39. Violet
THIRTY-NINE
VIOLET
I look up at the blinking pink sign that reads, WHERE DREAMS COME TRUE . Below it is a flier for Amateur Night at The Landing Strip, and unfortunately for me, the date on it just so happens to be today. I rub my arm uncomfortably, my body raging with a plethora of nerves as the piece of paper stares back at me.
The strip club we’re at is on a side of Harrison Heights I’ve never been to, but it seems to be one of the few places where business isn’t lackluster, the parking lot filled to the brim with who I assume are regulars.
“I told you I wasn’t up for one of your eccentric ideas,” I tell my sister. I can’t believe she did this—dragged me to the other side of the Sycamore River in order to fulfill one of her crazy bucket list items. This is not what I need. I don’t need to be in the same stomping grounds as Colson.
Olive clicks her tongue and looks up at the paper. It’s taped to a blacked-out window next to the entrance. “Don’t be a prude. It’ll be fun and definitely get your mind off things. Besides, this was the closest strip club I could find. All the bars in Chatham Hills were too uptight for what you need.”
I look over my shoulder, nightfall draping over us as we stand outside. If it weren’t for me pumping the brakes on my sister’s weird ideas, we would be in there already. Gooseflesh breaks out over my arms. Partly because I left my jacket in the car, but also because I’m nervous to go inside.
This isn’t our town. Not that it belongs to anyone in particular, but it’s not our scene. I don’t know what the likelihood is that I’ll walk inside and find Colson, but the thought sends my thoughts spiraling. I don’t want to see him right now.
I also don’t know how shifty the guys inside might be. We’re two young, pretty girls. The last thing I need are guys barking up our trees because there are a bunch of gorgeous half-naked women grinding on poles in front of them.
“Where did you find this place, anyway?” I’m curious to know if she planned this—getting us to the other side of the river—or if it was an honest mistake.
“I Googled strip clubs in the area.”
“The…” I glance up at the bright yet incognito sign at the top of the establishment. “ Landing Strip is nowhere near in the area of Spring Meadows,” I muse, dropping my gaze and mulling over the big block letters on the glossy paper again. “I think we should go to Lucy’s. We can drink without worrying about being so far from the apartment.”
“Why would we do that when we’re already here?” She loops her arm through mine. “I’ve never been this far north. You know Mom and Dad basically banned us from ever crossing the Sycamore Memorial Bridge. I want to see what all the hype is about. Why you fell for a dimwit from around here and if it’s worth giving him a second chance or writing him off for good.”
My face scrunches. “How is hitting up a strip club on Amateur Night going to tell you that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but I have a good feeling about it.”
I press the back of my hand to her forehead. “Are you feeling ill? Because nothing good is going to come from this.”
She swats my hand away. “I’m fine, thank you very fucking much. I’d be better if you dug your heels out of the pavement and followed me inside.”
“Olive.” It comes out as an annoying whine.
“No. We’re getting you out of your head. You promised you’d trust me.”
“That was before you had me driving down the 401 in the exact direction I didn’t want to go.”
The door to The Landing Strip flies open, a drunk couple hanging onto each other as they stumble their way out. They’re all giggles and heart eyes as the guy whoops and lifts his hand into the air for some unknown reason. They only get to the first car in the parking lot before she shoves him against it and pulls something out of her pocket that’s hidden by her body.
Olive gives me a look and lowers her voice. “See. They’re having the time of their lives. Ready or not, here we come.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Okay, fine. But if this goes sideways…”
“Nothing is going sideways. Not unless some guy has one of us pressed against the wall with a pervy grin on his face and his dick in his hand.”
Olive grabs the door handle and looks at me over her shoulder. When did my little sister get so damn confident? “Maybe try to breathe a little bit so you don’t look so uptight when we walk in.”
