Chapter 12 Merrick
MERRICK
Before Marietta, being a prospect for the Wild Hair was easy. I attended church, drank beer on the back patio, and ate sandwiches on Sunday.
I occasionally helped with a protection gig, mainly if Iron Jack needed a show of force and had most of us drop in to intimidate whoever was on the wrong side of the job.
But now I’m babysitting a wild child with a protected flower shop, getting in fights, and in about five minutes, escorting her to a pole dancing class.
Iron Jack himself asked me to do it, not trusting any other member of the Wild Hair within twenty miles of the studio where her class is held. His exact words were, “Anyone else will make off with the whole lot of them.”
How did I wind up being the honorable one?
I pull up to the clubhouse at ten a.m. and don’t bother to go in. Marietta will meet me outside. I don’t know what someone wears to a pole dance class, but I’m steeling myself for anything. Nipple tassels. Platform stilettos.
So, when she comes out in a set of plain gray sweats and tennis shoes, my anxiety drops about fifty notches.
“Yay! It’s you!” Marietta practically bounces as she skips out the door and across the patchy lawn to my bike. “And we get to ride a motorcycle!” She stops in front of it. “Is this an NFNF moment?”
“No.” I unsnap my spare helmet from the saddlebag and pass it to her.
“Awww.” She lowers her ponytail so the helmet will fit. Then she takes it from me and proceeds to put it on backward, kicking up her chin so she can see.
I lean over and pull it off, turning it around. “This way.”
“Oh!” She fastens the strap under her chin, but it dangles so low that it wouldn’t provide any more protection than a beanie.
“Come here,” I tell her.
She steps close. I snag one side of the strap and tighten it, then the other. I catch a whiff of something both floral and sweet, a scent I’ve come to recognize as uniquely Marietta.
Her eyes meet mine. I realize my hand is brushing against her cheek, and I pull back like I’ve been burned.
Her expression shifts, eyebrows drawn together like she isn’t sure what just happened. “Thanks,” she says. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
I clear my throat. I need to be all business. “Here’s how it works.” I point down to the foot pegs. “You brace your feet on these. You’ll want to hang on to me.”
She nods. “Good thing I don’t need a gym bag. Motorcycles don’t have much storage!” She closes in behind me.
I watch her in the side mirror as she throws a leg over and then slides up against my back.
“Find the pegs,” I tell her. “Once I start the motor, we won’t be able to talk easily.”
She leans close to my ear. “Even if I’m right here?”
The scent of her envelops me again as her breath tickles my neck. “Yeah. Even then. Hang on. Lean with me however I move.”
She wraps her arms around me. She’s tall enough that she can see over my shoulder. “I’m so excited!”
I snatch the clutch, hand on the throttle, and stomp the starter.
The engine roars to life.
Marietta lets out a long squeal, and I can’t help but smile. It’s her first ride, all right.
I circle the parking area in front of the club to let Marietta get used to the feel of the bike before roaring out onto the road. She hangs on tightly, letting out an occasional whoop.
I shake my head. Everything is new to her, sparkling and fun. We take a decent bump on the crumbling back road, and she shouts again. “Whoo hooooo!”
The highway is smooth in comparison. I can feel her turning her head, looking all around as the trees and marshland whiz by.
I see the ride differently, imagining it as Marietta is experiencing it. The long ribbon of road. Unbroken forest, bogged in marsh. Colored houses that start out sparse but get closer together as we approach the outskirts of Miami.
The wind whips her long dark ponytail, catching my eye in the mirror. As the scenery gets less interesting, all strip malls and parking lots, she rests her cheek in the center of my back.
My muscles relax. It’s nice having her on my ride. We lean into a turn, and the way our bodies sync is like a dance.
When we get to our first traffic light in Miami proper, I pass her my cell. “Put the address in.”
I stick an earbud in and wait for her to hand the phone back. Then, I start the turn-by-turn directions and shove the phone in my pocket. The pole dance studio isn’t far from her old apartment.
Two-Shit told me all about that. The seashell soap Celia took, the romance novels, the pretty pastels. I wasn’t surprised by any of it. Marietta is a dreamer, and it stands to reason that her apartment would reflect her personality.
Now, all her stuff is piled in a corner of the bunkhouse that only she occupies. The sole thing about the room that is hers is the pink bedspread and heart pillow. She chose one near the window overlooking the back lawn. I spotted it when I passed through last weekend.
It’s a downgrade, going from her apartment to the bunks. I’m not sure why she’s doing it.
