a couple of steps to get the knot undone before I give the crowd another pass.

“Take it off!” someone shouts predictably — one of the frat house boys. I’m way ahead of him, though. I keep the count, make the turn, and tear open my shirt just I face the horny mass of dollar-bill wavers for the second time.

They go nuts — whistling, calling my name, trying to get me to approach with their fistfuls of cash. It works . . . or at least, I let them think it does. But it’s all part of the show. Still perfectly in time, I trot to the edge of the stage, fall to my knees, and arch my back in front of a heavyset chains-and-moustache man waving a crisp twenty.

I fix him with a look of fire, and let my tongue run teasingly against my lower lip. The man reaches his hand up to my knee, hooking his finger carefully around the elastic of my thigh-high. He takes his sweet time getting the money into place, but I cut him off before he can get too attached. I mouth a dramatic
thank you
as I stand up, reaching again for my trusty pole.

1, 2, 3, 4 —

The crowd is hungry for more, but I’m loving the feeling of making them wait. I’m in control — they’re mine, and they all know it. Even if just for the length of a single song, it doesn’t matter. It’s power. I drink it in.

Still — can’t keep them waiting forever.
The song’s at about the halfway point, and it’s time to put things into high gear. My back to the audience, I let my finger
ssssssslowly
work its way down the thin Velcro seam that’s holding my skirt on, feeling the familiar ripping sensation as it separates. It’s unfastened now, but I keep holding it steady against my thighs as I walk forward for another pass.

5, 6, 7, 8 —

I clack my heels forward a few steps, then let the mini fall behind me and onto the catwalk.
Whoopsie!
my face seems to say, and I raise my fingers in front of my mouth in a quick flash of mock shock.
They love it. It’s all over their faces . . .

Don’t focus on them. Just focus on you.

That’s what Billy had told me . . . but in the heat of the moment I find myself letting his advice slip away, somehow, as I allow my eyes to scan the crowd. I’ve got their undivided attention — I’m conducting their sexual energy like some private orchestra, my every movement making them dig furiously into their wallets for more wrinkled dollars. Their desire for me is seething and undeniable.
They want me, they want me . . . all of them . . .

Except one.

He’s sitting at a table near the stage, completely lost in his own thoughts, sketching thick black doodles onto a cocktail napkin with neatly controlled flicks of a large fountain pen. His suit looks expensive and new, and he wears it with an obvious air of authority, the neat cut of the expensive fabric framing his substantial figure with a finely-tailored precision. He seems perfectly comfortable wearing the jacket indoors, in sharp contrast to the two clean-cut Asian men sitting next to him — they’re both looking fairly overheated, in rolled-up shirtsleeves and loosened ties.

I certainly have
their
attention. They sit nearly in awe, straight-backed and overstiff, as if analyzing some exotic specimen.

And why not?
I ask myself.
That’s exactly what you are, Veronica Kane. An exotic, gorgeous specimen for them to lust after and dream about and pay for the pleasure of . . . of . . .

Then it hits me, the realization making me hollow, sending a sharp tingling all the way to my armpits.

I’ve let the crowd distract me . . . and I’ve lost the count.

I’ve lost the count!

My steps begin to wobble as I try desperately to recover, to start again
. . . 1, 2, 3 . . . 4 . . .

Alice! Alice, what on Earth are you doing?
It’s my mother’s voice, clear as a bell, now clanging between my ears.

The failure shatters my confidence in a blistering second. My mother’s face is back, crowding out the count, the dance, the club,
everything,
and a sickening vertigo suddenly washes over me . . . I can feel her hot and disapproving stare bearing down, heavy and hard and unstoppable.

This isn’t how I raised you, Alice. Not what I had planned for you . . .

I try to keep it together. I know the Veronica inside me can do it. I believe in that Veronica, I call out to her in my head in silent desperation, the Veronica Kane that can do anything,
anything. I just need to make another turn at the pole . . . find the count again, find my place again . . .

I click my heels forward unsteadily, but I keep my eyes locked on the pole now, just on the pole, and I reach out my hand to begin my next turn . . .

