Page 46 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
She had helped me with my hair and make-up. Helped me practice walking in the shoes. Helped me with my routine. With everything. Mostly, she helped me not want to die.
I wasn’t going to die by doing this. At least that’s what she kept telling me. Tomorrow I would wake up and still be me. This wouldn’t change me.
Studying the girl in the mirror, I turned my face left and right. I’d never worn so much make-up in my life. The shimmery purple eye shadow almost matched the purply-black leather cat suit that started at my neck and disappeared all the way into my boots. A myriad of zippers zigzagged all across the leather, and I only hoped I unzipped the suit in the order Chelsey taught me. If I undid the wrong zipper first, my act might be over long before the song ended.
Suddenly, Chelsey was at my side, her face—that wasn’t covered by her mask—flushed pink from having just finished her routine. I almost wished I could wear a mask, too. Maybe then I could pretend this wasn’t me. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard.
“Hurry up, Brookie! You’re next.”
With a jerky nod, I let her lead me toward the back of the stage where Scotty, the stage guy, waved me to hurry.
Blinking, I nodded and moved my leather-encased self up the ramp that led to the wall of dark curtains. The shouts and catcalls grew louder and my stomach heaved again as I heard the DJ announce me into the frenzied crowd. Chelsey had really worked them up into a fury with her dominatrix act.
“Ready?” Scotty asked over the din.
I nodded and forced a smile. “Catwoman is a ready as she’ll ever be.”
Yeah. Just think of yourself in third person. Sparkles isn’t me. You’re Catwoman tonight.
I glanced back at my sister. Only three years older, she had taken care of me for so long. All my life. When Mom went on a bender or didn’t come home for a day or two, it was Chels who made sure we ate. Chels who made sure I brushed my teeth and did my homework and caught the school bus on time. I promised her I would do this. Because then, maybe, I could make it out of here. Eventually. Not just for me, but for Chels, too. If I made it, then she did, too. All her sacrifices would be worth it.
You can do this. You can do this.
Turning, I faced forward again. Squinting against the glaring lights, I stepped onto the stage.
Hunter
I WAS A city kid for the most part, but I spent plenty of time on my grandparents’ horse farm outside Hartford. I’d witnessed the birth of a lot of colts. Watched as those new lives came into the world. Beautiful creatures with dark, shiny pelts, staggering around on unsteady legs.
The dancer that emerged from the curtains reminded me of those colts. The DJ announced her as Sparkles. Obviously a fake name. She was no stripper. I knew that at once. Either that or she was drunk.
I sat up a little straighter in my chair, fascinated. I studied her face, the brightness of her eyes, so very lucid and alert. And petrified.
She didn’t belong here.
Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek, almost painful-looking ponytail. Her make-up was as severe as the hair. She moved like she had never worn heels in her life, staggering awkwardly across the stage.
Her lack of coordination didn’t stop all the hoots and catcalls though. She made it to the pole and swung around it, extending her arm. Some guy made a grab for her hand and almost caught it. She pulled back and turned so that her spine was aligned with the pole, using it for support as she unzipped sections of her costume. The sleeves came off. Then each pant leg, leaving her standing in what was pretty much a swimsuit.
She had a nice body. Of course. I assumed that was a job requisite. My eyes drank every line, every inch of her, forgetting for a moment that I was disgusted with this whole situation.
“She’s new.” Cody leaned forward in his chair, wettin
g his lips like some kind of salivating wolf. “Pretty hot. Clumsy as hell though.”
Right then the girl stumbled, only confirming Cody’s comment. She grabbed the pole, barely catching herself from falling. Yeah. Clearly a newbie at this. And I couldn’t help wondering what pushed her into this. I mean, I doubt she grew up wanting to be a stripper. It wasn’t the typical little-girl dream. I had a sister. I knew that much.
So what happened to her? Even from the distance I could see her eyes were a really pale blue. Her expression was locked in a grimace as she unzipped another panel in her costume, this time baring her midriff. My gaze skimmed all that smooth skin and I swallowed. Okay. More like gulped.
She wasn’t wearing anything more revealing than a bikini. She still looked a little awkward, untried . . . but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Sure, she was hot, but so was every girl that worked here. There was just something about her. She wasn’t experienced and well-practiced like the rest of them. Even half naked and swinging on a pole, she was real.
And I was getting hard sitting there in that chair with a roomful of dudes.
When she went for the zipper that cut across her right breast, I thought I might come out of my skin. She pulled the zipper slowly, tiny inch by tiny inch, revealing more skin, peaches and cream, plump and well-rounded. And then a single perfect pink nipple sprang free. Leather hit the deck and the crowd went wild.
It’s like they knew, too. They knew what I knew about her.
They felt or smelled it on the air. Understood it in her untried movements. Saw it in the tremble of her hands. We were her first audience.
