Four Seconds to Lose Page 7

  “You too, Nate?”

  “I think we could all use a change.” There’s something secretive in that look that I can’t read.

  “Is she any good?” Ben asks, adding with a sly smirk, “At dancing, I mean.”

  “Sure you did, Morris,” I offer wryly. “Just keep your fucking hands off her.”

  chapter six

  ■ ■ ■

  CHARLIE

  I’m going to puke.

  The fact that I can stroll into a hotel room and conduct a sizeable heroin trafficking transaction without my hands shaking doesn’t matter right now.

  Right now, as I stand behind a privacy screen in a pair of tiny black boy shorts, my ass cheeks hanging out, and a fitted snap-on vest covering a skimpy hot-pink bikini top—which is only barely covering even more flesh that is about to be exposed to a large crowd of jeering, judging men—my knees feel like they’re about to buckle.

  The three shots of tequila I pounded back in the dressing room did absolutely nothing for my nerves. They only made me more queasy.

  I’m not sure that I can do this.

  And why do those lights have to be so bright? It feels like there are a million spotlights out there, ready to beam down and highlight every square inch of my uncovered skin.

  “You ready?” a husky voice calls into my ear.

  With a startled jump, I turn to find Ginger behind me. I immediately throw my arms around her shoulders, surprising both of us. I’m not a hugger and we’re not really on hugging terms but, clearly, I’m desperate.

  She giggles. “Oh, come on. I’m sure this is nothing compared to Vegas, right?”

  Sliding my arms away from her, my head bobs up and down and I swallow, releasing the lie smoothly out of my deceitful mouth. “I get bad stage fright. That’s all. It’s my thing.”

  With a gentle smile and a squeeze of my biceps, she winks and says, “Well, go spin your thing out there and I’ll cheer you on. I’ve seen you do this. You’ll be fantastic.” She disappears down the steps as the deejay gestures to me.

  Thirty seconds.

  I take a deep breath and mutter under my breath, “Only a few months of this and then I’m free.”

  I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I dropped off that pencil-case-sized bag at a dance studio in Queens—­besides a shiny silver Volvo. I mean, Sam was always sending me on little errands. Dry-cleaning, mail pickup, check deposits. I took care of all our grocery shopping. Errands were my way of “earning my keep,” Sam cheerily told me. So when he asked me to drop off a package in the city . . . I dropped off a package.

  Simple.

  When Sam handed me an ID with my face and some other person’s name and told me to sign up for a weekly dance class at that same dance studio in Queens, I figured it out pretty quickly. Still, I went along, not saying a word.

  He rationalized it by saying we were giving people a good time and making a bit of money. It wasn’t any different from selling booze during Prohibition. I bought that bullshit in the beginning. But, then again, I was only sixteen.

  I was naïve.

  I was stupid.

  It really didn’t seem like a big deal. I had watched my friends smoke a joint after school. I’d been to parties where someone brought an eight ball of coke or a handful of ecstasy pills. I’d heard the whole “say no to drugs” campaign loud and clear, but drugs seemed to be everywhere in high school. Everywhere people were having fun. And when something’s everywhere people are having fun, it begins to feel less immoral. Almost . . . acceptable.

  And when your own stepdad—the man who has raised you and given you everything—asks you to do something, the lines of right and wrong become a little more confusing, and it becomes easier to deny that little voice inside your head. I guess I didn’t have the best moral guide growing up.

  When I actually saw the inside of a suitcase on the first Miami drop, though . . . it finally hit me. Sam doesn’t deal in eight balls and handfuls of party-time highs. He deals in hundred-dose vials of heroin. Bags of them.

  Goddamn suitcases.

  He deals in the stuff that turns people into junkies, ruins their lives, and eventually kills them.

  And I’m helping him do it.