How could you do this to your mother, Alice?

It’s hopeless. I can’t block her out,
I can’t,
and I begin my next turn before I really have a proper grip on the pole, and it’s all happening so fast now, the crowd and the music are just too loud and the fists are waving their dollars and the pole, the pole, it’s out of my fingertips and
it isn’t even close to my hand anymore,
and the edge of my heel goes diagonal into the catwalk, my knee twists, my body twists, and then I’m flying for a moment, flailing, falling . . . down, down,
down . . .

I scream . . . and then I’ve landed in a breathless, heaving heap on something or someone solid . . . my legs kick up and my platforms smash against the underside of a table, sending it rocking violently. Drinking glasses fly. The customers give a collective gasp.

I look up in a cloud of dazed wonder . . . right into a pair of truly remarkable eyes.

In the flashy lighting of the club, I can’t quite make out their color, but they’re steely, piercing . . . and, given how I’ve just tumbled ass-first into their owner’s lap, more than a little bit taken aback. The look isn’t so much one of shock, though, but rather one of concern.

“Miss?” he says.

I blink — and as I do, I’m finally able to process exactly what’s happened.

I’ve fallen directly into the lap of the businessman I’d seen from the stage. I cast a dizzy glance toward the two Asian men whose cocktails I’ve demolished. They’re completely flabbergasted. Whatever they were expecting to happen this evening, this clearly wasn’t it. They dab at their spilled drinks with sodden wads of cocktail napkins, chattering at each other in their native tongue.

I tilt my hazy gaze upward again. The eyes of the man above me have begun to sparkle just a bit, though the rest of his features are entirely unreadable, well-guarded by the shadowy interior of the club.

“I’m guessing that this isn’t part of the show,” he says.

It’s a light-hearted comment . . . but there’s nothing light about the voice that utters it. It’s steady and strong, rich with an educated authority, and it cuts through the din of the club like a knife.

I feel his arms cradle my back and my legs as he helps me off his lap with a decisive but gentle movement of his shoulders. My heels are miraculously still on my feet; I totter to a standing position, steadying myself against the drink-soaked cocktail table.

I try to turn around. I try to open my mouth to speak some words of thanks, of apology . . . but I can’t. Before I can even get one word past my lips, I am silenced by the roar of the club as it erupts in a mockery of applause.

Applause that is soon followed by sticky hoots of laughter. The strains of Ms. Spears’ voice cut out abruptly, only to be replaced by the forced-party cheerfulness of the Mirages deejay:

“HA HA! ALL RIGHTY! WELL, SHE’S OKAY AND SO ARE WE! ONE MORE ROUND OF APPLAUSE FOR VERONICA, WHO IS GONNA NEED TO SPEND A LITTLE TIME IN AMATEUR SCHOOL’S AFTER-SCHOOL DETENTION . . . ”

More catcalls, more peals of laughter erupt from the audience. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks and begin to burn. Veronica Kane the white-hot exotic dancer is gone. Alice the scared, no-hope ex-university student is back . . .

And everyone is laughing at her.

I don’t even think. The tears are coming fast; I’m suddenly gripped by a rising panic and a frenzied need for escape. In desperation I grab . . . well, I grab
something,
some dark piece of cloth draped over an empty chair, the first thing I can put my hand to. I wrap it around me, then make a beeline for the club’s exit, as fast as my heels can take me. Someone near the door says something, tries to stop me — but I don’t listen, I can’t listen, and I push past in a hot blur of embarrassment and anger. I blink back tears, shove the door open, and then I am out and alone, in the thick night silence of the Mirages parking lot.

I want to die, but I decide to settle for crying in the dark. I walk unsteadily over the gravel of the unpaved parking lot, half-naked and miserable, until I find a secluded and well-shadowed storage nook at the rear of the club. It blocks me from view, more or less. I put my back against the hard brick wall of the club building, fold my arms in front of my chest, and let the tears fall freely down my face. My mascara is already running horribly, and my tears drop in gray-black saltwater globs against the fabric of my stupid slutty costume.

