Working Girl (26 page)

Rihanna starts singing the lyrics to
What Now
and I step out onto the dark stage. The lights kick up and instantly blind me. I’m thankful for that because it gives me the illusion that I’m just dancing alone in my room. Or that he’s here. That I’m doing all of this for him—for Emerson. That it’s just about the two of us.

I know it’s not, and that in reality I’m just standing in front of a room full of horny men, but being blinded by the lights helps me pretend that I’m someplace better. If that helps calm the butterflies in my stomach then I’m going to go with it.

I hear some low whistling as I lightly run my hands over my body, my fingertips gently caressing my skin as they work their way up and into my hair. I pretend that it’s just Emerson out there, watching me. I envision his eyes burning into me and my skin sets fire as I run my fingertips over my body. My hips sway back and forth to the beat, and I place my hands on my hips and imagine that they’re his fingers digging into me. Wanting me. As I continue to move around the stage I think of him and our only night together, and how I still want him. Images of him touching me flash through my mind and those thoughts, combined with the dancing, have me breathing heavily. The dull ache in my belly returns and my cheeks flush with embarrassment, knowing that I’ve turned myself on. For the most part it’s quiet. I don’t get a response like Chrissy, but she warned me that I wouldn’t—saying that the men would be too busy watching me, too lost in my dance to make a sound—but I think she was just being nice; like a best friend is supposed to.

The music comes to a stop—cue the crowd and their overly boisterous catcalls and clapping. My legs still and I bend over to grab my top, quickly pulling it back over my head as I exit the stage, dropping down into the sea of people. I usually don’t have to walk far before some guy grabs me, looking for his own show, and this time proves no different as I feel someone’s hand wrap around my wrist. Despite it being one of the pitfalls of such a job, I’m agitated that my moment has passed. They’ve not only invaded my personal space: they’ve brought me back to reality.

Annoyed, I swing my head around to say something, but words escape me as familiar eyes meet mine.

I gasp, my free hand flying to cover my mouth, and it’s all I can do to stay up on my feet. Seeing Emerson here is the last thing I ever expected. He looks at me, confused, his heartache clearly written all over his face.

“What the fuck are you doing, Presley?” he asks, likely wondering why, after weeks of avoiding him, he finally finds me in front of him, wearing nothing but underwear. . . in a strip joint.

Once the initial shock subsides, and air returns to my burning lungs, I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around his neck. But I don’t. I can’t.

In as cold a tone as possible, I say, “Working,” then turn away from him, putting some much needed distance between us with three long strides in the opposite direction. I don’t need this right now. What I need is to get back to work. To make money. If one of the guys sees me just hanging around talking on the floor without taking someone to the back room, they’ll definitely report me to Big Earl, and I know he’s just looking for any excuse to bend me over a table and own me again. I shiver at the thought.

“I don’t understand. Is this where you’ve been? Why you haven’t returned my calls, my texts?” His voice is stern and I panic. He thinks I left of my own free will; that I made this choice and that he isn’t important to me. But he is . . . more than he’ll ever know.

“It’s not what you think,” I say meekly. It’s not a lie but it’s not entirely true because I am a stripper. A broken girl, selling herself to men.

“Then tell me what to think, Presley, because right now I’m really pissed.”

I look around me. There’s hundreds of people surrounding us, but he’s all I can focus on. I nod, taking my hand in his. If he wants to talk, we’ll need privacy. Out here is too risky. “Come with me,” I command, pulling him toward the back, my heart thundering in my chest as I approach George’s post and realize Emerson will need to pay. Embarrassment washes over me, but as I turn to break the news, Emerson is already digging in his wallet. It’s clear he wants to talk to me just as badly as I want to talk to him.

We walk in silence to my room and I open the door, gesturing for him to go ahead. His jaw flexes. It’s a familiar sight: that of repulsion. I’m unsure if he’s repulsed by me, the room, or just the situation in general but his face definitely says ‘disgusted.’

The room is quiet and I close the door behind me, locking us in the silence. He stands looking at the wall and I can feel the tension mounting. My hands shake with mortification and fear. I never wanted for him to know about this life. It was never my intention to hurt him, but looking at him now I can tell that’s exactly what has happened. He’s hurt by my actions. By who I am.

Unable to take the silence anymore, I decide to speak up. “Emerson—”

“What the hell, Presley?” he cuts in, turning around to face me. His lips are pressed into a hard line and the light is gone from his eyes. This is what I was trying to avoid; why I had fought him for so long. I knew I would kill everything special about him. “We were doing so good. We made sense. Then you fuckin’ disappear and I find out you’re here, taking off your clothes!” The tone of his voice is too loud, and I motion for him to quiet down. He takes a deep breath and relaxes his shoulders before saying, “I don’t understand.”

“I can explain.”

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’m waiting.”

I take a deep breath, knowing that I’m about to let all of my skeletons tumble out of my closet, but I need him to understand. I don’t want him to feel any guilt or sadness. The most important thing right now is that I make him understand that this is only about me and my fucked up life. It has nothing to do with him.

“Momma was a hooker.”

His mouth drops open at my revelation but I don’t stop, not wanting to give him the opportunity to pity me. “I grew up in a brothel . . . well, a house owned by one. When she died she left me in a hard spot. Her boss—my boss—was determined to make me fill her shoes, so to speak, and earn the roof over my head. Chrissy kept him off my back for a while, but my luck eventually ran out and I really didn’t have much choice in the matter.” I shiver remembering just how little my opinion had mattered.

