table full of Russian men, who're doing shots from a bottle of Stoli and ogling the dancers on the stage.
"Boys," I say, putting on my best fake smile, "How are you tonight?"
One of the men, a wiry guy with an aged face and a graying widow's peak, wolf-whistles. His eyes scan up and down my body, lingering on my breasts, which are concealed behind a blue bra. "Doin' great now, doll." He turns toward one of his buddies, a really big and fat guy who's dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. "Look at that tight little body. I told you this place is the shit."
Inside, my aggression threatens to boil over. I don't normally tolerate that kind of talk. Even though we're strippers, we're professionals. That calls for a basic code of respect, and even Igor knows that. But tonight I don't dare rock the boat. So I force my fake smile even bigger, pretending I'm interested in these slobs. I sassily put a hand on my hip, a move that always seems to get customers opening their wallets. "That's right. They don't make 'em like me anymore," I say, and the men laugh. "Anyone need a dance?"
The skinny, wiry one jerks his thumb toward his fat friend. "This guy does." The fat guy puts down his sweat-soaked handkerchief and shoots me a toothy grin. He shoves his chair back from the table, then pats his lap like he's summoning a dog.
"You like big boys?" he says.
"Nothing I like better," I say, pursing my lips into a tight, uncomfortable smile. Regardless of how I really feel, I have to act like an indiscriminate, bubbling nymphomaniac, hot for anyone with a bit of cash. This job is really starting to get old.
I straddle the fat man's lap while his buddies laugh and high-five each other, commenting on my body like it's a ham hanging in a meat market. They slip in and out of Russian. One of them showers me with a cascade of one-dollar bills. I dance away, grinding to the beat of the song.
Physically, I'm close to this man. But mentally, I've already escaped.
My dad's in the front seat, and I'm in the back with my sister. Dad's telling the story of when Dana spilled her whole sippy cup of orange juice on a flight attendant's blouse. That was right before Mom passed, when we were both still babies.
We're at the intersection of Broadway and Third Avenue, right by the old city mall on the verge of bankruptcy. Then, the light turns green, and my dad accelerates into the intersection, and—
And here I am in this fat man's lap, and the pills I swallowed before my shift are finally kicking in, and it's getting easier to pretend that I'm okay. I'm just focused on getting to the next dance and getting paid. Once I'm properly doped up, it's just a numbers game. Just a matter of making it through the rest of the shift one dance at a time, one hour at a time.
The man's hand wanders up my leg and over my panty-clad ass. I nonchalantly push it back down to his side, and he doesn't push his luck. It freaked me out the first time a customer put his hands on me, but then it happened again, and again, and now I deal with it as a routine matter. Only sometimes do I need to call a bouncer, and usually the corrupt bastards expect to cop a feel for their own efforts.
All of them except Havok.
Then, in the darkness, I see him. Havok stands there, stoic as always, an unmoving rock. Even when my world is constantly being flipped like a sand timer, he's unbending, unchanging. Completely in the moment, watching the club, seemingly without a worry on his mind. I wish I had that strength.
For the first time in months, I gather the courage to look him right in the eyes, or maybe it's just the drugs, but I do, and he looks back, and a fiery, invisible connection burns between us.
8
Havok
I'm only thinking about one thing as I leave Fascinations and head to the White Bear for the weekly meeting.
Penny.
When she's dancing at the club, I can see the pain and sorrow in her eyes, and now I know where it comes from. From that piece of shit she calls her boyfriend. And when she's made up perfectly with mascara and foundation and blush and whatever the fuck else, I hate it. Because