I mumble out, “Rude,” as we embark on an adventure I want no part of. It’s darker than I expect it to be when we walk inside and nothing at all like Lucy’s. Along the sides of the open space are booths and tables, in the center is one large rectangular runway with various poles spaced around it, and a bar at the far end. A pretty popular one by the looks of it. There are just as many younger people as older, and the farther inside we get, the more the song pumping through the speaker hits me. I’ve never heard it before, but it’s seductive in that way that entices the dancers to sway their hips, keeping all eyes on them.
We find our way to the bar, my heart in my stomach. Nearly every stool is taken, but Olive squeezes close to the corner and looks down the bar top for a bartender. I’m pleasantly surprised how comfortable she seems since I’m still mildly freaking out. How is it that my baby sister seems older than me? How is she not freaking out right now?
I take in the establishment as she works her magic. The place is packed but not so much that you can’t squeeze behind chairs or make your way to the back of the building where the bathroom sign hovers above two doors next to a staircase that twists and follows the wall.
My eyes flick to the dark ceiling but instead of worrying too much about what could be happening upstairs, I take in the walls. There’s not a decoration in sight. No paintings or pictures of sexy women. It only amplifies the fact that we’re in a strip club.
Not far ahead, there are women sliding their bodies down poles in skimpy—but honestly sexy as hell—thongs. Two of the four girls aren’t wearing tops, their chests round and perky above thin waists and supple backsides.
Shelves of liquor line the walls behind the bar, and the two women bartenders work seamlessly, zipping from one customer to another in shirts that barely cover their boobs. I turn around at the same time one walks up to help Olive, her grin wide and charming as she wipes her hands on a towel before tossing it over her shoulder.
My sister leans in, says something I can’t make out then holds up two fingers.
The pretty bartender winks at her. I have no doubt Olive sizes her up—because hello, she’s gorgeous and who wouldn’t?—but before she walks off, Olive slips a card out of her clutch and that’s when it finally clicks. She’s giving her a fake ID, and I can’t believe I’m only realizing it now. How we shouldn’t even be here because she’s not old enough to legally drink. There’s also the fact that she’s on medication that shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol.
She twists around and hands me one of the shots the pretty bartender slides across the bar top. She clinks it against mine. “We’re going to pretend that for just one night I can have this,” she says.
“Olive,” I warn, glancing around before saying in a low voice, “You’re not supposed to be drinking at all. Not with the antidepressants you’re taking.”
Her gaze darts off to the side, and she does this thing where her chin dips for half a second before she raises it and looks at me head on. “Actually…I stopped taking them.”
Wait…she stopped ? A million questions buzz around me. My parents took Olive to the doctor after a boy convinced her she was something special just to turn around and make a laughingstock of her. She needed the meds to help her see the glass half full again when all she wanted to do was cry. I had no idea she was considering stopping or that she even had.
“Olive, you can’t just stop taking medication like that. You have to wean yourself and then?—”
“Violet, relax,” she interrupts. “Everything is fine. I’m fine. I did what the doctor told me to do when I was ready to stop them.”
“But why didn’t you tell me? Do Mom and Dad know?”
She glances down at our shot glasses. “No, and I don’t want you telling them, either. I don’t want them to worry about me when I'm better, Violet.” She gives me a look that tells me I better not tattle. “I mean it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you stop?” I ask.
“Because I feel better. The doctor told me that only I would know when I was ready. That no one else could decide it for me. It’s why I haven’t told anyone. I was weak for a short period of time, and I needed them, but I don’t anymore. I’m strong, and honestly, I just want to enjoy the night with my sister instead of talking about something that should stay in the past.”
“And then tomorrow you’re going to cut your fake ID in half?” I press my lips to my shot glass and down the liquid in a rush, breathing through the trail of fire it leaves in its path. Chills spread out over my arms, and I wince. “Oh my God, that’s awful.”
“Really? It’s my favorite.”