“But I want you to know that I just dance—that’s it. Well, it is right now anyway. But I don’t know how long I’ll manage that. Chrissy is turning tricks for me, but it’s only a matter of time before someone finds out.”

He stands, his mouth slightly agape as he processes the information I’ve just dumped on him. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that I’ve turned his world upside down. The girl he thought he cared about is nothing but a whore. This is the point where he decides that I’m right, and it’s best if we go our separate ways. “Presley . . .”

“No. Don’t. It’s fine, I understand. This is who I am.” Tears prick my eyes. “I’m done trying to fight it, there’s no sense in trying to fool myself anymore.”

“I don’t know what you think I’m going to say, but you’re wrong,” he says, his voice clipped. “You’re so much more than this.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not, but I
do
know I’ve missed you like crazy. This”—he lifts his hands, gesturing around us—“this is not enough to make me pack my bags. Remember when I said you were worth the fight? I meant it.”

Shocked, I start to back away. This isn’t fair to him. My life, my baggage, the damage that I can potentially unleash on his world. Emerson is better than all of it. “I don’t know.”

Emerson grabs my arm, preventing me from moving any further away from him. “But I do. I know you because you’re the missing piece. You’re everything I’m not, and when you’re not around I choke. I’ve been choking, Presley. I need you like I need air.”

“I’ll just suffocate you,” I whisper, my shock all but preventing me from speaking.

“But I’ll continue to try breathing regardless.”

With my voice quavering, I try to make him see the light. “You don’t understand—”

“I don’t need to understand. All I need is you. Let me fight, Presley. Please?”

I look into his pleading eyes and I know he means everything he’s saying—he always does. Emerson doesn’t gloss over the truth; he says it like it is. He’s thinks he’s ready to take it all on, but I don’t know if I’m ready to let him. He doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know I’ve got one enormous demon living in my closet, threatening to get out and ruin everything. “I’m not so sure you know what you’re getting into,” I argue.

He shakes his head. “I don’t care. I’ll prove to you that I can deal with all of this.” He gestures around him with his hands. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and every day after until you see that I’m well aware of what I’m getting into.”

“That’s crazy,” I say.

“And you’re worth it.” He leans forward and gently kisses me on the forehead before heading to the door. His hand stops on the doorknob and he looks over his shoulder at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

EMERSON CONTINUES TO FIGHT
his way back into my heart. Night after night he shows up at the club: sitting in the back, waiting until I’ve finished dancing, and as soon as I leave the stage, he buys out the back room so that we can be alone, forcing me to let him in, putting himself in front of me so that my resolve waivers . . . again. Each night we sit on the couch, him on one side, me on the other, I’m careful to keep my distance because I know I’m weakening. I’m fighting a losing battle. Little by little, Emerson is winning the war.

After a week of his routine passes, I can feel my walls falling away again. “Why would you want to be with someone like me?” I ask from the safety of my side of the couch.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “You say ‘someone like you’ like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m the scum of the earth. A stripper. A gross, disgusting excuse for a person.”

He scoffs. “That’s a matter of opinion. Have you looked at yourself? You’re gorgeous. Every man on the Earth would want to be with you.”

I ignore the lump in my throat. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you barging into my life.”

“It doesn’t matter. Because I’m here now and I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”

The corner of my mouth turns up, a smile threatening to break free. “What now?” I ask.

“Now we start figuring out a way to get your life back on track.”

It amazes me how he is so in tune with me and what I need. It’s like he was made for me. Once that thought passes through my head the realization strikes me. He’s known all along. “My missing piece,” I say out loud.

Reading between the lines and understanding my revelation as only he could, he reaches across the space between us and pulls me to him, but I fight against his pull, pushing myself back from his chest. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is,” I plead. “Please.” Tears fill my eyes knowing that I can’t be with him. I just can’t put my life onto him, it will swallow us both whole.

Dropping his hand he sighs, defeated. “The only person making this hard is
you
.”

At his honest words the tears break free and fall from my eyes, landing in shallow pools on my bare thighs and rolling hopelessly down the side, leaving trails behind them just like Emerson has left his mark on my heart, never to be erased. “I’m never going to get over you,” I say quietly.

“Then don’t.”

He grabs my hands, causing me to look up at him and I see his eyes glisten with sadness and I know he means every word he’s saying. “I can’t be without you, Presley. This”—he gestures with his head out toward the front stage—“is just background noise.”

“I can’t put this on you.”

“You’re not. I am.” He pulls my hands toward his body and I fall into him, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist. Just like before I nestle into his side, breathing in the familiar scent of him. My hand rests on his firm stomach and a sigh escapes me. This is where I belong.

“I told you from day one there was something about you I couldn’t ignore. I never believed in the possibility of love at first sight,” he pauses and uses his hand to pick my chin up so that I’m looking into his eyes, “until you.”

Gazing into his eyes I know he means every word he’s said. This has never been a game for Emerson; he’s always followed his heart, never doubting himself. His confidence in us is overwhelming. Without thinking, I lean up and gently place my lips on his. It doesn’t last more than a second, but when I pull away his eyes are still closed, as if he’s savoring the moment.