Chapter 23
As we approach the building, I notice a neon sign in the shape of a busty woman in a fringe skirt with eyelashes as long as paintbrushes. “Pandora’s Box,” I laugh. “I wonder what kind of establishment this is.”
“I thought you said you’d be objective and professional,” Beau chides.
“Don’t worry about me, Professor. Just keep your hands off the professionals.”
Beau scowls as I tug on the heavy wooden door, but when we step inside, he places his broad, warm palm on the small of my back, a subtle claim that makes heated fantasies erupt on my skin.
We’re stepping into a seedy strip club, so I know it’s a protective gesture.
But my body is reading too much into it.
My skin begs him to slip that hand lower and claim me in all the best ways.
The lobby is dim, lit only by a ribbon of pink neon lights. A bald man in the corner doesn’t stop us as we slip through the corridor and into the lounge, where guests are clustered at scattered tables and in high-walled booths.
Beau keeps his eyes peeled on the crowd, carefully avoiding the sight of the topless woman onstage while I stare.
She pivots around a chrome pole, diving into an inverted split, her black sequin thong staying in place by sorcery.
I don’t know if I’m more impressed with her confidence, upper-body strength, or whatever witchcraft she’s conjured to avoid a wedgie.
“There.” Beau points to a petite woman tucked into a pleather booth in the far corner.
He wraps his hand around my waist, curling me into his side as we pass a crowd of men near the stage.
It is way too soon to be this close to him, because my body reignites like a pilot light, turning every nerve into a flame.
He releases me when we reach the booth, where the woman looks up with an unreadable expression.
She has a drawn face with puckered wrinkles around her lips, arched eyebrows lined with pencil, and an elongated birthmark on her neck.
“Abilene?” Beau asks, and she nods, gesturing for us to have a seat. A heavy bass line explodes, and catcalls erupt when a second woman takes the stage. She has a tall, athletic build and a silky mane of black hair that looks stark against her pale skin.
Beau gestures to me to slide in first, and I drag my attention away from the spectacle, while he makes a point of looking anywhere but at the performers. “I won’t judge you for peeking,” I whisper into his ear as he scoots in beside me.
Beau clears his throat, ignoring me, and turns to Abilene. “Thanks for meeting with us.” His professorial tone is even mightier in his quest to pretend we’re not surrounded by naked women.
Beau nudges me with his elbow as I stare openly at the lady straddling a stool onstage.
She’s wearing nothing but a bowler hat and tassels, which are swinging in tandem.
For Cherry’s bachelorette party, we went to an overly produced Magic Mike–type show in Vegas, but I’ve never been to a club like this—a small town’s dirty secret where regular women perform superhero feats, and sad men gape without shame.
“Sorry, I know this meeting place is unusual.” Abilene’s voice strains against the music and the smoker rattle in her throat. “I work here—cleaning, sewing, fixing costumes, and helping the girls with whatever they need.” She shrugs. “We’re a little family here, and these girls are like my kids.”
“No need to apologize,” I say. “They’re talented.” Beau clears his throat. But I mean it. I’m impressed.
“I figured this would be a good place to meet since no one will listen in. They’re too distracted,” she says.
“Fair point,” I say.
Beau gives the speech I know by heart as I pull a notepad and pen from my backpack.
Writing by hand adds a step, but my laptop might draw the attention of the scary buff men positioned at each exit.
I don’t want to get dragged out of here if they assume I’m breaking the “no video or photography” rule that’s plastered on every wall.
“Well,” Abilene sighs when Beau completes his intro, “I guess there’s no use for small talk.”
“We can talk or answer any questions you have. Whatever makes you more comfortable,” he says. “Do you want a drink?”
But Abilene shakes her head. “It’s all right.
No need to stall—my secret is old enough.
In fact, she must be about thirty now, a woman herself.
” Abilene wrings her hands before making fists and shoving them under the table.
“I had a baby when I was fifteen. Didn’t tell no one I was pregnant.
I thought if I pretended it wasn’t happening, it wouldn’t.
” Her voice raises at the end of each sentence, as if she’s asking us.
“I gave birth to her in the middle of the night, and my mom found out the moment the baby cried. All hell broke loose. Mom was pretty religious, you know? All fire and brimstone. And she took over. Told everyone she’d had a baby, that the baby was my sister. ”
“How did that feel?” Beau asks. “Your mom making that decision for you?”
“Confusing, I guess. My tits were leaking, and I was bleeding out my hoo-ha, and my mom was parading my daughter around like her middle-aged miracle—without any husband or boyfriend to show for it. I’m sure most people in the town knew. But no one would dare call my mom a liar.”
“And your daughter doesn’t know the truth?” Beau guesses.
Abilene drops her focus to the black lacquered table.
“Things got pretty rough, you know? I was rebellious and angry, and a few months later, I came home, and my room was empty. Mom packed my things into two suitcases and told me to leave. Told me I was dead to her. That’s when I moved out West. I hopped on a bus and haven’t been back home since.
” Abilene bites her lip and tucks her hands under her thighs.
“When I called that summer, she said she’d told everyone I was dead anyway. ” She swallows a humorless laugh.
Beau grabs my hand under the table, and I feel this protective gesture as a shot straight to my feeble heart. Someone else was fooled by the same lie; another family toyed with their child’s heart as if they weren’t worth the truth.
I realize I’ve stopped taking notes when Abilene glances at my hand, which is frozen over the paper. I scribble something—I’m not sure it’s English.
Beau clears his throat but sends another pulse to my hand and leans his shoulder against mine as a brace. I’ve got you, he seems to say with his body.
“And you haven’t seen her—your daughter—since?” Beau asks.
“Karma, I guess, is a real bitch, because sometime later, I heard my mom died—a heart attack in her sleep. And I thought about coming home, claiming my daughter. Saving her from wherever they’d sent her?
But I was like seventeen—and supposedly dead.
And yeah, not making a lot of good decisions.
So I don’t know where she is, or who raised her.
And I know she ain’t out there looking for me, because she doesn’t know I’m her mama—or even alive. ”