Page 10 of Tommy
Never say never.
I acknowledge my inner voice with a nod. She’s right. I used to think I could do this a legit way, or at least a way that made me happy to come to work. Instead, I shrink into the shadows and hope no one sees me unless I’m above them and too far out of their reach for them to touch. What I once thought would never happen has. Which is why I force myself not to use the n-word—never. It’s a recipe for disaster in my experience.
I keep my head down and head to the dressing room at the back. I have to walk through the main room, but I keep to the back wall as much as I can and scurry along. If someone reaches out to me or calls for me to stop, I ignore them all and just keep walking, almost running sometimes.
Men in general don’t scare me. It’s men that look at me as if they’ve already decided something before I’ve even been asked. I’ve trained my entire life, and while I might have strong toes and can balance all my weight on them, I won’t be able to hold off an attacker. I’m 5'7", but my figure has always been petite. I might have some leg muscles, and now with my efforts focused on aerial work vs. barre, I’m gaining arm strength, but it’s not enough to push someone off me.
I have a lot of fears in my life, and being attacked in any way is one of the biggest. I’ve heard too many stories about it happening to both random people and people I know to think it would never touch a part of my life. Might seem harsh, but I live in New York. Sure, crime is everywhere, but I already know how bad it can get. I’ve lived through some of the worst of it, and I know it won’t be the last.
“You went over time,” Trixie says the second I enter the dressing room, stopping me from going farther in as she blocks my path with her wide stance and hands on her hips.
“S-s-sorry.” I try to walk by her, but she pushes my shoulder, and I stumble back a step.
“Sorry means shit. You fuck up my tips, and I’ll fuck you up. Get me?”
I’m not even looking at her, but I feel her in front of me as I look to the ground. I think she’s shorter than me, but I’ll never know since she always wears eight-inch heels every second of the day.
Mom would classify her as a grade A bully. Not that labeling her does anything for me, just reinforces that I’m not where I was almost eight months ago. I was never bullied, but I never looked down on someone either. Sure, the teachers and instructors were tough, but it was for the routine, not the personality. And yeah, I went over my time, something my own teachers would have talked smack about, but they would just say it and move on. With Trixie, I have half a mind to cut out early to prevent a beatdown.
I can only pray my dance was enough. I like to say my work is the appetizer. The tease of the night for the customers. I slink, slide, and glide along my ropes. Use moves I would never do in ballet school but do here to appear sexy. In the air, I’m confident and composed, unlike on the ground.
I’m the innocent one, just out of reach for anyone to corrupt. The Crown Jewel, they like to call me. Never attainable. But if the customers are willing—and most are—they use whatever lust they built up with me on another dancer. One who doesn’t mind them touching and… other things.
I’ve never seen a person have sex in the club, but the girls talk about the private rooms, the ones on the other side of the club that I stay clear of. Rooms that don’t have camerasin them, with locked doors and time limits that only allow a person to leave once the timer zeroes out and the lock disengages. Some claim the tips are better. That some being Trixie. Others… they don’t say much. But I see the tears down their cheeks. I don’t know what for, but I can guess enough to fear the private hallway like I do other things. Like guns.
I’m terrified to death of guns. The very thought of one makes me break out in a sweat. Seeing one? I think I might go into shock. Don’t even get me started on the crazy thought of trying to overcome my fear by putting one in my hand. Pretty sure I’d throw up and then go into a catatonic state.
Trixie releases an annoyed huff before she pivots away, tossing her hair so I feel it against my skin. If she could give me a beatdown, I know she would. Only reason she doesn’t is because she won’t admit that I can actually help her get money. And getting seriously hurt keeps me off the rigging, which means less money in her pocket.
I’m safe—for now. Doesn’t mean that after my shift she won’t be waiting. I can only hope I get out of here before she does. It’s something I aim to do most nights, leave before the others. It’s not much, but it’s all I have to keep myself safe.
When Trixie’s shoes leave my periphery, I beeline to my vanity. It’s the smallest, which is fine because it’s also by the back stairs. Stairs that no one uses because they’re rotting out and might kill a person if they put too much weight on them. But I see them as my safety net. If something gets really bad, I can leave. I would rather face a broken leg than some of the things my imagination has conjured up about what can happen in here.
Some might think if I’m scared to work here, I should leave. Those are probably the same people who think I haveother options. I don’t. This is it. There is nothing else out there but this. So I live with my fear and keep going. One day at a time. Sometimes it’s one hour at a time, but I just keep going. There isn’t any other option.
“CJ.”
I look up in the mirror at my vanity to see the room behind me and meet Carl’s eyes.
When he hired me, he called me the Crown Jewel, and since then I’ve gone by CJ to everyone. I don’t think anyone but Carl and the bouncers use their real names. I doubt Trixie was named that by her parents. But who knows? I think I read somewhere once that a person was called Apple, so what do I know about names.
“Room 3.”
“What?”
I’m not sure whose eyes go wider, Trixie’s, who spoke up in that shrill scream, or mine.
With a stomp in her stilettos, Trixie walks straight up to Carl. She’s not at all scared of the man like I am. I’ve never seen him do something. Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. There is something about him. Something that chills the bones and makes you wish not to be alone with him. I think it’s his eyes. They track you in a way that lets you know he sees your every thought before you do. Sees you planning to escape, and he doubles down to keep it from happening. He tried it with me when he hired me, but thankfully someone came in at the same moment, and I fled with a call over my shoulder that I accepted the position and would be by the next day at eight to open. He never brought it up again, and I made sure never to be close to him after that either.
“What the hell is she doing in my room? I thought she doesn’t dance.”
I let Trixie fight for me only because I’m too stunned to do anything. Performing here is the lowest I’m willing to go. The rest? Off the table completely. To include what happens in those rooms.
No one talks about it. Some come out of them with smiles and cash. But the others? The ones who don’t smile and gloat? Their eyes look hollow, as if they saw or did something that has taken all the joy and happiness from the world. And the worst part? They do it again.
I’m not the only desperate soul here. I’m just the only one not willing to take my clothes off for the cash.
“She does when the price is right. Get going.”
