Page 35 of Shamed
She leans closer to the mirror to inspect her face and white-blonde hair. “Why do you insist on asking her? If she didn’t want to come the first twenty times, she’s not going to come this time. No doubt she has her reasons.”
Candy and Melody are two of the women I’ve been working with over the last year or so who have tried on more than a few dozen occasions to spend time with me outside of this hellhole.
It’s not the job itself that I hate. A woman who is comfortable in her body has the right to show it off however she likes and not feel ashamed, whether that includes dancing and stripping at a club or not.
But thisisn’twhat I want.
After being sexually assaulted and left with lingering trauma, this is the farthest from comfortable for me.
Not to mention this particular location is not known for being classy.
And that’sexactlywhy I do it.
Pushing myself to the brink of a panic-induced meltdown daily is just one of the ways I can punish myself. If an innocent man is rotting in prison because of me, then I shouldn’t be getting off scot-free, either.
The name of the club is just a bonus.
These women have been nothing but kind and supportive to me, even after rejecting their every offer of friendship or company. But that’s exactly why I’ve stayed away from them and said no to every invite. They’retoo kind. Toogood. And I’m . . .not.
You don’t deserve friends.
Not after what I did.
Melody folds her arms across her ample chest, dark skin shining under the lights. “And I keep saying that if she has issues, let us help her with them. Lord knows anyone who worksherehas them-a-plenty.”
I start pulling out bobby pins, removing my crown once it’s free. God, that feels better. We’re all required to wear a crown for every shift, and sometimes it feels like it’s stabbing into my skull. “I appreciate the offer, I really do. But I really need sleep after a shift.”
The lie rolls right off my tongue. Practiced words sprinkled with soft sugary sweetness so they don’t see the rotting soul underneath. I doubt they believe it, but at least they don’t call me out on it.
“Suit yourself.” Both women begin taking off their makeup and getting dressed in street clothes, talking past me to each other.
I pull on some sweatpants and my bulky hoodie, then peel off my gloves and stuff them into my backpack before hanging my crown on a hook beside my mirror. The stilettos will stay here under the counter of my station with the few others I keep here. This may be a shitty place, but the girls here are mostly solid. No one ever takes another woman’s belongings unless it’s just to borrow, and then it is always returned.
After slipping on my sneakers and cap, I say goodbye to the girls who are still hanging around and exit through the side of the building.
The homeless man who inhabits the alley is in his usual spot and dips his head in thanks after I slip him a twenty. I think there is sort of an unspoken deal between us. I pass him a bill every few days, as well as a cookie here and there, and he leaves me and the girls alone.
It’s sprinkling when I step out, the hushed sound of droplets hitting the pavement and wheels spinning through puddles can be heard, along with sirens a few streets away.
I walk to the only bus stop close by that offers a night owl route, passing deteriorating buildings with boarded-up windows and looking over my shoulder every few seconds.
The city is different at this time of night. Regular people are at home, safe in their beds, while shadows and monsters take their place in the dark, roaming the empty streets.
I keep my hood up over a ball cap, hair tucked in. Fitting in. An attempt to deter, which so far, has worked.
Thankfully, it’s only a few minutes until the bus arrives, and I’m given a fifteen-minute reprieve.
Once I’ve gotten off, it’s back to rushed steps past shadowed crevices, passing under the L train, and down empty-appearing streets.
Occasionally, a slimy sensation will travel through me, like someone in the shadows is watching me, and my speed will increase. I’m always wondering if it’s Dylan, tracking me with his dead eyes, making sure I’m as damaged as he left me, and still haven’t told anyone.
I received a text message from him about a year ago. At least, I’m sure it was him. I’m not sure how he got my new number.
Unknown number: How appropriate . . . A tease working atTease.
It was a reminder of his threat—not that I’d ever forget it.
Twenty minutes later, I’m ascending the rickety steps to my little apartment above the cannabis store, and I can breathe a sigh of relief.
