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With Jewel’s help, over the next week, I find that running drugs is easier than I would have believed. She tells me which dancers are likely to buy from me, and how to hint during a private dance that I have something extra that I might be able to give them, if they want. She warns me that if they take it at the club, they’ll be harder to persuade not to touch me, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
“You can add it to your services,” she tells me, shrugging. “Tell them if they pop a pill, they’re allowed to touch a little bit, if they pay extra. Most men will be all over that.”
“And Dick wouldn’t be pissed, if he found out?”
Jewel snorts. “He doesn’t give a shit what we do as long as we’re bringing in more money. If they’re paying, he’s happy. You could fuck someone in the back rooms so long as they hand over cash for it.”
I know that already. I know some of the other girls offer services on the side—most of them just a quick handjob during a dance, but a couple of the girls are willing to give oral for the right price, and I know Electra offers sex. I’d always wondered how much Dick knew, but I can’t imagine there’s much that goes on here that he’s not aware of.
I don’t want him to know I’m selling ecstasy. He’d demand a cut, and I’m not willing to part with any of the precious cash that I’ll get from Lorenzo for this. It will be hard enough to give Jewel her cut, when that means I’ll net almost nothing from this first batch after paying off my advance, but her help has been invaluable.
“I’d rather not do that.” I bite my lower lip as I put on my mascara, sneaking a glance at the small baggie of pills in my makeup bag. I’ll tuck them into my bra when I go out onto the main floor after my stage dance. “I don’t want to touch anyone, or let them touch me, if I don’t have to.”
“Suit yourself.” Jewel shrugs. “I’m just saying that men are always more enticed if they get a handful of tits and ass in addition to whatever else you’re selling. So if you can’t move it otherwise—it’s something to keep in mind.”
I wince. If things get desperate enough, I’ll have to. But I’m not inclined to start with that, if I can sell the drugs on their own.
“Angel. Hey.” Cherry, one of the other dancers, hisses my stage name as she walks up to stand next to Jewel. “Can I—” She flicks her gaze towards my makeup bag, holding out a slightly damp wad of bills. She just came from the stage, and I can see from the way that she’s looking at me that she’s probably going to take the pill as soon as I sell it to her, to get through the rest of the night.
Guilt flickers somewhere in my chest. Cherry is one of the girls who clearly doesn’t enjoy dancing here—doesn’t like the attention, the men, or the way Dick treats his girls—but she’s extraordinarily beautiful and is one of the highest earners here. Truthfully, from the comments she’s made in passing, I don’t even think she likes men in that way. But she endures it, and I can see that having access to the pills has made her nights here easier to bear.
That doesn’t make me feel better; it makes me feel like I’m enabling her. But I swallow hard, take her money, and hand her over one of the pills.
The guilt has lingered with me since the very first night. It would be a bad example for Niki if he knew—but I’m doing this to help him, to help us both, I tell myself over and over again. And after all, he’ll never find out. There’s no reason why he ever would.
I tell myself that all the first week, while I shake out his cereal in the morning, when I’m able to pay my utility bill with the advance Lorenzo gave me and have enough left over to order pizza for dinner on my night off. We eat it on the living room floor in front of the tv, with a DVD of the old X-Men cartoon that I got at a thrift store playing, and Niki hums along to the theme song while we eat. He still doesn’t speak, but for a brief second, I almost think I see him mouth along to one of Beast’s lines. We’ve watched these cartoons over and over, and at that moment, as we sit there and I reach over to wipe tomato sauce off of his chin, I know I’ve made the right choice.
What I was doing with Alfio wasn’t a ‘good example’ either, but Niki never knew about that and never would have. He won’t know about this, either. He won’t have a reason to know how tight things are, either—because there won’t be a break in his therapy, the lights won’t be switched off, and the landlord won’t come banging on our door. So long as I can keep finding buyers, and keep Lorenzo happy, Niki’s life will move along as smoothly as if nothing is wrong at all.