We make our way along side streets and eventually pull up in front of a small white building. I park next to the rail near the door and kill the engine.
“This it?” I ask.
Marietta swings off the bike, then kicks out her legs. “Yeah. Dang. I think I used muscles on that ride that even pole dancing doesn’t touch.” She wiggles in place, looking adorably silly in the black helmet.
I take off mine, then reach to unsnap her strap. “How long is class?”
“An hour. I will be a wobbly mess when it’s over. My abs will be howling.”
Would they? I try to imagine what’s in store, but she already surprised me by being in sweats. Maybe this will be more exercise than undulating bodies.
A black Jeep pulls up behind us, then a silver BMW. Soon, young women are piling out of cars.
They watch us with great curiosity, mouths open at the sight of me, the motorcycle, and Marietta in her helmet. “Hey, girls!” she calls.
“Nice ride,” one says but nods to me rather than the bike.
The others burst into giggles at that.
Marietta’s cheeks go pink, but I can tell she’s pleased. She passes me the helmet. “You going to come in?”
The way the others glance back at me makes me wonder if I should stay outside. But Iron Jack was explicit with his instructions.
“Yeah. Part of the gig.”
“Okay!” She leads me through the glass doors.
A long hallway runs front to back, with two studios on each side.
“We’re the one in the back on the right,” she says.
At the end of the hall are dressing rooms and an office. The walls of the studios are all glass, and benches run the length of the corridor so visitors can sit and watch.
The front two studios are filled with women wearing tights and ballet shoes. Several heads turn our way as I walk by in my leather cut, jeans, and boots.
Marietta doesn’t notice that. She pulls me toward the farthest studio. “You can sit here!”
Most of the women we saw walking in are already inside the room. I plunk down on the bench, stretching out my legs. This will be interesting.
Marietta flashes me a smile as she opens the glass door and heads inside.
A woman in black leggings and a tight black tank top claps her hands. I can’t hear what she’s saying. The rooms are soundproof other than the thump of the bass of the music.
The instructor leads the six women through a series of stretches. There’s a variety of body styles in the class. Marietta is the tallest and leanest, although the instructor is more muscular.
They all wear sweats, other than the leader, and eventually spray their hands and move to their poles. This is easy enough. The six women grasp their poles with one hand and wrap a leg around it. Then, they extend their free arms and make a slow circle.
It doesn’t look too hard. They go through various turns, sometimes moving sideways or walking around the pole.
The instructor nods, moving around them, adjusting positions.
After ten minutes of that, the women return to the corner. The lights go down, and colors spill across the space.
I glance around. What’s this?
The women peel off their sweats. Their outfits vary from sports bras and tight shorts to one in a red leather bodysuit with a zillion cutouts. A couple of them strap into outrageous shoes with eight-inch platform heels.
Marietta’s outfit falls somewhere in the middle.
Her black top is a dozen thin straps running from her neck to a thick band across her chest. Her bottoms are boy shorts, only really small in the back, leaving half the round cheeks of her ass visible.
She’s barefoot, her toes tipped in a pearly pink polish.
I shift on the bench.
Each woman returns to her pole, and their varied experience levels become clear. Most of them continue to circle, working on foot patterns. The one in red climbs her pole, inching her way up in shiny boots with killer heels.
Marietta looks like an athlete, starting off with the moves she showed me in the club, grasping the pole with both hands and lifting her legs in a wide V up in the air. No wonder her belly is so flat.
She spins out, circling the pole in a whirl, then brings one leg in to wrap around the pole.
When she lets go with both hands, I stand up, expecting her to fall. But she spins faster. Then she grips the pole again, and both legs fly out and up and down and around like a helicopter. How does she do that?
The colored lights caress her as she turns round and round the pole. She slowly descends, her toes landing on the floor, her back arched.
I can’t look away. Even without the music, I sense the tempo of the beat, the length of the phrases that dictate the moves she makes.
She climbs the pole slowly, arched and extended like a cat. Her long, dark ponytail trails toward the ground. The muscles on her thighs and calves and arms become defined in the changing light as she strains in new positions. It’s sexy and brutal, and I can’t stop watching.
If the other women keep dancing, I don’t know it. I only have eyes for Marietta. She’s graceful and strong and fearless. I learn every curve of her body. The hollow of her collarbones. The dimples low on her back.
The breadth of her biceps. The perfect roundness of her ass.
I clench my hands to avoid reaching out. I want to touch every part of her.
I want her to dance like this for me and only me.
I’m getting a pole at the club.
I have to see this again. Just her. Just me.
I will never want her to stop.