Chapter 2 Persephone
Persephone
A hundred and fifteen dollars.
I count out the bills, mostly in ones. They are bent and folded every which way. So smoothing them out on the side of a table is an absolute must if I hope anyone will accept them as legal tender later. I flex my right hand a few times, grimacing.
My right hand is slower to open and close than it should be. It’s a partially healed over wound from a different time in my life.
Constantine’s last gift.
One that will stay with me forever.
The music throbs, growing more frenetic as the door is opened. I turn to find my shift manager Mike closing the door to the dressing room behind him.
I straighten and stash my earnings in the bra slash top, my lips thinning as I survey Mike. “Slow night tonight.”
Mike crosses his arms and gives a half shrug. “Rules are rules, baby. I’m still going to need twenty five bucks. That’s my part of your take, sugar.”
The way he says it, so cocky and selfsame, really pisses me off. “I thought you said I would be rolling in the money I make here. You come around, asking me for the money I made busting my ass, passing out drinks while these guys fucking leer at me…”
He smacks his lips. “When I said that, I thought you would be working the pole. If you would just agree to dance two or three times a week you would make a killing. That face? That body?”
He sucks in his lower lip, looks at my body, and makes a sound. “You would kill it, baby girl.”
It’s everything I can do not to glare at him. I dart my tongue out, wetting my lips. “And what percentage would you make from me then? Hmm?”
He smirks. “You’d still be making more money.”
I pull out the wad of cash and count out his twenty five bucks. It hurts to see the money leaving my possession so soon. But I have better things to do than stick around and argue with Mike.
“Here.” I hand it to him. “I have to get going. I have a long walk home.”
He catches my wrist, tugging me closer. He has my right hand in his grip, my damaged hand. If I wasn’t already on edge, that fact makes me out-and-out defensive. I tug my hand, but he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he gives me what he must think passes for a sultry look. “If you won’t make me money, why should I even keep you on the payroll? Huh? Unless you can think of some other way that you could convince me to let you stay?”
My heart leaps into my throat. I rip my arm from his grasp, on high alert. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
“Come on, now.” He chuckles and saunters toward me.
My heart thrums. Prickles of sensation run across my skin. I step backward and my ass hits the wall.
Shit, he’s got me trapped.
Mike just has the same stupid smirk on his face. “Don’t act like nobody has ever asked you to get on your knees for them before— “
My body is already in motion before he can finish his sentence. I pull his shoulders in and shoot my knee upward, then dig my nails into the flesh on his cheeks. Feeling like a trapped animal, I fight dirty.
“Shit, what the fuck?” Mike shouts, pushing me away. “What the fuck, Cora? You are so fucking fired— “
Cora. That’s the name that I go by now. I swallow, darting toward the door. My brain is more interested in helping me escape than bandying words back and forth with my manager, who is bent over and clutching his face. He starts to straighten while I make a beeline for the door.
Just as I’m about to open it, someone beats me to it.
I rear back, ready to fight some more. But it’s only Jazmine, the dancer I have come to know pretty well these past eight months.
She takes one look at Mike’s face and my panicked fight-or-flight stance.
She leans in, grabs my wrist, and yanks me out of the dressing room.
She slams the door in Mike’s face and turns me loose, herding me toward the exit door.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go. Outside…”
I push through the bar of the exit, emptying myself into the back parking lot in the Louisiana heat. Stepping out into the night air feels like pulling on a thick sweater. The lighting out here is harsh, bright streetlights huddled around the whole lot.
I don’t slow down or stop moving, though. Rushing by the dented and rusting cars that seem like a permanent fixture in the lot, I keep going until I am bathed in velvety shadow.
Breathing hard, I lean down and rest both of my hands on my knees. Looking back, I see Jazmine come up behind me. She purses her lips, her gaze measuring.
“You okay, Cora?”
I blush, looking at the ground, and nod. “Fine.”
The word comes out strangled. I put my head down, feeling dizzy. If Constantine saw me right now, he would die laughing.
Little Penny can’t even run away from people right.
I squeeze my eyes shut, like that can somehow stop my ex’s voice from filtering through my head.
“All right,” Jazmine says. “Come on. You probably don’t want to go back inside The Pink Pony tonight. Maybe ever. You should let me give you a ride home.”
I look up at her, willing my heartbeat to slow down. “I’m fine.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Get in my fucking car, honey. You can’t be walking anywhere dressed like that.”
I look down at my lacy bra and the barely-there shorts I’m wearing. She’s absolutely right. Swallowing, I nod and follow her to her car.
Judging by her rusting Chevy Malibu, you would never guess that Jazmine is one of the more popular entertainers at The Pink Pony. As I climb in and buckle my seatbelt, I am sad to realize that it’s probably the last time I’ll get a ride home from her.
She sucks in a deep breath and starts the car, pulling it slowly out of the parking lot. I watch her carefully. There is a ton of glitter on her face, and it makes her dark skin seem to glow for a moment as we pass into the dark country roads.
Eyeing me, Jazmine gives me a small smile.
“You really gave Mike the business.” Her lips twitch. “That’s good, honey. I’ve seen a lot of girls put up with his shit. The ones that do never seem to stay at the Pony for long.”
