“Kari knows that I’m getting a waitress to sub, and one of the regular waitresses is taking a turn on stage. Charity, the one with the pretty tattoo of the Bible verse on her thigh.”
Charity was one of the many anomalies at The Red Light. Anyone who thought that the girls in adult entertainment jobs were one-note or predictable clearly hadn’t met them. The Red Light wasn’t the most upscale of the clubs in town, but it was only a tier lower. The girls—from bartender to dancer—were a strange mix of lost lambs and driven businesswomen.
“So . . . what do I need to know?”
Elle hopped to her feet. “There are two waitress moves you need to learn. The first is the bend. You make sure your feet are exactly the right distance apart to make your ass look its absolute best. Then you extend to reach across the table. This is for getting tips from other tables mostly. If you have the boobs for it, you can use it for tips at the table you’re serving too. Make sure, though, that you bend deep enough to have gravity cleavage.”
I laughed at the Elle-isms she used, but stored the knowledge away all the same. I could use a little help from gravity and underwire.
“The other is the semi-squat. You bend at the knees. This is a little less comfortable, but you’ll get used to it. It lets you get closer, and it lowers you so you’re putting the assets at the customer’s eye level.” Elle demonstrated.
If I didn’t know how much the wait-staff made, I’d have refused, but my one remaining job wasn’t going to pay the rent, and tuition for next term would be due soon. I could either look for another job now or I could sub for Elle and save up a fair bit while I looked. There really was no contest.
“The only other thing is Edward,” Elle said in a quiet voice. “If he picks you as his private his waitress, you agree to it. If he doesn’t, you don’t bother him.”
“Got it.”
“He seems to like you,” she added. “I’ve seen him talk to you.”
I shrugged. When we talked, we ended up discussing books or my classes. He was kind, and he never seemed to so much as notice the nearly-naked girls on stage or the waitresses hovering nearby. When Edward gave me his attention, it felt like there was no one else in the room. I liked it more than I cared to admit.
The fact that he was handsome didn’t hurt either. Unlike a lot of the men who came into The Red Light, Edward carried himself with the sort of careless confidence that made me think he could’ve walked into one of my mother’s parties and blend in with the bankers and lawyers that hung on her every word. He had one tattoo that I’d glimpsed, but his entire look was one that spoke of money.
If he was there, he sat like he ruled the bar, his back always to the wall in the far corner. The light there was lowered, and the table was reserved for him permanently.
“No one tells him no.” Her voice softened as she repeated that particular rule yet again. “Whatever Edward says goes at the Red Light. If you can’t anger him, you get fired.”
I laughed. Elle didn’t.
“I got it,” I assured Elle. “Wait tables. Wear criminally high heels. Don’t piss off Edward.”
Elle nodded. “Exactly.”
It sounded so easy.
6
Tess
Michael found me hoping for my story, but he discovered more when I took him to bed—not that I’m an acrobat. It’s the potential for danger that he sees when he tries to read the scars and tattoos that I’ve collected. It’s not the actual sex act. That is functional, no different than eating or shitting.
It was different with Reid.
My hands shake at the thought. Sometimes I admit that I’m running from myself as much as I’m running from him. He made me see a mirror that told me truths best not admitted. He remade me, and I’m not sure that being Dr. Frankenstein’s monster would be any worse than the thing he created in my place.
I open one of the pill bottles Tomas brings me. Klonapin. I already took a few earlier, but some days are shakier than others. Michael trying to burrow his fingers in old wounds makes me feel like my tethers are coming loose. Worse still, more and more I want him to untie me.
I want to be finally done. Whether I’m found or not, exposed or protected, I want to have a life again. Maybe Reid has forgotten me. Maybe I’m running from a fear that I don’t need to hold on to. It’s been years.
Maybe a life lived in hiding isn’t enough.
Maybe I’ll be freer if I share my story. I’ll be absolved for the things I didn’t do right. Maybe it’s no different than the tattoos I compulsively get.
Or maybe this is that self-destructive streak my old therapists said I have.
When Michael comes back after my shift, I’m outside the shop smoking. I’m closer to the door than the city ban allows, but if that’s the worst crime I commit in the next few months, we’ll all be lucky.
The acrid taste of my hand-rolled cigarette is strong enough to be unpleasant without a few fingers of whisky to chase it, but liquor isn’t usually the right choice with all of my medicine, and I like the act of smoking too much to surrender it. I like rolling my cigarettes, too, but it’s the smoking that’s the most calming.
It’s a focus.
Pull in the smoke, let it linger until just this side of pain, visualize the sins of my past escaping between my lips.
Maybe that’s what I need—not to tell Michael but to stop trying to remember. Too much remembering means admitting just how many sins I need to be forgiven for.
What I do remember is red. There was red. And wet. And pain.
“Tess?” Michael is talking, maybe he was talking before this, too.
I tuck my hand into the fold of his arm. “The first time you see a dead girl it changes things.”
I can tell him that much.
Maybe I can find a way to share enough to feel absolved, but not so much that I cannot atone, maybe I can let it drift away. The memories. The sins. All of it.
His steps lose their rhythm. “Oh?”
I nod. “They’re not all the same, but they’re always memorable.”
“Dead girls?”
“Yes.”
He tenses so slightly that I wouldn’t notice if not for the way my hand holds his arm. It’s not until we meander along Frenchman Street that he asks, “Have you seen a lot of dead people?”
I shrug.
“Was it a job?”
“No.”
I lead him past the crowd spilling out of the Apple Barrel. Music reaches out of the tiny bar like a hand trying to pull me in. I rarely resist. It’s one of the safest ways to forget myself, especially in a city with music in her bones.
That’s why we’re in the Marigny.
I’ve woken on the stoops of so many houses here. People know me here. They know that I am not always safe. Bringing Michael here is also a bad idea because of the tourists that find their way to the Marigny. They have their phones and cameras, and sometimes they are the biggest threats I face. My photo. My exposure. I look different now, just another lost soul in a city made up of the lost
But he is someone who will be photographed.
I did bad things. I had to do them, or I’d be dead. But they were still bad. I am still a bad person.