Zoë
ZO?
I CAN ONLY assume that the Universe has put me in this position as punishment for my sins.
I’m against cheating for moral reasons. I believe in love, and love is founded on trust.
Besides, even if I weren’t against it, I could never get away with it. I’m that person who never gets away with anything.
Case in point: the one time I cross a boundary at work, it ends up being with my boyfriend’s dad.
Suddenly, the idea that I need to come clean to Tate about the lap dances—and the time I went too far—seems way more loaded than before. How can I ever tell Tate that I’ve already met his father? And more than that—that we’ve been intimate?
There’s no doubt in my mind that Nick recognized me immediately, based on the stricken look on his face, and it felt like we made a tacit promise when we pretended not to know each other. He clearly doesn’t want Tate to know, and neither do I, and our deception binds us.
The number of secrets Tate and I have are adding up. I’ve never told him what I caught him doing the other night, and a sneaky search of his browser history revealed a busy nightly schedule of watching porn and visiting cam sites.
Basically, he prefers to masturbate over having sex with me, and instead of being devastated, I’m just numb. Tate and I keep failing to connect on so many levels—not just sex, but our ambitions, dreams, and goals—and I’m left with the sinking feeling that I’ve tied myself to a guy I may actually not have much of a future with.
The fucked-up thing is that Nick has become the symbol of my malcontent. The chemistry I feel with him has made me realize that same chemistry is missing with Tate. That essential, beautiful, amazing chemistry that happens between two people who are really and truly drawn to each other.
It’s absent with my boyfriend. I have it with my boyfriend’s dad instead.
The whole situation is so fucked, I truly don’t know what to do about it. The best solution I can come up with is to maintain the status quo and stay focused on my audition. I really can’t afford any more distractions, and right now, my whole life is nothing but distractions.
* * *
Staying focused is exactly what I’m trying to do a few days later, when I’m jumping up and down in front of the toaster, practicing a rapid pas de chat. I’m just back from my class, where my jumps were the subject of scrutiny, and I’m running through the moves again and again and again while I wait for my toast. Full flexion in my feet, engaging my calves, tightening my core—my teacher’s harsh criticisms are playing so loudly in my head, I don’t even notice that Mr. Distraction himself has walked into the room until I hear him clear his throat.
I land quickly and spin around, warmth blooming on my cheeks at the sight of Nick Rivera, looking unbearably laid-back and sexy in a grey t-shirt and worn-out jeans, an amused expression on his angular face.
“Oh, hey,” I say, trying to still my heaving breath, the surprise of seeing him only increasing my heart rate.
“Well, hello,” he replies, dark eyes flashing with mirth, “Miss Mexican jumping bean.”
I breathe a laugh, flushed warmth spreading up my neck. Why do I suddenly feel like a tongue-tied teenager? I can’t think of anything cool to say, not one thing, and my response comes out on a rush of air. “Ha ha, yeah.”
Those eyes are so damn expressive. There’s only the hint of a curl to his lips, but his eyes are dancing with laughter. I catch myself grinning back at him—just staring, stupidly, until my toast springs up with such a loud pop that I jump about ten feet in the air.
I yelp with surprise, and Nick laughs—a delightful, rich, throaty sound that’s too infectious to resist, and I burst out laughing, too, pressing a hand to my heart.
“Oh my God,” I giggle. “That scared me.”
“Yes, Jumping Bean, I noticed. Here.” Nick walks around the island and stands beside me, his beautiful Nick smell hitting me like a wave—crisp, clean, and familiar. He reaches past me, one muscular, tanned arm so close we almost touch, and pulls the toast from the toaster, dropping it on a plate. “Let me butter this for you so you don’t get scared again. If you jump any higher, I’m worried you’ll damage my ceiling.”
Flushed and tongue-tied, I walk around the island and take a seat while Nick butters my toast, watching the muscles across his back flex and contract under his shirt with the movements of his arms. When he turns and pushes the plate over to me, I manage a thank-you, then blink and look away.
It’s late afternoon, shortly before Tate usually wakes up, but he’s a heavy sleeper. Nick and I are essentially alone for the first time since I ran out on him in the VIP booth, and I have no idea what to say.
Luckily, he breaks the silence first. “So, how did you meet Tate?”
“How did I meet Tate?” I repeat, taken aback by the question. He wants to talk about me and Tate? “We met at a party. His friend used to date one of my friends.”
“Ah.” He nods, as if this was just the kind of interesting fact he was looking for. “And you’re not a night owl like he is?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m up early.”
“Well.” He straightens up and strikes the island with the palm of his hand with a note of finality. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, then. Enjoy your toast, Bean.”
I smile—a frozen, confused rictus—and note the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, just under the rough scrape of a day-old beard.
