Chapter Nine #2
end of the night, the woman he was watching onstage was going to be escorted to
his limousine and she’d be spending the night in his bed (even if they didn’t
do much there).
But he was total class. He had a penthouse. He belonged to a
country club (one he had not taken me to, by the way). He worked a lot and said
things into his phone like “dividends” and “shift those investments around” and
“the rate of return on that is not what I’d hoped, let’s consider
alternatives.”
And I was, well, a stripper.
I had a Porsche but I didn’t have a limo or a penthouse, and
even though I raked it in (with him paying me, but I could have done it my own
damned self if he hadn’t taken off a set, a song on each set, and the lap
dances), I’d never have that. I’d never belong to a country club. I’d never
tame my hair, ease up on the eyeliner, and trade my platforms for Valentino’s Rockstud in order to fit in with that set.
So maybe in the throes of the situation he’d gotten himself
into a spot—being a gentleman and being the kind of gentleman Marcus Sloan
was—a spot he couldn’t get out of, dumping the chick who’d recently been raped
after realizing she didn’t quite fit at his side.
I didn’t need that shit.
I needed to start looking for houses, dining room tables,
and checking out china patterns.
And I didn’t need to do it with a broken heart (though, I
wasn’t letting myself go there, but I had a strong feeling that ship had
sailed).
Because even without the good stuff, everything
else was good stuff with Marcus Sloan. And I was not talking about the fancy
restaurants, the penthouse, the limo.
I was talking about his sweet. His attention that, even the
times he was on the phone, he still made it clear if I was in his sphere, it
was always on me. His touchy. His kissy. His arms around me while I slept. His
warm, hard body the perfection it was to cuddle into. The easy way that came
often that I could make him laugh. The beautiful way he looked at me every time
he gave me the same.
So I’d let my heart get in it. He’d put that effort in but
everyone had to take responsibility for their lives and I’d let him in
when I knew I shouldn’t. I knew he was too good for me. I knew it just wasn’t
my lot to get my something special.
And although most of his behavior indicated he wanted to be
in, there was that one important way it did not. The intimacy we would share to
make all the rest of it concrete in my head. To understand irrevocably that he
wanted all of me. Not to save me. Not to take care of me. Not to go
that extra mile because he was the man he was to look after an employee, or
just some woman that occupied a fringe of his life, who had the worst done to
her that could happen.
No, not any of that.
To have me.
Daisy.
“Woman?”
I focused on Smithie to see he was very focused on me.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded, throwing him a dazzling smile.
He wasn’t dazzled.
His eyes narrowed.
“Everything good with Sloan?” he pressed.
“Peachy,” I lied.
It was good. It was just that everything wasn’t
good.
“You need me, I’m here,” he stated and my heart that had
started to go cold again warmed up a bit. “And if you gotta
talk about guy stuff, LaTeesha is there.”
I giggled a little bit and that made some of the concern
drift out of Smithie’s face.
“I need you or LaTeesha, I know
where to find you,” I told him.
He jerked up his chin.
Then he swung out.
I took another sip of my beer.
Then I turned to the mirror and picked up my teasing comb.
I was on in less than an hour. I needed to get ready.
I slid down the pole upright, only one arm and one
leg wrapped around it. My other arm was thrown out, my other leg extended up,
my back arched, my head hanging back, my hair dangling.
When I got close to the bottom, I arched back further, put
one hand then the other to the stage, did a layout but ended it dropping and
tucking into a backward, one and a half somersault.
I ended that on my back, my hips twisted to the side, knees
bent, legs tucked tight.
I straightened my legs and swung them wide, up and over,
letting them take my body with them until I was on my forearms and knees.
I stuck my booty toward the end of the stage and felt the
bills stuffed into my strings.
I was singing with the song that was playing—Lil’ Kim,
Christina Aguilera, Pink, and Mya’s version of “Lady Marmalade”—but I stopped
just to give one of the men who’d tipped me an air kiss before I popped up,
legs straight and wide, head hanging down between them.
I slapped my hands to the stage and lifted up, throwing my
hair back in a dramatic toss, turning and strutting down the stage in time to
the song, swaying my hips.
I made the end, turned, and swung my ass out, feeling the
cash flutter at my feet. I stuck the tip of my finger between my glossed lips,
looked over my shoulder, gave a wink to no one, then ran back up the stage.
I launched myself at a pole, swung around it with body out,
legs wide, through the ending of the song, finishing it on the floor in a front
split, bent over, bared tits pressed toward the stage, head thrown back, mouth
open.