Olive guzzles it like a pro, and just like that we’re no longer focusing on how she made a huge decision, one that closes a door to her past and opens another to her future. One with more happiness and love and spirit. I look at her, taking in the way her bangs fall over her forehead and the blush on her cheeks that enhances her beauty. She’s right. We both deserve, for one night, to live in the moment and not let our pasts define us.
I glance back at the bartender who hovers at this side of the bar and lock every little emotion I’ve felt in the last few weeks behind a trapdoor. The liquor doesn’t taste that great, but just for a little while, we’ll stay. And then, we’ll leave.
“You’re serious ?” I shout as loud as I can.
Twenty minutes after we got here, a few people at the bar vacated their stools and we stole them. There are guys on either side of us that we’ve been talking to. They’re not quite our age, the man to my right has a dusting of gray hairs in his beard and fine wrinkles that sit next to his gorgeous green eyes, but they’ve been decent so far and haven’t tried touching us inappropriately.
I told myself not to think about Colson and just have fun. To go wherever the night takes me, and if that’s this man next to me, then what’s wrong with that? It’s time I live for myself. To let loose and say fuck you to anything that makes me feel like shit.
It doesn’t hurt that Olive keeps shoving drinks in my direction. I happily accept them all because I’m a changed person. I don’t run for the hills when Bret, the guy who’s sitting next to me, leans close and tells me how beautiful I am. Nor do I ignore the way his eyes glisten with a suggestiveness that tells me he’s looking for a one-night stand. Not that I’m about to follow him out of The Landing Strip or sneak back into one of the private rooms. I take it more as a compliment than anything.
He’s cute in his own way with the stature of a man who works with his hands for a living. Sexy as hell forearms with the perfect amount of muscle that reminds me of my ex. Biceps that could haul me out of this chair just as easily as he could strip me of my tight-fitting clothes. Shoulders that are stalky and wide. A thick neck with stubble that waterfalls over a very pronounced Adam’s apple.
But right now, it’s not him who I’m focused on. It’s my sister, the one who just told me that she signed me up for Amateur Night.
“Stop fucking with me.” My words come out in a slow slur, but I enjoy the way the curse comes out so effortlessly.
Her smile is full of trouble. “I’m not. At all.”
“I’m not getting up there.” I blink, still feeling the bite of the alcohol at the back of my throat from my last shot.
“You definitely are.”
“When did you have time to sign me up, anyway?”
We haven’t left each other’s sides except for…
“When I went to the bathroom,” she confirms.
She raced across the club before she peed her pants while I giggled until my cheeks hurt. Bret stole my attention after that, so I didn’t see when she came out of the bathroom. When she dropped back in the seat next to me a few minutes later, I didn’t think much of it because, honestly, this place isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.
She shoves another shot at me as the bartender slides two her way. The man next to her pushes the money over the bar top. I don’t miss the mouthed thank you Olive gives him or the twinkle that sets into his eyes.
This shot goes down easier than the last two or three or four. My head is a little fuzzy at this point, my body a lot less tense. I flag the bartender back over. Because you know what?
Fuck it.
We’re not at Lucy’s where I attend college with a bunch of the patrons. We’re not at home. I’m at The Landing Strip for a reason. For a little fun. For a night away from a hopeless reality.
If it weren’t for Olive, I’d be in my bed, rereading text messages that no longer hold meaning while crying my eyes out over a guy who doesn’t want me.
But the hand that gently rests on my lower back? The man it belongs to does want me, and hell, what would it matter if I climbed on the stage right now and gave everyone a little entertainment?
I’ve seen Coyote Ugly . I might not be able to hold a note to save my life, but I sure as hell can sway my hips. I can push my boobs together and be all seductive. I can laugh and smile and enjoy every minute of it.
I slap my hand down on the bar. “You know what, let's do it.”
One of the bartenders cups her hands around her mouth and shouts that it’s show time. The ladies currently working the stage slowly shift out of their very revealing positions and saunter off the stage, the man guarding the staircase off to the side assisting them down.
