Pole Dance (9 page)

And, as carefully as he and Dale interviewed, screened and had the girl continually tested, there were still a few that picked up a drug habit.

Or picked up a man that believed that
her
work was
his
paycheck and she better hand over the money or she'd be sporting black and blue in areas even the customers could see.

Or those dancers that believed that the Fuego's rule of 'no pussy' didn't apply to them and would eventually be caught at the end of the stage, edging the gusset of the g-string aside to give a very private and illegal show to one of the customer's eyes after having been coaxed by the waving of a multiple fifties or hundred dollar bills and a fervent whisper.

All of it--the overuse of intoxicants in any form, the bruises from abusive home life and the flash of privates in a 'tits only' strip club--found his staff fired, no questions asked; no reasons accepted.

Maybe he was a romantic, but Jake yearned to be with someone that helped him feel clean and good. Something that took him away from tawdry and gave him unsoiled hope in the effortless connection that sprang from two people who simply enjoyed each other and not just on a physical level.

And, maybe, I'll just have to take my hand to tame it again, he thought with a chuckle trying to disperse his dark thoughts.

That Caitlin, now.

What was it about her that had him wrapped up in knots? He'd be lucky if he didn't come in his sleep tonight, staining the sheets in a parody of his fourteen-year-old self.

Flipping on the perimeter lights in the club's huge downstairs space, Jake made his way around the desk and picked up the large envelope that had been placed front and center so it wouldn't be missed. Squeezing the tabs together, he broke the seal and poured the pages into his palm. Only six pages came out and Jake peered into the envelope to see if there were others stuck inside.

Nope, only the six.

Who
the fuck only has six fuckin' pages?

At the end of his fourth reading, though, Jake knew why there were only six pages. And that Caitlin had truly given everything of herself in her brief time with him yesterday--in every fuckin' way.

She was the real deal and Jake wanted that particular sweet piece of real in his life and in his bed. He glanced again at the class list and work references. It was gonna be tricky time-wise but Jake knew that when he set his sights on a target, he would do and could do whatever it took to achieve it.

The beautiful, hard-working and driven Caitlin was a very worthy goal in spite of their age difference, though she might think otherwise. After only a few hours together, Jake already had seen glimpses of her pride and her naiveté, her determination which bordered on stubbornness and her sparks of temper which burned bright then were quickly gone. Yep, it might be tricky all the way around. But it had been hard to unwrap himself from around her when she'd cried. Cried in his fuckin' arms. Something he'd never had happen in his whole life.

Jake's body went completely still as he remembered that not once, outside of a forced smile she'd given him during her interview, not once had Caitlin grinned, smiled or even laughed. Not fuckin' once.

"Fuck me," Jake whispered softly. Though, at that moment, even he himself couldn't have told you if it was a wish, a vow or simply cursing.

*.*.*.*.*

"Freaking, bloomin', heck," I breathed as my eyes again roamed over the paper announcing my grades for the mid-semester. It wasn't often that I uttered my revised version of my father's favorite swear phrase but the situation seemed to call for it.

3.0, and I was screwed.

My scholarship was dependent on me maintaining a solid 3.75 grade point average. And here was the irrefutable proof that I wasn't cutting it. I looked again trying to figure out how badly and in which class I'd failed. Business 201 was a solid 4.0 as was Physics. But the damn Biology and Speech were kicking my ass. I could partly blame the effervescent, though dumb as a box of rocks, Renee for the lab grade as she didn't do shit and in no way contributed to our partnership outside of filling my hunger of the non-ramen variety and getting me tipsy on Daddy's credit card.

Speech, though, that was all on me.

"Son of a shaker's shovel," I muttered giving Mom full credit in the phrasing. What can I say, I'm an equal opportunist when it comes to parental swear words.

"Oh, Floyd," I said as he soft-footed his way towards me. "What am I gonna do?" I snagged him under his belly and cradled him, paws up, close to my chest. Recognizing a good thing when he had it, Floyd stopped his struggling and relaxed into my ministrations of tummy rubbing as I began to pace the ten or so feet in front of my door and down the short hallway. It was the only clear portion available for pacing in my tiny space.

What a freaking week.

First the (full shudder intended) interview with the god-like Jake and the slightly better but still nerve wracking afternoon spent with him defending her from two of my tormentors (double shudder), the problems with Four's hot water heater (no technician available until Thursday unless I'm willing to pay the $200 emergency call-out price which is not covered by insurance), and having to post a 'Pay Rent or Quit' notice on Pam's door after receiving no response to my knocks in order to ask, though prepared to beg and plead if necessary, for the rent that was past due.

The final blow had come when I was canned from my car-wash gig since the owner, Hector, had a cousin who just got his green card and needed a job.

Now this.

My grades.

Releasing Floyd, I slowly sank into my comfy couch as I unseeingly peered at my windows.

How was I going to fix this one?