  That’s when I stopped ignoring that little voice. I finally realized that what Sam has me involved in is plain wrong and it doesn’t matter how many cars and designer dresses he buys me. The wake-up call has brought a wave of guilt that I’m still learning how to deal with. Now I struggle to sleep, to eat. I’ve lost at least ten pounds off my already lean frame. Every morning I get up and feel the urge to walk out my door and never look back.

  When I hear about another overdose on the news, I feel responsible. It’s not the recreational overdoses that are making the headlines; it’s the really addictive stuff, like heroin. It feels like the reporters are talking to me, judging me, condemning me. With my help, kids as young as fourteen have overdosed. Kids have been left orphaned because their parents overdosed. There really is no such thing as an occasional heroin user.

  But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life struggling financially, so I guess my feelings of guilt still aren’t overwhelming enough. That, or I am just a truly bad person.

  I deserve what happened to me with Sal, back in New York. I deserve to strip in front of a crowd of salivating men. I deserve a whole lot worse.

  Sam also deserves to be punished for all that he’s done—to countless, faceless victims, and to me. For giving me love and protection that seemed unconditional, but actually had strings attached.

  But who’s going to punish him?

  I peek past the screen, through the crowd, and I see all the faces—waiting expectantly. All of those eyes will be on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a stage that big before in my life. Then again, maybe it’s just because I’ll be on it alone—basically naked—that makes it seem all the bigger.

  I watch as three girls climb down from the circular platforms that jut off from the main stage. In between the main shows, the girls take turns teasing the audience a bit. But they know to get off now.

  To let all eyes fall on me.

  My potential boss is there too, looking classy in a midnight-blue fitted button-down as he leans over a railing, talking with that gargantuan bouncer—Nate, I heard someone call him—who was guarding the back door earlier tonight. Even in the darkness and at this distance, I can see the cut of his arms. The guy must have an immaculate body beneath those clothes.

  There was plenty of chatter about Cain in the dressing room as I was getting ready. Comments about him being overly moody, suggestions for how to cheer him up followed by wicked giggles. It’s clear that any single one of them would give her left boob to sleep with him. I’m not at all surprised. Under different circumstances—both mine and his—I’d probably want the same. A dark-haired one named Kinsley made a comment about him “comforting” her last week in his office—in private. I wonder how many of them he’s slept with. It’s confusing, though. I mean, I had my dress on the ground. He could have tried something on me but he didn’t. I guess I’m not his type. That’s probably for the best.

  I’m not sure what to think about the other dancers. I earned a few looks of surprise from them, but otherwise they pretty much ignored me. Ginger says it’s because they haven’t had a new girl in here in a while, other than Kinsley. And few people like her.

  Terry taps on the glass window of his little booth and points toward the stage as the beginning chords of my chosen song—“Coming Undone,” by Korn—blast over the speakers. I earned a delayed nod of approval when I requested that one. I know it’s probably not the first choice for most dancers but I find it energizes me, and given that this is the song I work out to the most, I’m able to move fluidly to it, almost like in a routine.

  And a strict routine is what I need.

  Wi
th one last, deep breath, I manage to slip on that same coat of confidence I don through the drops.

  And I remind myself that my mother did this.

  That I can do this.

  That I will do this so I can free myself from Sam’s softly padded shackles one day very soon.

  I emerge from my hiding spot, my adrenaline firing on all cylinders, my heart pounding in my stomach. I zero in on the brass pole ahead of me and I time my steps with the beat of the music—the chords distorted within my ears, competing with my thumping heart—in what I hope is a sexy strut. Unable to help myself, my eyes flicker in Cain’s direction for just a moment, to see his dark gaze intently locked on me.

  I want to run.

  But I can’t. I force my attention back to the pole, seizing it with one determined hand. My brain may be going haywire but my body knows what it needs to do.

  I begin.

  Years of competitive-level gymnastics has given me physical strength, balance, and coordination to hit just about every move I learned in pole-dance classes and I don’t hold out now, executing the most complex spins, drops, and transitions with ease.