Abrupt laughter bubbles up from deep inside me. “He cornered me. I had no choice.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe he’ll think twice before he backs some other bitch up in a corner.” Her laughter is somehow both mean and melodic at once.
“I still have rent to pay. Even out here in Cameron Parish, you still gotta pay the bills every month.” I push out all the air from my lungs and scrunch up my face. “I’m going to have to find a new job, I guess.”
She shrugs one shoulder. For a half minute, silence stretches between us. I pick at my spandex booty shorts.
Mostly, I’m thinking about how this is the third job I’ve been fired from in the last two years. This town is tiny so if I’m not careful, I’m going to run out of places to work soon.
“You know, I came here to escape my ex-husband. He was a real mean son of a bitch. Especially when he was drinking.” Jazmine looks straight ahead, pursing her lips. “He was almost always drunk by noon.”
I blink, looking at Jazmine. My heartbeat, which has only just returned to normal, takes off at a gallop again. My mouth goes dry.
What does Jazmine know? Is it possible that Constantine somehow got to her?
My whole body begins to tremble.
“Err…” I stammer. “That’s good. That you escaped him, I mean. I’m not sure what that has to do with me though.”
The lie feels like sandpaper on my tongue.
“Relax. I can see you tensing up.” Jazmine frowns, looking away out the window.
“I’m just telling you why I’m here. When I first got to this town, I jumped every damn time anyone raised their voice.
I shook any time that I smelled gin.” She looks down her nose at me.
“My ex liked gin.” She shakes her head and purses her lips.
“And most importantly, if a man laid his hands on me, if I thought a stranger was going to hurt me… I went nuts. Scratching at his face, kneeing him in his balls… anything to get away.”
Perspiration breaks out across my forehead. I can barely breathe, much less make eye contact. What if I say the wrong thing and Jazmine somehow finds out that I’m on the run from my ex?
Worse, what if she digs a little bit deeper and finds out that I am wanted for questioning in a murder?
She pulls the car up outside of my house, looking me up and down. “I see you, sis. That’s all I’m trying to say. You didn’t say anything. I’m not asking you to either. But I just want you to realize that you can reach out to me if you need to. You hear me?”
I nod stiffly, reaching for the door handle. “Uh huh. Thanks.”
I open the door, starting to get out. Jazmine reaches her hand across the seat, tapping the upholstery by my thigh. “Whoever you’re running from? You’re safe here in Cameron. Ain’t nobody looking for nobody. And if you ever feel like talking, I’m here.”
I pause, wavering for just a moment. On one hand, I want badly to grab the olive branch that she’s clearly extending to me.
Her story might even be every bit as real as mine.
But in the next second, I know that it would be stupid of me to tell her anything. It’s just too risky to tell anybody anything about my past.
So I offer her a fleeting smile. “Thanks, Jaz. See you around. Okay?”
She nods, her smile a little sad. “Be safe, Cora.”
I climb out of the car and slam the door.
The wind coming off the beach is hot and stale as I approach my little house.
One teeny tiny story of dingy white clapboard and a metal door that’s long ago rusted from the salty air.
This place sat empty for years before I rented it under my brand new assumed name.
It has dark water marks all over the outside, signs of hurricanes past. Hey, at least it sits right on the beach.
I cast a glance over my shoulder as Jazmine pulls away.
She honks and I raise a hand in thanks. Exhaling a deep breath, I pull my key from my booty shorts and let myself in.
After locking the three deadbolts behind me, I turn and survey my humble house.
My bed in one corner. My art studio set up in another.
Then the rest of the place is taken up by the small kitchen and dining room table.
All of it is overlooked by a large window that looks directly out onto the rocky, empty beach.
There is never anyone outside, even in the middle of summer like it is now.
Not enough sand and too many brambles for anyone to enjoy it.
It’s not much, but it’s what I call home these days.
I toss my key in a bowl on the dining room table and change into sweats. I wrinkle my nose. I should start looking for jobs immediately.
But I don’t. Instead, I lie down on my bed, pulling my sleek black cell phone off the rickety bedside table. I want to talk to someone.
Maybe see a friendly face. My brother is one of two people who has this new prepaid cell phone’s number. Not my mom. Not my dad. Not any of my friends from my partying days.
And if I’m not mistaken, Lawrence will just be getting off his shift bartending on Bourbon Street about now. I send him a text — hey. how are things?
But I wait for ten minutes with no real answer.
I look at the screen and a notification pops up. It’s from Etienne, the other person who has my number.
Degas. Title is In A Café. $5000. Interested?
I stare at the screen, nibbling on my lower lip. Etienne is someone who I used to know in my old life.
Someone who I forged paintings and wine labels for, before I was almost murdered by my insane fiancé. Before I fled, leaving behind questions surrounding the death of my best friend and my sudden disappearance.
Etienne feeds me little bits of work, here and there. He keeps the lights on in my tiny house, if I’m honest about it.
Pursing my lips, I type out a reply.
$7500. You source appropriately-aged oil paints.
Putting the phone on my chest, I sigh. I close my eyes, drifting off into a fitful sleep, all the lights on in my apartment.