Page 52 of Thirst

I won't go there. It’s absurd. But my refusal to accept an answer only leaves the questions lingering, and when I sit down on my couch, I can't even remain seated. I have to move. I have to let this out or I'm going to combust.

I jump off the couch like I saw a roach crawling on it, and don't even think about where my feet are taking me. I let my legs lead me to the door and back into the elevator. It takes me down, and I speed walk to my car. Driving only takes a few minutes, and I end up at Michaels, snatching paint off the shelves like a madwoman. I fill a cart with an assortment of colors and a multitude of brushes, and nearly sprint to the self checkout just so I don't have to deal with a cashier. I'm back in my car within a matter of minutes and ascending in the elevator shortly thereafter. The second I burst through my door, I’m popping open paint tubes, setting up a blank canvas, dipping the brushes in the colors, and splashing everything I feel onto the white in front of me.

The first canvas is covered in black and brown, similar to the piece I did a few days ago. Swirls interconnect and mix together, forming nothing and everything, exactly the way my thoughts are rippling and waving in my mind. I step back from the abstract image and take it in, then dip the brush in more brown paint and get back to work, breathing hard like I'm in the middle of an intense workout, except all of the intensity is in my mind. When it’s finished, I recognize the image as nothing … or it could be a highly zoomed in picture of Amari’s bare stomach. Above his bellybutton but below his pecks, where there is nothing but skin.

I remove the painting and grab another blank canvas, this one much smaller than the first. I open new paint and set it next to another, then I'm back at it, smearing Janae’s favorite color of green everywhere. Another abstruse image comes to life, with no meaning whatsoever, yet it’s beautiful and makes me feel calm when I look at it. Then I snatch it down and replace it with another canvas.

My arms feel tired as I work more than I have in far too long. I sweat as I paint in the same color as the walls in Amari’s penthouse, then add a few streaks of red to it without knowing why. When I finish and step back, the canvas reminds me of being in Amari’s atmosphere—black and gray, with hints of blood red bringing it all to life. I don't even know why I painted it, but I feel exhausted and satisfied when I finally sit down.

I end up with three new paintings, all of them fueled by erratic emotions and arbitrary brush strokes that somehow created beauty out of my wayward feelings. I look at them all positioned next to each other and realize that I could make more if I wasn't so tired. I'm reminded of how much I love doing this. How this is where my passion has always been. How I never wanted to be a stripper at all. I put my passion aside so that I could afford to live, and it ended up sucking the zeal right out of me. But this is where I was always meant to be. It’s sad that it took a moment of erratic emotion to pull it out of me, but sometimes hardship and stress brings out the best in people.

I've never painted this well before. This is me at my best, and I should be doing something about it. I should be trying to end this stripper life so I can do what I love. I should be painting and selling my art the way I was meant to, not moving from one stressful situation to another. I should be happy. All the time.

If being with Amari is going to fill me with this much hysteria, I should at least put it to use. Hell, his money is the reason I was able to run to the store and buy materials without even thinking about the cost. Now I need more canvases, and I won't hesitate to buy those either, thanks to him. In a weird way, Amari has elevated my situation and made it to where I can do what I love. So I'm going to do it. I'm going to use what he gives me, and I'm going to change my life. The questions are still there, and the answers will come. But while I wait for them, I'm going to work. It’s time for change.

Thirty-One

My return to Fantasies comes with a bad feeling in my stomach. I don't know why, but when I walk through the doors to get dressed, I feel tension in the air, thick like cigar smoke. I try to keep it moving as usual, focusing on just getting through another day and returning to my apartment to paint more, but I feel Shay’s eyes on me as I sit at my vanity. She looks away the second I glance at her, but her stare stings my skin. Von looks at me the same way when I walk past him in his red and white outfit. I don't know what the two of them have discussed, but luckily I'm used to them hating on me every time I step into the spot. Yet, that feeling of something being wrong lingers.

I'm on edge when the club opens and people start pouring in. The music blares like it usually does. The lights shine bright until they flicker off, dancing with the music like they're choreographed. The men start hootin’ and hollerin’ when the first girl takes the main stage and immediately drops into a split and starts twerking with her legs spread. Money flies into the air while I walk the floor, searching for my first lap dance of the night and feeling some type of way because Amari isn't here.