  It feels surprisingly organic, the moves coming naturally to me. And if I keep my eyes glazed and my attention on the brass, the heavy beat of the music, and the soft blue hue of the stage lights, I can almost forget that I’m surrounded by leering men.

  Almost.

  But I can’t shake the feel of their eyes on me. And Cain . . . Somehow, his attention is more nerve-wracking than that of the hundreds of others combined. Probably because his opinion is ultimately the one that matters. When I make the simple mistake of letting my eyes graze over him during a boomerang hold, I find that same steely expression on me, only heavier. Heavy enough to halt my racing heart for a beat. And unsettling enough that my grip slips. Luckily, I’m not in the midst of a nose-breaker drop or another dangerous move, and so I quickly recuperate.

  I hear a couple of hoots and hollers of “come on!” I can’t stall the inevitable any longer. Gritting my teeth, I reach up with my free hand to pull the snaps of the vest open. I let it fall from my shoulders and I toss it aside, exposing the stringy top beneath. The buzz from the crowd spikes with pleasure.

  My stomach is no longer churning. The second those snaps popped open, numbness took over. I’ll gladly take it, because I have another minute and a half of this song and that vest wasn’t the last thing that needs to hit the stage if I want this job.

  And so I push away the catcalls and shouts as I continue with my well-practiced moves and I let my mind drift elsewhere. To the valleys of Tuscany, where I could run a small vineyard. To the African hills, where I could watch lions bask in the hot sun; the Swiss Alps, where I could fly through the air on a snowboard. I don’t know how to snowboard. But maybe one day, I’ll learn.

  By the time I reach up to tug the strings of my bikini top, to let the scrap of material drop, fully exposing my breasts to the cool, air-conditioned room and the cheers and whistles, I’m tanning on a private beach in the Maldives.

  I’m anywhere but trafficking drugs. Or stripping on this stage.

  Anywhere but in my shameful life.

  It isn’t until I’ve escaped backstage—my body shaking as the rush of adrenaline fades—that I’m able to breathe again. I did it. I made it through my first strip show. I swallow the revulsion bubbling up. I just stripped on a stage. I just stripped in front of a club full of men. They may not have touched me, but . . .

  I have the bikini top on in seconds and yet I feel the need to curl my arms around myself, to hug my own body. And I wish Ginger were here, because I sure could use her friendly comfort again right now.

  By the looks of the black-haired woman in an electric-blue leather outfit glaring at me with a crooked smirk, I’m not going to get it from her. “You’ve never been on a stage before, have you?” Her eyes skim my body as I quickly do up the snaps on my vest.

  I take a deep breath to steady the wobble in my voice and appear confident. “Not in Miami. Why?”

  Raising one eyebrow at me, she mutters, “No reason.”

  A rare sting bites my eyes. I wasn’t good. I was bad. I was up there, on the stage, thinking that I might be doing okay but I wasn’t. I reeked of amateurism. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to burst out in mortified tears before I can control it.

  I will not cry in front of her, or anyone else.

  “Next up is . . . China!” Terry’s voice calls out over the system as the first notes of “Like a Prayer” comes on. With a smirk, the woman—who I assume is China—brushes past me to take to the stage. I fight the urge to stick my foot out and trip her.

  I’m fully dressed again, running down the steps, and making my way out into the bar area, when I realize that I didn’t pick up a single bill off the tip rail. “Shit!” I curse, tears now scorching my eyeballs. I just stripped for free. A trip to hell . . . for nothing!

  I blink several times to keep from bawling in the middle of a strip club and, when I’ve refocused, clear-eyed, I see a fistful of money, attached to a tall, attractive blond smiling bouncer, in front of me. “Here . . . You may want this.” I’m not sure if it’s because I just stripped in front of a crowd or the conversation with that bitch—who is now stalking around the stage like she owns the place—or the way this guy is smiling at me, but I just stand and stare at him, utterly speechless.

  “I’m Ben.”

  Ben is my knight in shining armor.