The music changes to something a little more upbeat and a few spotlights hovering above the stage change into a mix of light blue and purple while the booths and tables surrounding it remain shadowed. Then, the music cuts off altogether as a voice comes through the speakers to go over rules.
No touching or pulling girls off the stage.
Two participants on the stage at a time.
Girls must remove their bras at some point during their dance.
I clap like a madwoman, ready to take the stage and show everyone what I’m made of. Showing off my boobs will be easy peasy. Like, who cares if these people see my puckered nipples? It’s not like anyone else is looking at them. Well, maybe aside from Bret.
A hand presses to my back, and the warmth from whispered words steam against my ear. “You sure you want to do this, beautiful?”
I look into Bret’s green eyes. “Of course.”
They drop to my top, and he licks his lips. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”
I pat his beefy bicep and lean into his space as I scoot off my stool. I don’t doubt that he’ll be right where he is now since a bunch of stunning naked women will be front and center, tits out, nipples stretched against their bras until the fabric is pulled off them. God, am I glad I wore a matching panty and bra set tonight. “I’m sure you will be.”
Olive comes to my side, looping her arm through mine like she did outside, only my stomach is a lot more wishy-washy than it was then. If I’m being honest, things are a tiny bit distorted. I haven’t had this much alcohol since I would hit up parties with Everleigh and Sylvia our freshman year. I’m worried that between my last two shots, I’ve done myself in. More so when Olive’s body moves in slow motion beside me. She drags me over to where a group of women line up. “Do you want me to do it with you?” she asks.
I shake my head a little too vigorously. “No. I’m going to get up there and jiggle my tits and take home the grand prize.”
“I don’t know if there is one.”
I scoff, my head suddenly seeming ten pounds heavier. “There’s always a prize.”
“Maybe I missed it on the sign-up sheet?” We walk to the end of the bar near the bathrooms and staircase. I note the thin chain secured into two hooks before the first step. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do it with you?”
“No way I’ll win if I go up against you.”
Olive laughs. “You’ve had one too many shots, but I kind of like this side of you.”
“And you’ll buy me another when I’m named reigning champ?” It comes out as a question, slurred beyond recognition. Olive’s smile almost looks like it stretches off her face when I look at her, and then I frown.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re so pretty. How am I not that pretty?” I sneer at her. “It’s disgusting.”
She holds me by my arms. “You are just as pretty as me. Maybe even more. All these guys are going to pop boners once they see your nips.”
All these guys.
But none of them are the one I want.
God. I miss he-who-I’m-not-supposed-to-think-about. I wonder if it’s even remotely possible that he could be in the crowd tonight. I bet he has better things to do. Like stay away from me for instance. Or go to that chocolate warehouse to fight.
My head snaps up, my eyes darting around the room. Moving so quickly only intensifies my dizziness, and I stumble back a step.
“Whoa there,” says Olive, gripping my arms. “You sure you’re good?”
My chest is awfully tight, my heart beating against it like it doesn’t want to believe I’m doing this. Sadness overcomes me, and it’s immense. Like trying to walk in three layers of clothing that are soaked and dripping wet.
Stupid, stupid clothes.
Stupid water.
Stupid Colson.
A rage rips through me in the next breath. I tear my arms out of my sister’s grip. I turn on my heel, push through to get in line, and wait until someone guides us to a room in the back where we can keep most of our clothes while we’re on stage.
Two girls go out through an entrance that’s attached to the stage and the back end of the club. I wait my turn, standing next to a woman whose name is Yolga. In minutes, it’ll be me and her on the stage. I barely need to look at her to see she’s a lot prettier than me, her body tight and voluptuous in all the areas that count. For a second, I think about all the eyes that are about to be on us. But then it falls away, and my thoughts shift to
Me.
Colson.
Life.
I stagger on my feet and fix my hair, flipping it over my shoulder. A hiccup bubbles up my chest and “S&M” by Rihanna spits through the surround sound. The bartender announces it’s time for the next rotation and introduces Yolga and me as we climb our way up the few stairs to the stage.
