Working Girl (24 page)

MY EYES NEVER LEAVE CHRISSY
as she goes about her performance. Her confidence is intoxicating and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that she’d done this before. Maybe she has; it’s not like I know everything she does. She’s had enough Joe’s that it would make sense for her to have performed a striptease a time or two. She has every set of eyes in the room on her, including mine, and she deserves it. Chrissy is damn good.

As her song ends I’m reminded that I’m sitting on some guy’s lap, by his erection which is pressing against me. I want to get up, to go to Chrissy and figure out how I’m going to deal with this, but I know better. People are watching me; people who will report me to Big Earl, and Big Earl will have no problem tossing me out on my ass . . . or worse.

The guy leans forward, his arms around my waist. “So, beautiful, now that I’m all fired up, how about a little private show?”

My stomach drops and the thundering of my heart is so loud that I can barely hear the music start back up, but I have no choice. This is what I have to do. “Of course,” I coo, hopping to my feet and taking him by the hand. Chrissy and I aren’t going to get the chance to iron out the details of how she will help me so I’m going to just have to fend for myself, and even though my legs are shaking as we walk towards the back, I force a smile as we approach the guy guarding the velvet roped off area. Someone told me his name when they ran through everything when I first got here, but now I can’t remember it. I just hope he remembers me and that he’ll be helpful.

“My friend here and I need a room,” I state as we stop in front of him.

He uncrosses his arms and nods. “It’s $300 for the room,” he says to the guy I’m with, who doesn’t hesitate to reach into his pocket and pull out three hundred-dollar bills, handing them over to the bouncer.

George!
George
is his name.

George takes the money, shoving it into his pocket and unclasping the velvet rope. Still holding on to the guy I’m with, we walk through and stop, waiting for George to show us where to go. Without a word, he puts the rope back and starts walking down the darkened hallway, stopping at a room numbered six. George looks at me and gestures for me to come closer. I lean my head near his and he whispers, “This will always be your room, Presley. Number six. Remember that.”

I nod. For some reason this seems like it is important—that George is somehow on my side, and is sending me a message of sorts. But I can’t be sure.
Do girls always get their own room?
Maybe this is the norm and I’m just making something out of nothing, overthinking again.

With a fair amount of trepidation I push open the door and go inside. It’s dark and sparsely furnished; only a couch with a side table occupying the space. The guy heads right to the couch, flopping back and sighing. I look around, noting that there’s an iPod and speakers on the table. On top of the speakers I see a piece of black cloth.

A blindfold.

Panic rises within me as I think about dancing, or doing more than that, with this man that I barely know. Without really thinking, I reach down and take the cloth into my hands. At least if he can’t see me maybe I’ll be a little more confident. Maybe I’ll pretend that he’s Emerson. Maybe I’ll fake that I actually have feelings for him. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to make it through the next hour unscathed.

With a sudden air of confidence I hold the blindfold up. The man wags his eyebrows. “I like how you think . . .” He pauses and I know he’s wondering what my name is. This is my chance to start afresh with something new because one thing’s for sure—while I’m here I can’t be Presley. My mind struggles to function and the only thing I can think of is my favorite Edgar Allan Poe poem: The Raven.

“Raven,” I say confidently. “My name is Raven.”

“Nice to meet you, Raven.”

“You never did tell me your name,” I say as I straddle his lap.

“My name is Mr. X,” he says, laughing.

I know it’s not his real name. Men like this don’t use their real names while they’re in places like these. “Well,
Mr. X
, I hope you’re ready for a wild ride,” I purr, before placing the blindfold over his eyes. My hands are shaking as I fumble to tie it behind his head, but the smile never leaves his face. I stand up, leaning over to queue up some music on the iPad and I can see him practically humming with excitement.

Looking at him, listening to the music thump, I know I’m in over my head. I don’t know what to do, or even where to begin. I’m just about to start with some lap gyrating when the closet door pops open. I look over and see Chrissy beckon me over. She grabs my hand, pulling me into the closet with her.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask in a whisper.

“I told you, I’ll take care of you.”

It doesn’t take long for me to piece it together. Chrissy organized the whole thing.
That’s
why George told me this would always be my room.

Chrissy.

I look at her with so much happiness and fight the urge to hug and kiss her a million times. “Thank God, Chrissy. I’m freaking out!”

“I can tell. You sit here and I’ll go out there and take care of Mr. X. Shouldn’t take long since you’ve got him all worked up with that blindfold.”

I wish I could say that I did it on purpose—that I’d been smart and remembered that it was part of the plan—but in all honesty it was just me freaking out. I stalled because I didn’t have the slightest clue what to do next.

Chrissy pulls me toward her and kisses me on the forehead before slinking out of the closet. She doesn’t shut the door behind her; instead leaving it open just a crack so I can see all that’s happening and know when we need to switch back.

It’s voyeuristic; watching her take her spot, straddling his lap, moving her hips to the music. She gyrates on top of him as his hands travel up the sides of her legs. She grabs his hands as they reach her thighs, stopping them before they make it any farther and he groans in protest when, using just one hand, she pops the clip of her bra from behind her back and lets it fall down her arms to the floor. She leans forward, allowing his chin to nestle between her perky breasts.

