The other night, after he caught his sister tanked off her ass, I knew he was vulnerable, maybe not even feeling up to our little game of mattress tag. But in truth, on that particular night, I went into his room with the specific intent to comfort him with words, to say anything that might reassure him that it would all work out just fine. Girls may be girls, but I can tell Lucky is a sweetheart deep down inside, a good girl testing out the waters. But as soon as that door shut, as soon as that moonlight lit up his glistening body like a flash fire, I was pretty much done. What Jet and I shared that night was fueled with a level of intensity, with a tenderness neither of us had experienced together thus far. I felt his thankfulness for the kindness I showed his sister. Jet didn’t use words. He didn’t have to.
Stilettos comes up on me faster than I expected. Did I really just let Jet Madden occupy my mind for the last thirty minutes? I can’t do this. I can’t let a boy take up residency in my brain, or God forbid far more delicate places. And what the heck am I doing with that boy anyway? What was supposed to be a one-time indiscretion has morphed into some sort of fun-fest for him on a nightly basis.
A slow brewing anger percolates in me at the thought of being sexually manipulated by Jet Madden. A part of me knows this isn’t the case, and yet there’s simply no other explanation. How have I landed on my knees, ready to please the king of fornication—a man I otherwise can’t stand—night after ever-loving night?
I sit dumbfounded by this as I pull in front of Stilettos, another area of my life that I’m dumbfounded to have landed myself.
The parking lot is bare, and for that I’m thankful. It’s still light out, but fall is hitting us full force with the days melting faster and faster. I duck into the back and head straight for hair and makeup where I find Caila laughing it up with a few of the other dancers. There she is, the glammed-up version of my very best friend. Caila and Cassidy are both obviously beautiful, but Caila takes her beauty to a cutthroat level. Once she trowels on the foundation, glues on the false eyelashes—not long after, she has her glam team attack her with a thousand different brushes—she morphs into a bona fide work of living art. I think a part of me has always idealized her otherworldly beauty, the attention she receives once she hops on that stage, and I wished to God I could have just a sliver of that for me.
A few of the girls spot me first, and the mood shifts to something just this side of somber.
“What the hell is this about?” Caila spins in her seat and gasps once she lays eyes on me. “Oh, hon!” She leaps out of her chair and wraps her arms around me so tight I can hardly take my next breath. Her chest trembles out of control as tears come. It takes a full minute to figure out who’s crying here, Caila or me. By the time we pull away, the room has cleared. Caila wipes down her tear-stained cheeks and coaxes me onto the white vinyl sofa.
She shakes her head as her lips tremble, her eyes blossom red as cherries. “I can’t—” she snatches a tissue from next to me and blows her nose. “There are not enough words in the English language for me to even begin to formulate an apology.” Her gaze darts past me, over my shoulder, to the floor, the ceiling, everywhere but where it needs to be. Not only is she at a complete loss for words, but she can’t muster the strength to look at me.
“Hey”—I gently pinch her chin up until she meets my gaze—“I’m okay.” It’s not entirely true, but I wasn’t sure myself what to say to her.
A broken smile comes and goes. “You’re a great liar. You are not okay. And if you think you are, I’ve hurt you far worse than I imagined.”
“How exactly did you hurt me?”
Her eyes harden over mine, this time with a spark of anger. “Daisy, that day you asked to dance at the club, my gut said no.”
“Who cares?” I force a tired laugh. “I wouldn’t have listened to your gut.”
“That’s because you’re feisty, like me.” A smile wobbles on her well glossed lips. “And that’s why, despite my better judgment, I let you stay.” She lays her palm over my cheek, and a cutting grief takes over her features. “Listen to me. You do not belong here. You—you’re my sister’s best friend.” Tears spill down her cheeks in a deluge. “I took you under my wing. That was bad enough—we let professors in here just like anyone else. If you weren’t going to look out for your best interests, I should have.” She swallows audibly. “And what I did next was reprehensible. The Platinum Club? That wasn’t for you either, hon.” She keeps shaking her head as if her remorse knows no bounds. “All I can think about since then is how I can make this up to you. And I can’t. There is nothing I can do to remove this horrible stain from your life, Daisy. It’s my fault. You wandered too close to the fire, and I let you linger.” Her fingers feather through my hair. “And you’ve burned yourself. I burned you. I take full responsibility for this.”
A moment bounces by where we lose ourselves, each gazing through the other—one wondering if what she said was true, the other knowing that it is.
“I guess you’re not feeling up to listening to me grovel for my job back.” Now it’s my turn to swallow hard. I’m fifteen days past due on my lease agreement—four nasty calls have already surfaced on my voicemail from the dealership. One more week and the impound man will find me, no thanks to that fancy car jacking device I had implanted in the event some loser took off with that crap mobile. It looks like the only loser around here is me. I don’t dare say a word to Caila about it. She feels so bad she’ll probably buy that heap of metal for me outright.
Her eyes do their best impression of egg whites. “No way, no how, missy. There is no job for you here anymore.”
“Fine.” Now it’s me blinking back tears. A thousand thoughts sale through my mind, and not one of them yields a solution to my current employment dilemma.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Doubt it.” In fact, I’m sure in less than thirty seconds she’ll recommend I trot my pretty little behind to the university bookstore and get myself a nice part-time position. Caila has no clue that in the real world no coed sees as much green as I did unless they’re staring at a salad from the café—wilted at that.
“No, really I do.” She tweaks her head as if not only does she completely understand my current financial deficient dilemma but she can commiserate. “You need a job.” She shrugs. “You have a car payment, and you’re basically penniless.” She pumps a dry smile, victorious at that.
Holy wow, Caila really can read minds. Who knew? But my situation is as easy to read as a cheap horoscope.
“So, now what?” I give her a little nod, letting her know it’s okay to ply me with false platitudes regarding my future employment, perhaps even the joys of working the hygiene department of the student store. God knows the girls at WB only use organic tampons. I foresee the stocking issues a mile away.
“I don’t expect you to take some menial job at menial pay.” She lifts her chin, her eyes reduced to slits. It’s her best move when she’s up on stage. People think Caila’s magic lies in her perky C-cups, but it’s really that commanding look that brings the boys to the club.
“What did you have in mind?” My voice dips to its lower octave, letting her know that whatever it is I’m open to listening.
“I have a few private gigs”—she holds up a hand and closes her eyes—“nothing to do with escort or lounge work.” My insides twist when she says it out loud. It’s as if hearing the wordescortmakes it all real for me. There, it’s true now. That’s what I had become—reduced to the lowest common denominator. I was a whore long before I suspected I was. For the rest of my life, I’ll try to wipe clean the grime of that night off the landscape of my past.
“Escort,” I whisper, trying the word out on my lips for the very first time. “What’s this new gig?” I practically growl it out at her.
“The Geisha Grill caters for corporate events.” Her lips twitch as if holding back the greatest secret of all. “At each event, they have asushigirl. I provide them with a girl for the function. You’re paid for two hours for one hour of work—a strict sixty minutes is on the table, and then you’re free to leave.”
“Two hours pay for one hour of work?” I can totally do one hour. “How much and what the hell is a sushi girl?”
“One fifty an hour.” She lifts her chin. “You’ll be naked and covered with sushi rolls. You’ll have a fig leaf over your kitten. Shaving everything from eyebrows down is a non-negotiable. Come here to the club first, and I’ll glam you up. You’ll head to the venue, and they’ll take care of the rest.”