I’ll probably have to pay to have it cleaned,
I realize. It should be the least of my worries right now, but the thought pops right into my head anyway.

One more bill. One more thing to pay for
— and then a sudden resounding chorus of
I don’t care, I don’t care.
I try to force myself to think about how awful a costume it is, how awful I look in it, and how it wasn’t meant for someone like me at all . . .

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

I say the words over and over in my head. They’re a dark mantra of denial, a prayer — as if repeating it will somehow make the lie into truth. I can’t force myself to believe in it, though . . . of course I can’t, and my sobs continue in scraggy gasps as I ball my hands into tight little fists . . .

“Miss?”

I hear a voice and I instantly recognize it, though I can’t see its owner yet. It’s the man whose lap I landed in, I can tell — it has the same firm and measured tone that cut so perfectly through the commotion in the club. I feel a new embarrassment wash over me, and I push my back even harder against the wall of the building, wishing it could somehow absorb me completely.

“Miss? You dropped this.”

I see not his face now, but his arm . . . the firm silhouette of his tailored jacket lit by the lips of the Mirages sign, by the new moon hanging crisply in the cloudless night sky. His graceful hand is holding what appears to be a scrap of cloth. I can only stare at it blankly . . . but it does distract just a bit from my tears.

“It’s yours. From the stage. Go on, take it,” he says. “I can see why you’d want to make a dramatic exit, but you’re weren’t exactly dressed for it.”

I squint at the cloth until I understand what I’m looking at. It’s the plaid mini from my costume.

I grab it from him wordlessly. He waits a few moments while I shuffle my hips into it. I tie up my shirt in front of me for good measure, then hug the black thing I grabbed on my way out around my shoulders. I allow myself the luxury of a few deep breaths. I hardly recognize the sound of my voice, but I manage to squeak out the tiniest
thank you
ever heard.

“And this.” He’s holding out his suit jacket. I hesitate, but his calm voice takes on an edge of firm insistence.

“I’ll trade you. For the one you took from our table. The one you’re wearing. I’m afraid that one belongs to my associate.”

“I . . . oh. Right. Sorry,” I offer lamely, as I remove what I now realize is a black suit jacket from around my shoulders. I take the coat he offers in return, wrapping it snugly around me. The luxuriant feel of the expensive fabric against my skin fills me with an immediate comfort. It’s still warm from his body. I now need to look at those eyes again, and it’s a need strong enough to make me ready to emerge from my hiding place.

I step out of the shadows, and I am greeted by a face of perfect and unspeakable calm.

He has the incomparable features of a self-made nobility — a remarkable unification of mature self-assurance and timeless youth. His face contains all the frustrated aspirations of the great artistic masters . . . a masculine perfection of sculpture so complete that it would make a Michelangelo curse his hands as unworthy to attempt their counterfeit. His breeze-blown waves of sandy hair catch all the scattered lights of the night and halo his features, silver and immaculate, as if he were kin to some wayward angel. His intelligent and calculating eyes meeting mine hint at a storehouse of subtle mysteries . . . but where I’d expect pity, or even judgement tonight, there is only an air of peace and concern beyond words.

He’s older than me by a bit, but he clearly takes as much care with his body as he does with his wardrobe. His stance is athletic, tall and high and proud. Dancers don’t fall into his lap every day, obviously, but he has the demeanor of someone who is entirely able to deal with this sort of unexpected circumstance . . . or any other that might chance to come along. It is as if I am looking at the leading man of my silver screen debut — and the theater curtain has just risen up into the sky.

He holds out a hand.

“Xavier Black.”

I pull a strand of hair out of my mascara-runny eyes and hold out my own hand in return.

“Veronica Kane. Well . . . Alice White, actually.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “I assume one of those is a stage name.”

“The first one,” I say, clasping his suit coat more snugly around me. “I’m back to being plain old Alice for now, though.”

He nods, then checks the moon-shiny wristwatch on his wrist. “Good to meet you. So — it is currently . . . 11:43. The way I see it, you have two options. We can go in there together, Xavier and Veronica, and laugh off what happened. I rejoin my clients, and you can spruce up and finish your night’s work.”