“Have a nice day,” I reply awkwardly, as he gives me a smile and heads out of the room.
I’m left blinking at my toast, wondering if I misread his reaction in the kitchen the other day. Is it possible that he doesn’t recognize me after all?
* * *
At work that night, my eyes cut to the table Nick sat at when we first met, they follow the path we cut through the bar to the VIP booth. Relentlessly, I turn over the order of events, revisiting the facts as if I’m making a case in court. Yes, I met Nick that night in the club.
A month has passed, maybe a little more, but I can’t believe he would forget it or that I’m inventing the chemistry between us. Or that he has so many intimate encounters in the VIP booth that he can’t remember them all. I refuse to believe it.
Yet my distraction level remains high, tirelessly reminding me of the way he looked at me (smoldering eyes), the way he touched me (intuitive hands), the way he laughed when I told him that I thought my stage name had gravitas (charmed and bemused). I’m thinking about him being in the club so much that it finally occurs to me that if he came here once, he’ll probably come again.
By the time I’m on stage for my next number, I’m scanning the crowd, seeing individual faces instead of just scanning for money being laid out on the stage, as I would normally do. I can’t kick the conviction that Nick could be here, that I’ll see him again, and even though that should be the last thing I want, I’m growing obsessed with the idea of it.
I want to know that he is watching me, seeing me. I want to see that desire in his eyes again. And when I slide down into the splits and then lift my eyes to the face in front of me, it’s so shockingly familiar I’m as stunned as if I’ve been struck.
Beautiful dark brown eyes, light brown skin, thick dark hair… but it’s not Nick looking back at me from a stage-side seat—it’s Tate.
I smile, jerky and awkward, quickly trying to cover up my surprise and disappointment, and he smiles back in a way that doesn’t feel like a smile at all. It’s cold and caustic, a reptilian curve of his mouth that doesn’t reach his eyes. Around him, a few of his friends are watching me wolfishly as well.
It’s not that I care if Tate comes to the club. I don’t mind if he comes, or if his friends come, too. I’m not ashamed of what I do. But I know that Tate is , so the fact that he’s here now, right in the front row with his friends, sets alarm bells ringing in my head.
I can tell just by the way he’s looking at me what kind of mood he’s in. He’s the Other Tate—the one he is when he’s with his buddies. It’s a version of Tate that feels the most unreachable, and I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
I slide my legs together, roll over, and keep dancing, no longer wanting to look at the faces in the crowd and wanting to lose myself in the music instead. But I can’t. I’ve never been a prude, but for the first time in my life I feel truly exposed on the stage, knowing that Tate’s friends can see my body and my breasts, and I just want to cover up and get off the stage.
When my number finally ends, I slip my bra back on with relief and take the stairs down to the club floor instead of taking the lift to the basement change room.
“Hi!” I greet Tate with a friendly smile, hiding the trepidation I feel.
He’s clearly drunk, his dark eyes half-lidded. He turns his head towards me just a tiny bit slower than usual.
“There she is,” he brays, lifting a bottle of beer in the air.
“, you are fucking hot,” says his friend Steve, draping a heavy arm over my shoulder and coming in too close. His breath smells like stale booze. “I mean, I knew you were, but holy shit.”
“Fuck off,” interjects Tate quickly, slamming his palm into Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s arm drops away from me as he stumbles back.
Our lone security guard must be standing nearby because, for once, he’s there in a second.
“There a problem here?” comes Patrick’s voice. He looks directly at me as he speaks.
“No problem,” answers Tate. He holds his beer up again but this time with his fingers spread, proclaiming his innocence. “I just wanna talk to my girlfriend. That okay?”
Patrick looks at him, then back at me, and I nod.
“Let’s go sit at the bar for a sec,” I suggest.
My heart is hammering in my chest. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s here, drunk and looking for trouble, just days after I found out that the man I cheated on him with is his father. I’m sure he’s here to confront me and I’m scared. My lungs feel tight.
I don’t want to break up with Tate. I don’t want to lose my housing, but most of all, I don’t want to hurt him. Even knowing he’s paying cam girls nearly every night, what I did was worse. I let someone touch me in real life. Someone more significant than any long-distance stranger.
“You look so fucking sexy on that stage,” he says, swiveling on his bar stool and splaying his knees, taking up way too much room. I cross my legs, even wrapping my right foot around my left calf, twisting myself up tight as if this will protect me from whatever he’s about to say, whatever this is all about. But a compliment is not what I was expecting. Tate never compliments me.
“Thanks,” I reply. Then, “What are you doing here?”
He snorts. “Jason wanted to come in. Isn’t that fucked up? I’m like, my girlfriend works here, dude, but they were all like, so?”
I nod slowly, letting this information sink in and waiting for him to say more. So this isn’t about his dad? About us?
