Chapter 3
Alma
Present
Houston, Texas
I’m officially at war with my new roommate. The list of pros and cons my therapist encouraged me to write has now been placed in the trash can. The same trash can overflowing adjacent to the sink that’s full of dishes.
Refusing to clean up after Larix has become a silent protest. I’m too fucking nice to say anything, but on the surface, I’m screaming.
Just because I work at Calavera Hotels doesn’t mean I’m her personal maid.
Every day feels like I’m on the edge of having my very own Selena moment.
The one where she bitch slaps Chris for trashing the hotel room.
But I don’t. I remain the calm and collective Alma who never challenges conflict. If I let my anger have its way, then I’d likely end up in jail. And the last thing I need is to catch the attention of anyone in law enforcement.
I could throw her out, but the whole finding-a-roommate-process was hard.
When I was interviewing new roommate applicants, I thought a musician would be the best fit.
She’d be gone most of the nights and weekends, which meant she wouldn’t ask me about my late-night extracurricular activities on the weekends.
My previous roommate, Mireya, had quickly become my best friend, and while we lived in peace together, I hated having to lie to her.
Even now that she’s moved out with her fiancé Adrian, she thinks I’m a devout fairy cosplayer who stays out too late at book club.
I wish.
Larix doesn’t ask questions though, and that was the first thing I wrote down under the list of pros.
But she also doesn’t pick up after herself, lacks basic hygiene skills, serial dates men who I’m sure she picks up at the local psych ward, eats jars of bacteria she grows in our fridge, and the part that really pisses me off—last week, she asked to borrow one of my books and returned it with coffee stains on it.
Who does that? I can let some of the other things slide, but I will always judge a person based on how they treat a paperback. And spilling coffee on my special edition vampire romance is not how you treat a book!
Aggressively, I rip off a piece of duct tape at the thought and place it diagonally across my right nipple. I rip off another piece and place it across the first to make an X over my nipple. I repeat the same thing on my other nipple, then tuck a stray brown curl back into my wig cap.
I hate how itchy these things are, but Claudi, my manager here at La Cuevita, was adamant about me wearing the long black wig.
I’d worn others: blonde, pink, and even tried my natural curly hair, but nothing brings in the money like the long black wig.
Money I need to help me afford another private investigator since the last three had ghosted me after taking all my money.
La Cuevita is far from an elite club, but it has its regulars.
I prefer the little hole-in-the-wall because it’s hidden, tucked away in the outskirts of Houston.
There’s less room for error here, and a slim chance that anyone I know on the outside will recognize me.
This place has been a clue to figuring out who the woman who raised me really was.
Missy had worked here in the early 2000s before I was born. Turns out, the woman I thought I knew, I didn’t know at all. When Esteban was murdered, I found myself in a whole world of trouble. Identity issues didn’t even begin to cover it.
“Alma! You’re up!” Cloudi shouts from the hall into the dressing room.
I take a final look at my outfit, the x-shaped black duct tape covering both nipples, a tight-laced black corset, leather thong, matching patent leather boots that hit my upper thigh, and the must have accessories: my long black wig, fairy ears, and wings.
La Hada Mala. Everyone’s favorite naughty fairy.
That’s who I need to be at night. Far from the woman my day life presents. Far from the woman my friends know, the simple and sweet Alma. That’s who I want to be, but this is who I have to be. This is the only way I will find answers about Missy.
“La Hada Mala,” the DJ growls through the mic, dragging out the last syllable.
The beat hits, thick and sharp like a slap across the face.
Bola Rebola by Tropkillaz, J. Balvin, Anitta, and ZAAC plays so loud I can feel the music vibrating through the floor.
Energy courses through my body like a shot of adrenaline.
The lights flare crimson, then fade into an inky violet haze as I step into my alter ego.
Alma’s gone. In her place is a woman desperate for answers.
A woman who was left nothing but confusion and lies from her mother’s inheritance.
Up here, I’m all instinct. All hunger. All mask.
My fingers grip the cold steel, and I roll my hips slowly, moving mechanically to the beat, giving the audience what they want. My body knows the routine better than my mind does now.
Arch.
Twist.
Drop low.
Split.
There’s nothing like the rush of being on stage. I feel alive when I’m here. Maybe alive isn’t the right word. No, powerful—that’s what it is. Dancing on this stage makes me feel powerful and in control. I love the feeling of the prying eyes, and the way I get lost in the performance.
Claudi took a chance on me and let me train with the best who came before me.
Within two years, I earned my spot as his top dancer.
Even with the security of Calavera Hotels and my promotion there, this is where I thrive.
A few nights a week here earns me double what I make working nine-to-five at the hotel.
My hands find my breasts, and I open my mouth with a soundless moan. Bills fall like rain to the stage. The control I possess over the men in this room is addictive. With every bill they throw, I feed off their lustful thoughts like a vampire. The thrill of dominating their emotions turns me on.
My wings shimmer under the lights as I twist my hips and drag my fingers up my thighs. The back corner booth calls to me, and I look their way, hoping to find Doctor Curtis Anderson, an old friend of my mother’s.
He’s the only one who will trade me small bits of information for a private dance.
He knows more than he’s willing to share, taking advantage of what he can, but in the end, we both leave satisfied.
He gives me names of old lovers, addresses she frequented, and even small details about how Missy would spend her free time.
It’s more than any of the private investigators gave me.
I don’t see the man I’m looking for, but my eyes naturally stray to the back of the room.
Dropping to my knees, I crawl to the edge of the stage and glance up as my gaze collides with a dark figure seated at the bar.
I can’t make out his features under the bright lights, but I can tell by his silhouette that he’s wearing a hoodie pulled over a hat.
My body turns rigid when I finally see his eyes.
Quickly, I turn my back to the audience and close my eyes.
My heart beats out of my chest, but my body stays in line with the performance.
My ass bouncing up and down to the beat, my hips rolling forward, but I keep my eyes closed, afraid to turn around.
Afraid because I’ve seen eyes like those before.
They belong to the only person who knows my past. The only person who could expose me for who I really am.