Amari. I haven't heard from him since we spent the night together. It’s unsurprising, considering he is supposedly locked away in meetings while the sun is up but free to move about the cabin when the moon is brightest. I didn't even bother texting while I was getting dressed today because I knew Shawn would be the one to respond, if I got a response at all. Now that I'm at work, my phone is stashed in my locker, so I have no idea if I’ll see him tonight or not. If he's unavailable during the day, and I'm working at night, who knows when we’ll talk to each other again. It’s unfortunate, because I'm still in search of so many answers that only he can give me. But I have no choice except to focus on my job right now, so I flirt with every man I pass in the hope that one will want to go into a booth.

My first lap dance of the night comes an hour into my shift. Surprisingly, the customer is a white guy wearing a flannel shirt with blue jeans and an oversized belt buckle that looks like he spent an hour polishing it before coming to the club. He's with a group of friends who all cheer him on as we walk from main seating to booth six, and I can see him turning red the second music starts playing and my hips begin to move. He's young, maybe in his early twenties, and from the amount of attention he's getting from his friends, I can tell he’s inexperienced and they're all getting a kick out of watching him turn beet red when I turn around and twerk in his lap. I hear them encouraging him with their laughter as he slips a couple twenties in my g-string, and their volume turns up even more as he lifts his hand in the air instead of putting it back on the couch next to him.

I see it coming, but I somehow still don't expect it until the moment it happens. His hand comes down and slams against my ass cheek loud enough to be heard over the music. His friends erupt in cheers. They give him a boisterous standing ovation for breaking the club’s rules and assaulting me, and they keep laughing when I quickly climb off of him and motion for security to come to us.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I bark, still waving to the security guard who is pushing through a crowd to reach us. “Don't you ever put your hands on me. Nobody ever taught you how to act in a strip club? Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

Still, his friends keep on laughing, unfazed by me telling him off because they don't see me as a person. I'm property to them. They can do whatever they want and I should take it with a smile on my face—at least that’s how they see it. Well, fuck that. The friends laugh, but the boy’s face is blank as security reaches us and barges into the booth scowling.

“This prick just spanked my ass,” I tell security. “Throw his stupid ass out of here.”

The security guard doesn't even say a word. He doesn't ask the kid if I'm lying or what his side of the story is. He simply snatches his little ass up and drags him out of the booth. Only one of the kid’s friends follows him out the door, but the rest stay in main seating, laughing as I make my way to the back, and I can still hear them as I push past the curtain.

“Little stupid assholes,” I bark, to no one in particular, but I hear the curtain move behind me and turn to find Von following me.

“What happened?” he asks.

“He spanked my ass, Von. That’s what happened.”

He scoffs. “Well, I told you what those freaky lap dances with your little boyfriend would bring, didn't I? This is the second time you’ve had somebody gettin’ handsy with you. I warned you, but you didn't listen.”

“You're supposed to be coming to my defense instead of standing there like you're happy I'm getting assaulted in your club. You wouldn't have that smile on your face if this happened to Shay.”

“Shay knows better,” he says. “Shay is my best Viper Girl, and knows how to make sure these assholes pay. She makes tons of money for me, while you run to the back to complain about shit that’s a direct result of your own actions.”

“So what do you want me to do, Von? I'm in here doing my job and these fools are getting physical. You're over here bringing up stuff I did with somebody else, when the guy who just hit me wasn't even here to see that. You don't even make any sense.”

He rolls his eyes, clearly unfazed. “I don't know what to tell you, but I know you owe me somethin’ for that booth dance.” He holds out his hand, glaring at me while I give him one of the two twenties I got from the kid. “Bet. Now get back to work, and try not to get anybody else thrown out the club. You’re messin’ up the money.”

“What the hell?” I bark, my face twisted in disgust. But Von just turns on his heel and walks back onto the floor. “Motherfucker,” I say to myself, shaking my head as I slam my hands on my hips.

I'm so sick of this, and I automatically think about how much I painted when I got home this morning. I got multiple new pieces done, and was dreaming about putting on an exhibit of my own. I would much rather be selling my art—fully clothed—instead of dealing with this nonsense.

I take a few moments to gather myself in the back before returning to the floor. I don't get on the main stage until the end of the night, and I'm only up there once today, so I have no choice but to focus on the floor if I want to make money tonight. I swallow my pride and try not to look at the group of people in main seating as I return to the floor, but when I step out, I don't even look in their direction because my eyes immediately go over to the bar.

“Amari,” I say to myself as a smile takes control of my mouth entirely. Even with all the questions I have and my annoyance at him for leaving me by myself, his presence makes me feel comfortable. I've seen this man check Von himself, so I feel safer the second I see him.