I have to convince myself of that, because I have to find a way to ease my own stress. Nights of not sleeping well are catching up with me—I can see it in my complexion and in my tired eyes, and at ballet practice, it’s all I can do to keep Annalise from noticing. Makeup helps, and I focus every bit of energy I have on not slowing down, not missing my tempo, and never misstepping. But I won’t be able to maintain that kind of perfection forever. And eventually, she will notice. A year of this has worn on me, and if I let the stress of my new life of crime add to it, everything will all come crumbling down anyway.
Then, this will have been for nothing.
I make the most of my one night away from the club—that night of the pizza party with Niki—and head back for the Wednesday through Sunday night shifts. I’m lucky enough that Dick can never ask me to dance during the day, on account of my ballet practice. I doubt I’d be able to move any of Lorenzo’s product on an afternoon shift, and dancing during the day brings in a pitiful amount of money. The men who come in then are the worst of the ones who frequent the Rosebud, or else middle-level corporate types who like to have their business lunches with a side of tits, enjoying the view without tipping well.
I hear the horror stories from the other dancers frequently, always with a little resentment directed at me, because I don’t ever have to endure those shifts.
By Friday night, when I sit down to get ready for my shift, the little bag is almost empty. Cherry comes by for hers before she even goes out on the main stage, and I shove that feeling of guilt down as I take her money and hand it over. She thanks me, walking away, and I refocus on my eyeliner, hearing the sound of the song before mine filtering through the door.
Every night, I haven’t been able to stop myself from looking for Lorenzo. A part of me wondered if he would come back to check on me, to see if I’m managing to do my job. Another part of me, one I’ve tried to ignore, wondered if he would come back for that dance.
But I haven’t seen him. And when I walk out on stage, the beat of the music thrumming in my ears, I don’t see him tonight, either.
He wouldn’t be up by the stage. I remind myself of that, just like I did the first night, but it doesn’t mute the flicker of disappointment I feel. It’s a foolish emotion, but he seems to have stuck in my mind, and he’s hard to shake loose.
The steps of my stage routine are familiar enough that I hardly have to think. But tonight, just like every night this week, I throw myself into it a little more, because I can’t help but imagine that he might be watching. That he might be sitting on one of those couches at the back of the room, watching as I wrap myself around the pole, arching and twirling, gyrating as I slide down to the stage.
It’s a good night for tips. There are more bills thrown on stage and tucked into my thong than usual, and by the time I’ve stripped down to nothing but my G-string, I’m sure I’ve made twice what I have on the other nights this week. It lifts my spirits, adding a little extra to my enthusiasm. By the time I make it out onto the floor after my dance, I can already see some interested glances being thrown in my direction.
I opted for red lingerie tonight—a silky push-up bra and a pair of tight, cheeky panties, with stockings and a black garter belt. It’s more devilish than what I usually wear to go with my stage name—Angel—but I felt like mixing it up a little. For once, I wanted to wear something other than white or the soft pastels I usually wrap myself up in, to play on my delicate features and doll-like looks.
Right now, I don’t feel like being fragile.
I get three dances on the floor, one right after another, each of the men tucking a few extra bills into my panties along with the twenty dollars. Two of them buy a pill, and when one asks if I’ll tuck it between my breasts and let him lick it free for an extra twenty, I reluctantly allow it. The feeling of his tongue against my skin makes my stomach churn, but the money is worth it.
That’s a slippery slope, I remind myself, when I retreat for a break. I don’t smoke, but I still throw my trenchcoat dress on and step out back, breathing in the dry summer air. It’s not particularly fresh in this part of town, especially behind a strip club, but it still gives me a momentary break from the warm, cloying scents of perfume, skin, and alcohol inside the club.
Briefly, I close my eyes, leaning back against the wall. I’ll be here until at least two in the morning, and then I have ballet practice at noon. I’ll get to sleep in a little bit—Niki won’t have school on a Saturday, of course—but he always wakes up no later than nine, and I’ll feel guilty if I sleep past him. We get so little time together as it is.