  It takes me a few moments to gather my wits. Ben waits patiently while I do. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me,” I say behind red cheeks, muttering a “thanks” as I accept the wad of bills. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, you did well for your first night.” He takes in my frown of confusion and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “No, it’s just . . .” I cast a sidelong glare at China in time to see her dress hit the ground as she blows a kiss at a short, bald man. She doesn’t waste any time. “I didn’t think I did very well. I didn’t really interact with anyone.” I did exactly zero interaction.

  Ben’s head nods in agreement. “You’d definitely make a lot more if you threw out a few winks and smiles. But Penny’s isn’t your typical club, and a lot of these guys will pay for a good show. That was a good show.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” I like this guy already. Even though his attention has shifted from the stage to my chest, where it lingers with a small, knowing grin. I cross my arms over my chest and the grin only widens. I realize there’s no point covering myself. He has probably committed to memory exactly what’s beneath my clothes, as has most of the crowd. Mercifully, Ben turns and strolls toward the main bar. I trail him as he leads me to the area where Cain was standing, my head ducked slightly so as not to attract anyone’s attention.

  I think I’ll collapse on the floor if someone says a single word to me.

  I need a happy verdict tonight. If I’m going to do this, it has to be at Penny’s. My gut tells me so.

  Now that I’m off the stage, the place doesn’t seem quite as threatening. The lights aren’t as bright, the music isn’t as distorted, and I’m no longer alone. There are girls everywhere. There must be forty girls on the floor right now. My eyes roam the club to take in the sleek, simple yet sophisticated furniture and fixtures that I didn’t notice earlier. The style, the atmosphere, all exude the bit of Cain that I’ve seen. Classy, masculine, yet with an edge of something uncertain.

  Speaking of Cain . . .

  I glance around, looking for him in earnest, and catch Ginger’s eye from behind the bar. She gestures at an empty glass and mouths, “Do you want a drink?”

  I nod appreciatively. Charlie Rourke is twenty-two years old and legally allowed to drink, after all, so why shouldn’t I take advantage of that? Drinking underage is the least of my law-breaking problems.

  “Where’s Cain?” I ask as Ben set
tles in next to Nate.

  “He left.” A tiny smirk touches Ben’s nice lips. “I think he had something to take care of. Something about a five-knuckle shuffle.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment drowns out my hopes. He didn’t even stay long enough to hire me. It’s my fault. I didn’t interact with the crowd, after all. Not like the dancer before me, who was doing downward-facing dog in a piece of floss, inches away from a guy’s face. And certainly not like China, who appears ready to peel off her . . . Yup, there goes her thong. I didn’t even take my shorts off and she’s fully nude. I don’t know how a person does that. Maybe she’s a better actress than I am.

  A sharp twinge of pain strikes in my chest again, deepening the relentless throb that has only been growing these last few weeks. I’d like to think it’s a bad case of heartburn, but I’m pretty sure it’s not. What am I going to do if I don’t get this job? As much as I hated being up there, as icky as I still feel, I need a new identity like the one that Sam arranged for me—the kind that lets you start completely over, legitimately.

  Without that, I’ll be forced to look for under-the-table work. I won’t be able to drive legally, or open a bank account, or rent an apartment, or register for college. Or travel. Without a legitimate card with a name and my face on it, I won’t be able to start fresh and lead a good, normal life. People don’t realize how vital something like a piece of ID is.

  If Cain doesn’t hire me, I guess I’ll have to go back to Sin City with my tail between my legs. Just the memory of that hairy, sweaty guy with his pants around his thighs makes my legs clamp shut.

  “Here you go, my darling!” Ginger croons, handing me a glass of something. I drain it in one large gulp. “You did great out there!”

  “I’m not so sure,” I mutter, pleading with her pretty eyes—heavily lined with smoky blue kohl tonight—to convince me otherwise. “China didn’t seem to think so.”

  Ginger’s face scrunches up. “Ignore her. She’s just giving you the gears. She’s a bitch and she doesn’t like new competition.”