AllFreeNovel
Share Us
PART ONE
Ghosts of
Christmas
The past is alive. It lies, keeps secrets, taunts, invades our thoughts and dreams. It demands reckoning, even after we’ve tried to bury it, still breathing, in the shallow grave of our subconsious. Ignore it at your peril.
—Harley Granger,
Requiem for a Lost Girl
PROLOGUE
Six Days Before Christmas
Ialways loved Christmas. I still remember how magical it was to believe in Santa Claus, lying in bed at night, trying to stay up to hear the pitter-patter of reindeer hoofs on the roof. Then falling asleep and waking up to the tree glowing downstairs, the floor covered with gifts, my parents groggy and smiling.
I saw him, my sister would say.On the lawn, climbing out of his sleigh.
And I would be so jealous that she got to see Santa, while I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough. She was always first. Always better. Still is.
I lean against the pole now, arching my back, all eyes on me. The music pulses and the stage lights beneath my high heels flash—purple, blue, orange, red. I am alive here, all of it moving through me. Tonight, I perform to various Katy Perry songs—a playlist I made. “Hummingbird Heartbeat.” “Peacock.” “Part of Me.” All songs that are sexy and upbeat but have a secret message. Like me. No one is listening to the music though. The smattering of men sitting on stools and in various booths, nursing drinks, are only thinking about one thing.
I wonder about them. Do they have wives and kids at home, while they’re here looking at me?
I like the way Christmas lights and decorations make even this ugly, dingy roadside topless bar look somehow glittery and magical. Billy has strung some colored bulbs along the bar, and there’s a big wreath over the juke box, some garland around the stage. Even the tilting, tacky white tree from the big-box store with lights already attached looks pretty to me. I love anything that shines and glimmers.
My dress sparkles too. It’s just like the costumes my mom used to buy me for ice skating and ballet. And though my life now is nothing like it was then, I still feel that thrill I used to feel before a recital or a competition. How my tiny, lithe body makes even the cheapest, flimsiest thing look good, how it feels to move with grace and to be watched with admiration. My mom thought that I was a princess and a star, but the truth was I wasn’t that good at any of it. Not good enough, anyway, to go beyond local, and I slowly lost interest in second and third place.
I dance and twirl now, lose myself in the music, pretend not to notice that Bob is touching himself beneath the table in front of the stage. Billy, buff and broad shouldered, his thickly muscled arms sleeved in elaborate tattoos, serves drinks, chatting with the regulars. I can’t hear what he’s saying. He never looks at me when I’m on stage, prefers to play for the other team, though he claims he’s bisexual and flirts with me all the time.
Katy Perry is tellingwhoever he is, what he can and cannot take from her. And I am above it all—one with movement and music. Of all the things I imagined for myself—this was not it. My parents think I’m a waitress, working my way through college, with aspirations to be a physician’s assistant. It’s been almost a year since I dropped out and I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell them. But I’m going home for Christmas; maybe I’ll stay there. Get my act together. Figure it all out. I’m young, right? Barely old enough to work here. There’s time. This is just a way to make money for now, capitalizing on the assets I was given. Nothing wrong with that.
I twirl, lift my arms, then drop down low.
My heart stutters when he walks in, the door opening and leaking darkness. He fills the frame, tall, wide through the shoulders, lean at the waist. He’s been coming for a couple weeks and even though we’ve never talked, and he’s never asked Billy if I’ll meet him in the back, I know he’s here for me. He doesn’t come when Angela is on stage and I’m the one who’s serving drinks, dodging groping hands and leering eyes.
He’s not like the other men here. He’s young, first of all. Not middle aged and doughy, with that lingering energy of dissatisfaction clinging like an odor. He’s a friend of Billy’s, I think. Not just from the bar, but maybe they grew up here together. The two men clasp hands when he takes his seat at the bar, chat awhile. Billy tips a beer from the tap, slides the foaming glass over to him. He takes a swallow from the glass, turns, leans on the bar. He’s long and almost elegant though he’s wearing faded jeans and boots and a tight black T-shirt.
I feel his eyes on me. And for the rest of the set, I dance only for him. And I think he knows it. But when I exit the stage, and peer back though the curtain, he’s gone. It’s stupid to feel disappointed because he’s probably just a scumbag like all the others. Who else would be in this dump after 11:00P.M. watching a girl twerk on a makeshift stage in a cheap costume she ordered online for $19.99?
Later in the dressing room, I change, pulling on my jeans and oversized hoodie. The night was slow, but the tips aren’t bad. Billy, Angela, and I pool the money and split it with the guys in the back who clean up and lock the place after we go. Angela’s at the door, leaning her towering, curvaceous body against the frame.
“Honey, Billy left,” she says. “Do you want me to wait, walk you to your car?”
“I’m good,” I tell her. I’m not quite ready and I don’t want to hold her up. She walks over to look at herself in the mirror, runs her manicured fingers through thick dark curls. We live together but we always take separate cars to work even when we’re on the same shift. Angela isn’t just a dancer. She offers other services on the down-low.
“Heading home?” I ask her.
“Not right away.” She pulls a glittering Santa hat from her bag, tilts it on her head, freshens up her lipstick. I don’t ask where she’s going, and she doesn’t offer.
“You sure?” she asks.
“I’m sure. Right behind you.”
Then she’s gone and the guys are mopping up the floor, disinfecting the booths, and I say goodnight, step out into the cold. The parking lot is empty, except for my old Toyota—and a big black pickup idling at the far end of the lot.
The wind is icy and a light snow falls. There’s a big storm coming. That’s what they said on the news. It’ll be a white Christmas and I’ll be home with my parents to enjoy it. I decide right then and there: I won’t come back here after the holiday. I’ll ask my parents for help.