My mind raced and darted from idea to idea but none of the ones I had were going to get me the results I needed. Glancing at cheap plastic clock over the door, I saw that I still had a couple of hours to catch Professor Davis before classes ended for the weekend.

Grabbing my purse, I released Floyd asking him to wish me luck as I left my apartment.

Marianne, the tenant from Two, was just coming up the stoop as I was leaving.

"Hey, you," she softly called in her musical voice. Marianne lived across the hall from me and was one of my long-term renters having lived here prior to Grandma Lela's death. A curvaceous natural blonde, she was the ideal tenant. Her rent was paid on time, any noise was kept to a minimum and no strange men were found exiting her apartment at any hour day or night. The only things I really knew about her were that she was working for a local accounting firm while doing occasional shifts at Buxby's on the weekends, and she considered blue her signature color. Touches of it could be found in all of her outfits and, from what I could see through her open door, her apartment.

"Hey," I greeted back, watching my feet on the cleared but still icy porch stairs as I began to move down them.

Stopping on the raiser above me, Marianne touched my arm asking softly, "You okay, honey?" I paused before turning on the icy step and raised my blue-green eyes to her big, baby blues.

"Uh-huh," I said with a slight nod. "Just off to see if I can negotiate my way into a higher grade," I confessed. All the tenants knew I had a full schedule at State as well as a plethora of odd-jobs but were understanding as they knew I would, as their landlord, take their calls day or night or get back to them as quickly as my breaks, classes or jobs would allow.

"What class?"

"Speech," I admitted.

"Speech?" she repeated as she looked away from me lost in her own thoughts. "I can help. I managed to get my high-school boyfriend elected as class president with my speech-writing skills. You know it's all about the subject, right?" Her eyes came back to mine, warming slightly.

"Uhm, okay, but that's not the issue I seem to have trouble with," I responded quickly. I was remembering the critiques I had received and knew that none of them, not even the most derisive of them which cattily called attention to my clothes, my height or my figure, included anything about my choice of subject. "I tend to speak too fast or too soft or too garbled or something to effectually make my point."

"Still, I can help," she countered with confidence. "Why don't we set aside some time and you can deliver your speeches to me and we'll work on them together? Carl was such a blow-hard that my main job, outside of writing every word he needed to say in front of an audience of more than two, which included both him and me, was to keep his hollering to a mild bellow. If I can rein him in, honey, I can let you out. In fact, let's share dinner and wine first to make sure your relaxed and ready to go."

While we had never socialized in the strictest sense, I felt Marianne and I had always had a close connection. Dinner would be good but experienced help would be even better.

"You're on," I said. "Let's just hope Professor Davis is willing to let me do extra credit to bring my grade up."

"Sunday evening good for you?" Marianne asked.

I nodded thankfully. I didn't get much help now that I was on my own and I appreciated her offer. Patting my arm she nodded and turned to continue back up the stairs. As I was just stepping cautiously onto the walkway though, she called my name.

"Caitlin?

I caught her eyes as I carefully turned the top part of my body towards her but kept my feet firmly planted on the icy path.

"That Mr. Jamison?" She almost whispered as she scrunched up her nose, "He's not a good guy, honey. Please don't let him get you alone anywhere outside the bank, okay?"

"You know Mr. Jamison?" I asked still twisted and stunned by her warning. What was her experience with Mr. Jamison?

"Yep, kiddo, more than I want or need to," Marianne said on a sigh looking towards the sky. Bringing her eyes back to mine, she said firmly, "Just take care of yourself when you're around him, honey."

"Uhm, okay," I mumbled after watching her turn towards the front door.

I tightened the belt of my jacket, feeling the cold January wind cut through the thin fabric as I carefully made my way down the walk. Next purchase, when my budget allows, was a warm wool coat I promised myself as I began my three-block trek to Tudors House where my Speech class met.

Just as I was approaching the narrow ribbon of concrete that shot off from the main sidewalk and led to my classroom, I saw a tall, tall man swinging his long, long leg over his big, big motorcycle. I couldn't clearly see his face as he adjusted his jacket, but there was something familiar in his stance, his shoulders.

"Yo, Caitlin," he called. How did this guy know my name? I shaded my eyes to better see in the reflected snow glare as I scanned my memory of anyone I knew that rode a motorcycle and came up blank as my steps stuttered to a halt. It wasn't until he gestured, with the rolling of his hand towards his chest, in a come-hither move that I got it.

Jake!

Oh, crap, JAKE.

My heart sped up until it was practically beating out of my chest and every pink area on my body was sat up and took notice, up to and including the end of my very cold nose. It was like every fiber in my body had suddenly become a cheerleader, raising their pom-poms and yelling, "Squeeeee" very loudly at just the thought of him.

Thoughts that I had been very careful to push away ever since he brought me home the other evening. Thoughts that I would only think alone in my bed.

"Hey, Jake," I replied trying to be as cool and collected as I could possibly be in spite of the resounding boom of my increased heart beat.