“It’s so fucked, right?” he continues, focusing his eyes on the carpeted floor like he’s just noticed it. During the day, with the lights on, you can see that underneath decades of dirty boots and spilled beer, the carpet design is a scene from outer space—stars and planets and rocket ships against a dark blue sky. An odd detail that goes unnoticed by most. “Like, of course this was going to happen, and you know how I feel about that. And here I am, sitting there like a fucking asshole while my friends ogle you.”
We’ve had this fight before, and I don’t want to go there again.
“It’s not a big deal.” I lay a consoling hand on his arm. “You know how I feel about this. We’re all naked underneath our clothes, right?”
He doesn’t return my smile. “No, it is a big deal. It’s fucked. You’re my fucking girlfriend, and Jason and Steve and Derek are fucking talking about your tits. Saying fucked up things about you. It’s not right.”
I sigh. We’ll never see eye to eye on this topic. Being a dancer inures you to nudity early on. Everyone changes in front of each other, no one has any shame. Part of it is that from following the same regime, taking the same classes, and eating the same kind of food, we all more or less have the same body. On top of that, for a dancer, our bodies are a tool; a vessel. We’re used to being objectified. Knowing that his friends are talking about my body doesn’t faze me in the slightest. Teachers, fellow students, and choreographers have talked about my body for as long as I can remember.
On top of this, I just don’t see the point in being ashamed of what I do. What’s wrong with having a sex-related job? What’s wrong with sex?
But I don’t want there to be any kind of scene at work, so I opt instead to diffuse the situation as quickly as I can.
“Why don’t I go home?” I volunteer. “That way, you and your friends can stay, and it won’t be uncomfortable for you.”
But Tate’s not in a pacifying mood. As his face reddens, my heart sinks.
“It will still be uncomfortable for me, .” He draws his words out long and loud, spelling it out for me, talking down. He’s raised his voice enough that the bartender catches my eye, and I give him a quick smile to let him know I have the situation under control. “My girlfriend’s a fucking stripper . Doesn’t matter if you go home or not now. They’re all talking about how they have a fucking boner for you, and everyone else in this fucking room has seen you naked as well. What’s the fucking point if you leave now?”
“Tate,” I say, low and terse. “I’m going to go home, and we can talk about this later, okay?”
“No.”
He sets his beer on the counter and leans in towards me without raising his voice. The bartender doesn’t look our way again.
“I told you. I don’t want you to work here. This is embarrassing for me. You shouldn’t go home, you should quit.”
“I’m not going to quit,” I answer hotly. I take a short breath to steady myself, and lower my tone again when I speak. “You know I like this job. There’s nothing wrong with doing this kind of work. You just have this old-fashioned idea that you own my body, that you can decide who gets to see it. Well, you know what, Tate? It’s my body. I get to decide what I do with it, and I happen to like stripping. And you know what else?” A storm is brewing in his eyes, and there is no way what I’m about to say next will calm this situation down, but I’m too far gone now. I can’t stop myself. “I’ve been giving lap dances, too, and I like it.”
The storm breaks. Thunder and lightning cross his face, but I keep talking.
“At least the men in this room want to look at me. When I’m here, I feel wanted. You don’t even want me, so why would you even care who looks at me?”
“That’s fucking bullshit!”
Tate stands, and this time when the bartender looks over he keeps his eyes locked on us. He’s about to call Patrick, I can tell from his body language, and he’s no longer looking at me to see if I want him to call it off. He’s at a code yellow.
“How is that okay, ? I’m home alone every night, telling myself you’re working, that you need the money, and you’re here doing God knows what with any fucking guy willing to pay. So you’re a fucking prostitute now?”
The bartender is holding his hand up, signaling. Patrick’s bald head, an inch taller than anyone else’s, is visible in the crowd, cutting a path toward us.
“Tate—“ I start, voice clipped, heat rising up my neck. I’m seething. But I don’t have time to say anything else by the time Patrick has his hand on Tate’s arm.
“It’s cool,” says Tate quickly, still angry. “I’m going. I’m leaving.”
He holds his hands up as he stands and turns away without saying another word, walking quickly with Patrick on his heels. A minute later, I see Steve pull out his phone and then start gathering up the rest of the boys. They leave, oblivious to the fact that I am sitting here watching them.
“You okay?” asks the bartender, and I nod my head quickly.
But I’m not okay. Not really. Now this unresolved conversation with Tate awaits me when I get home, and the embarrassment of being escorted out by security is only going to ratchet up his anger. Not to mention the possibility of running into Nick at the house, too.
My distraction level is at an all-time high, and the only thing I can think of that might take my mind off things is hitting the stage again and trying to lose myself in the music.
“Actually…” I lean over the bar to catch the bartender’s attention and give him a wave. “Do you have any coffee?”