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The bag in my hold, I straighten my spine and neck, saying, “Then quit wasting my time and open thefuckingdoor.”
Another silent exchange between them before they let me in.
“What a pleasant surprise to see you again,” Adie greets loudly the moment I sashay my way inside. Brushing her temple with two fingers, she mouths, “Lost.”
I give no reaction whatsoever before entering the dark stairwell. Halfway down, I stop and balance the bag on the handrail using my hip.
Retrieving the blade from my mouth, I blindly saw at the new stitches until I get an entire side cut, then I give the flap a couple quick tugs, loosening the others. Once I feel the gun with the silencer, I relocate it to the top, with the money. Money stinks in general, but this much reeks.
I descend the rest of the steps with sweat coating my hairline, armpits, and back.
Out on the Merry-Go-Round, all five poles have dancers on them, and they’re each spinning simultaneously to “Hayloft II” by Mother Mother, every customer in the place mesmerized by the show of staggering synchronicity of the many different kinds of spins from knee hooks to carousels to one very impressive doubles genie by the two on the middle pole.
Some of the newer girls working the floor eye me as I pass, the vets doing it inconspicuously, but I don’t make eye contact with any of them. I just continue on to Lost and Found.
Cat’s already at the key girl’s station with Promise, both women appearing bored. Back when I worked here, I couldn’t offer what they sought from each other. I was sick and grieving and I couldn’t fathom joining their family while having my own to worry about. But we still helped one another. I showed them how to depend on their sense of smell to tell when someone’s coming or to gauge how much someone’s worth, and they taught me the tricks of the trade. No lotion, ever, because it’s a major pole hazard. If you want soft skin, use Epsom salt in a bath. Shave with oil, not cream. Natural makeup only. Heat to get plastic shoes to stay on; baby powder to get them off. Baby wipes are essential, especially between clients. Don’t exert yourself before midnight; if the drinks haven’t kicked in yet, neither have the tips. And most importantly, no matter how much you want to, never call out while you’re menstruating because without them realizing it, the barest hint of blood sends men into a frenzy. My biggest paydays were always when I was on my period.Sharks.
While Cat’s five years older than me, Promise is only three, but they had more experience than I did and were gracious enough to impart their pearls of wisdom on me. As much as I want to resent Promise for helping Cyrus track my phone, I can’t. She was under orders, and in her position, I would’ve had to do the same thing. I would’ve done the same thing. When you’re drowning and someone sticks an oar in your face, you don’t stop to consider if the wood’ll give you, or anyone else, splinters. You just grab hold. She does what she has to survive the same way we all do.
I don’t fault her. The blame lies where it always has, with Cyrus.
After removing the gun tucked between two stacks, I hand the bag off to Cat. She takes one look in it, her jaw dropping. I dig deep inside, showing her the hidden flap beneath the money, and she spins around and disappears into the dressing room.
“In This Moment?” Promise asks.
She must’ve been the one to put on “Sex Metal Barbie” last time I was here. I used to always dance to their songs. Their lyrics are the only ones I’ve ever been able to relate to.
Twitching my cheek several times to scrape against the edge of the blade, I nod, then carefully pull the metal out through my lips, hiding it in my bun.
I let the blood pool in my mouth before lifting my chin to say, “‘The Blood Legion,’” pushing some of the liquid back between my lips when it tries to dribble out.
Promise’s look of disgust is the last thing I see before I turn toward two Lost.
Twisting the knob, I open the door, mentally repeating po trupach do celu to myself.Whatever it takes.
Cyrus is seated, his head back, eyes closed as a woman kneels between his legs, her head bobbing over his lap.
There’s a second woman by the loveseat, poised to blow on Cyrus’s ear, and I tilt my head when she turns to look at me, silently telling her to leave. Just as the song changes over, we switch places. I angle my body sideways to sit next to Cyrus, my arm stretched out along the back so the gun’s behind his head, and I stare at his pasty face, those canines of his gleaming from under his parted lips.
Moisture builds behind my eyelids. I’ve dreamed about this for so long, and now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem real. I don’t even feel like I’m in my body.
One hand gripped tightly on his cane, the other’s tangled in his pleasurer’s tresses until he relocates his hold to my thigh. Memory upon memory surfaces like bubbles in a hot spring—relentlessly overpowering and unnecessarily violent—bringing me right back into my physical form with sharp focus.
Cyrus’s hand roots around, making every one of his touches play out like a montage, the reel going on and on andonuntil my stomach rolls.
Not feeling nearly as much skin as he was expecting, his eyes open and he wrenches his head up, spewing, “What the fuck are—
“Oh,” he says when he finds me beside him, his demeanor softening a fraction. “Lexi. You’re early. Impatient to take your place?”
Impatient? I’ve waited years for this.
Despite the goose bumps from his skin finding mine—his skin stroking mine—I lower my head in a placating nod.
“Smile,” he says, his lips spreading.
There wasn’t a day in Cyrus’s presence that’d go by without him telling me to smile, forever perverting the gesture for me.
If only I’d discovered this next move sooner, I could’ve ruined it for him, too.