My six-inch high heels—a pair that belongs to one of the club’s regulars—hits the surface, and a wave of heat rushes through my body. The weight of a thousand eyes are on me as I sashay my hips and stop at one of the poles. Yolga takes her spot at the one next to me, looking like she was born to be in front of an audience. It takes every bit of control to keep my ankles from rolling when I walk. Having the pole to lean on helps, but I’ve never twirled around one in my life. My body doesn’t know how to blend in with it and use it as a prop.
From the corner of my eye, Yolga begins moving her body in ways I couldn’t if I tried—even with my yoga background. She hooks her leg around the pole and slides into it. Then, she drops down to the stage and crawls her way to the edge. I don’t realize I haven’t done much of anything until a whistle pierces my ears and someone shouts, “Come on, honey, move a little for us!”
My entire body blushes, including the skin covered by my lavender lace bra and skimpy matching bottoms. The lights on me turn ten degrees warmer. Perspiration forms along the back of my neck when another deep voice bellows from the dark, “Unclasp that bra, sweetheart!”
I look at Yolga as I curl a hand around the pole, my head tilting in time with her body even though I’m barely moving. Come on, Violet. You can do this. It’s up to me to put on show for the crowd. To give these men exactly what they want.
With Rihanna chanting how good it feels to be bad, I drop down into a squat. The pole slides against my butt crack as I descend. I press my chest out, keep one hand overhead gripping the pole, and lazily trail my index finger between my breasts to the waist of my panties.
Next to me, Yolga is already out of her top. Her nipples are the perfect shade of pink and pebbled into miniature saucers. She skims her palms down her sides and fake gasps, her mouth drawing into a circular shape before she brings her finger up and sucks it.
There’s whistling. Cat-calling. The stage vibrates below me from people drumming their hands along the sides of it. For a second, I think Yolga really might be a pro with the way she twirls and displays her perfect round boobs to the crowd.
And then it’s my turn to discard my top. My boobs are pretty nice, I must admit, but they’re nowhere near Yolga nice. They’re a decent handful, not the size of volleyballs. A queasiness sets in the longer I compare myself to the woman next to me. She is everything these men—and women—want. And I am everything they don’t want. It’s very clear who’s going to be the one walking off the stage with bragging rights.
The countless eyes on me are nothing against the fire burning below the surface. My body temperature skyrockets as Yolga walks across the stage to join me on my side. The alcohol, the rows of filled tables and booths, it’s all too much. I’m a deer in headlights as my near-naked body sobers.
There’s…so many people.
Too many people.
And I’m…standing on a fucking stage next to a stripper’s pole with my body showing and Olive peering up at me with her eyes half shielded as she claps. Bret looks like he’s going to devour me the second I hop down and whywhywhy does that make me want to throw up until daylight savings?
I need to get down.
I need to get out of here.
I need fresh air and familiarity.
I need so much that isn’t easily accessible that I settle on twisting my body to the side so I can shield myself in a way that doesn’t show just how much I’m freaking out.
Yolga is exuberant as hell next to me, her arms moving languidly in all different directions. At one point, I think she pushes her tits together and bends at her waist like she’s waiting for some guy to paint them with something very specific. I catch an array of dollar bills on the stage that I must’ve missed while I was too in my head.
I grimace at the thought of them being tucked in the band of my panties and try to move away from Yolga because she’s right next to me. And if eyes are on her, that means they’re also on me. But then her elbow comes into my vision. It rears back so fast—but, like, also in slow motion—that there’s no way for me to move in time with the alcohol in my system. She drives it into the side of my head while her back is turned to me, completely oblivious to what’s happening.
I wobble back a step—these heels were not made for me—and get the sense I’m falling back. I can’t be sure. It’s like my brain isn’t moving with my body. It’s some weird out-of-body experience that I have zero time to figure out because everything goes black.