Before the lights went black, I slid my eyes sideways.
Beyond the men standing up and cheering, I saw Marcus
sitting in his booth, eyes on me, forearm on the table, fingers wrapped around
his forgotten bourbon.
His lips were curved up in a smile that through the dark,
even when my heart was breaking, I felt in my coochie.
He disappeared as the lights went out.
The crowd shouted but I pushed up and quickly exited the
stage.
Holding out my robe for me, Brady gave me the grin that he
always gave me when I left the stage, not leering and creepy, just
appreciative.
Once he helped me on with my robe, he followed me, close to
my back, to the dressing room as the girls rushed by, Chardonnay and China
giving me high fives as they went.
I hit the dressing room door and turned back to Brady.
“I’ll be out in about fifteen, sugar.”
“All right, Daisy.”
He opened the door for me, swept the room with his eyes, and
closed the door after I went in.
I stood staring at the door, breathing heavy, and not just
from the dance.
My eyes felt weirdly too dry.
And I was wondering how I was going to do what I needed to
do next.
That was, get to Marcus’s place.
And then let him off the hook.
In other words…
I was going to break up with him.
In my ice-blue Juicy Couture tracksuit with its decal
on the back of the hoodie that had peach and blue hibiscus flowers around a
gold, interlaced “JC,” the same flowers on the front hip of the pants, I slid
out of the cold Denver air into the warmth of the limo beside Marcus.
I did this grinning up at Brady.
“Thanks, darlin’.”
He grinned back. “Not a problem, Daisy.”
He closed the door and I tried to look at Marcus, but I had
to do it quickly looking through Marcus.
What I saw was that he was still in his suit, like he was
always still in his suit when he came to see me dance, except on the weekends.
This telling me he didn’t waste time going home to change.
He came right to me.
I wished I could believe the reasons behind what that seemed
to mean were real.
“Hey,” I greeted him quickly, then looked to the front, into
the sunglassed eyes I saw in the rearview mirror.
“Hey, Ronald.”
“Yo,” he grunted.
That was usually the most I got out of Ronald and that was
all I got out of him then as he started us moving along the back of Smithie’s.
I kept my eyes there, thanking the Lord my Porsche was in
the parking spot closest to the elevators in Marcus’s garage (a spot Marcus
insisted I parked in the minute he gave me the remote to his garage). That
would make it (slightly) easier to get away once I did what I had to do.
This was my thought until the side of Marcus’s forefinger
and his thumb took gentle hold of my chin and he turned my head to face him.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey,” I repeated my earlier greeting.
“Everything okay?”
I gave him the lie I gave Smithie. He’d learn it was a lie
in about fifteen minutes, but whatever.
I’d get this done.
And I was Daisy.
So no matter how much it tore me apart, I’d then move on.
Which meant Marcus would be able to move on to a woman that
suited him.
That woman obviously not being me.
That lie was, “Peachy.”
He didn’t let my chin go, and in the streetlights that
illuminated the interior of the car, he studied me.
“You sure?” he asked.
God, I hated that he could read me.
I nodded, still held in his light grip. “Yep.”
It took him another couple of moments to let me go. When he
did, I looked to my knees.
“You were great tonight,” he stated.
“Thanks, sugar,” I muttered.
“You’re always great.”
“Thanks,” I repeated.
“Party go okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Your friend like her cake?”
I looked out the windshield and nodded.
“Good,” Marcus murmured, sounding distracted.
I drew in a breath.
I let it go.
Marcus fell silent.
I did not fill that void.
Ronald drove us to Marcus’s penthouse and he rode up with us
and stood in the vestibule as Marcus let us in.
“Thank you, Ronald,” Marcus said to him as I scooted in the
door Marcus pushed open for me.
Ronald had no reply.
I looked out the windows at the lights of the city, the
shadowed grandeur of the Front Range, hating it that was the last time I’d see
that view and wishing in that moment something that gorgeous had never been
given to me.
Wishing that so I wouldn’t wish the same about other, more
important things.
I heard the door close behind me.
I turned to Marcus.
“Ready for bed?” he asked.
“I’m leaving,” I blurted.
That wasn’t how I’d wanted to start it.
Then again, that was as good a way to start as any.
His body in the subdued lighting of elegant sconces glowing
low on their dimmers visibly tightened.
“I’m sorry?” he asked quietly.
“I’m leaving,” I repeated.
“You’re…leaving,” he said slowly.
“I…uh, yeah.”
“Why?”
I didn’t answer that.