Effortlessly, she spins around so that she’s facing me, her ass directly in his lap. She stills for a moment, allowing him to get his bearings before she starts moving to the music again. His hands land on her hips as she moves in circles in his lap and he hisses and groans as she continues to work him up.

It’s erotic to watch my best friend in complete control, this man writhing beneath her. In this moment, I get it. I understand what Chrissy has been talking about all these years; why she enjoys what she does. When everything else in her life is chaotic and unpredictable, here she is in control. It’s empowering, and she’s damn good at it—I can tell just based on the look on his face.

He shifts underneath her and she bends over, grabbing her bra and placing it back on. She reaches behind her back and snaps it together before running over to the closet and switching spots with me. Even though we’re in a rush, I take the time to give her a quick hug before going back out into the room.

Mr. X is still sitting on the couch, his breathing quick and shallow. He’s still smiling and I look down at him from the spot I’m standing. The wet spot on his pants is obvious and a shiver runs through me. I don’t think I will
ever
get used to this business and the disgustingness that it brings.

I carefully lean forward, freeing the knot in the blindfold. His eyes open and take me in. “Well, beautiful, that definitely wasn’t your first rodeo. It takes talent to make my snake spit.”

Forcing a smile, I nod. He reaches into this pocket, pulling out his wallet and hands me another hundred-dollar bill. Stunned, I take it from his hands and immediately shove it into my bra. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

He stands and places his hand on the small of my back before leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek. “I’ll see you again soon, sweetheart. And that’s a promise.”

Without another word, he walks out of the room. I collapse onto the couch, throwing my head into my hands. My emotions are all over the place. This is just too much for me to cope with.

I feel an arm around my shoulders and I jump at the contact. Looking up I see Chrissy, a concerned look painted on her face.

“It’s going to be okay, Presley,” she reassures me, her hand rubbing my head.

With tears in my eyes, I nod. “It’ll have to be, won’t it?” A sob rips through my core and the tears spill from my eyes. Chrissy pulls me closer, her arms clinging to me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. She smooth’s my hair with her hand.

“We’ll figure this out, Presley, I promise.”

My body trembles with sadness before Chrissy starts to hum. It takes me a second to place the tune. As the softly sung notes join together I realize she’s humming
In The Ghetto
and my heart breaks a little more. There’s so much meaning and so many memories attached to those words that I slowly find myself singing along with her.

As we sing I come to a decision: no more feeling bad for myself. No more mourning the life that I’ll never get. I’m going to live each day as it comes.

That will just have to be enough.

A month later…

DAYTIME HAS BECOME RELAXING
for me. With nothing better to do but lie around and read, it has been the only saving grace in my crazy life. Some days I cry a lot—mostly when the visions of what Big Earl did overtake my consciousness, driving me insane. There are still days that are hard for me, but once I took a hammer to my cell phone in order to silence the endless stream of text messages from Emerson, I was able to find a little peace. There are even some good days.

Like today.

Reading Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poetry connects me to Emerson, without making me overly emotional.

Celestial Love

Love’s hearts are faithful, but not fond

Bound for the lust, but not beyond.

Ain’t that the sad truth.

Chrissy enters my room and gives me a knowing look before sitting on the edge of my bed. Without a thought for what I might have been doing, she grabs the book from my hand and throws it across the room before I have the opportunity to stop her. “What the hell!” I cry, sitting forward.

She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I don’t know why you torture yourself like that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie. I know exactly what she’s talking about. Reading a book of poetry that Emerson gave me is probably not the best thing for me to do, but it’s all I have left of him.

“Why don’t you just call him? Go to him? It’s obvious you miss him.”

I shake my head. “No, I can’t.” He and I would never work out. Chrissy knows that just as well as I do. She’s living in a dream world if she thinks that the two of us could ever make it.

“The only reason you can’t is because you’re too scared—again. You never take risks, and being with Emerson would be just that—a risk.”

She’s right. It would be a risk. But Emerson deserves more than me. He deserves someone he can take home and be proud of. A girl who will be able to have him take her home at night; not a girl who lives in the slums of Las Vegas. Not someone who takes their clothes off for money. No, Emerson needs more than that in his life.

Defeated, I flop back onto my bed and sigh. “Life’s not fair.”

“The only thing that’s not fair is you not giving yourself the chance to live.” She slaps my leg before standing again. “Give Emerson the chance to decide what’s right for
him
. You can’t make decisions for other people, Presley. Besides, we both know you suck at it.”

Gazing at the ceiling, I think about what I’m doing. As much as I miss Emerson, I’m smart enough to know that this is for the best.

I lie still for what seems like hours. My muscles start to ache almost as much as my brain before I decide to make better use of my time and reach over to my nightstand to grab my iPod and headphones. Pressing the earbuds into my ears, I hop to my feet and stand in front of my full-length mirror. My music comes to life as I stare at myself; my reflection reminding me of my mother in her younger years. I remember watching her as she readied herself for work when I was younger. I’d lie on my belly, propping my head up with my hands, watching lovingly as she sang Elvis songs and painted on her make-up. That was before I really understood what she was doing. She was my whole world, and I would look on with envy as she curled her beautiful hair. My mother had been gorgeous. I’d adored her. Loved her. But that was before this life killed her.