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CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
*Lace*
Chaz acts as a perfect gentleman, making sure I get to work on time. As Kal had promised yesterday, Foster is unlocking the doors just as we’re pulling in. Chaz salutes him, says something about grabbing some grub for us, then rides off.
As hard as the truth is, Kal was right; I was naive to think that my contract was somehow different from every other Tit for Tat dancer. The exact terms or why Foster picked up mine specifically were never expressed. All the dancers know is which Rolling Stone member we belong to, and we are expected to obey that puppet master, no matter what. Foster has owned my contract for almost seven years; I replaced my mom as soon as I was old enough to dance.
Those seven years have been relatively drama-free, considering how rough most dancers have it. Guess I should be counting my blessings. Instead, I feel bitter and angry. Over time, I grew to trust and care for Foster. Yeah, I knew my contract would likely not permit me to leave, but still I planned. Because fuck the damn contract. The Rolling Stones are fierce, but my wagon can drive farther than their power reaches. A big, dangerous move against them is not simple, though. The planning takes time, strategy, and money. All of which I had.
Since I have no reason to be here for another hour or so and am feeling very sensitive about the situation, I decide to take a little walk over to my parents’ house. Mom was quite the looker back in the day, and I know she still has some of the wardrobe; hopefully I can get a good cocktail dress from her. Plus, even through my many distractions, Reece has been on my mind.
Of course, before I slip between the ripped chain link fence behind the saloon, I scan the area thoroughly to make sure no one important sees me leave. When HFL brought me into the fold, I promised myself to try keeping my personal life separate as much as possible. The less attention drawn to my family and my chosen living arrangements, the better. Sure, they know where I grew up, but I never talk about those days around them anymore.
As far as I know, they are unaware that I live out of my car. Pretty damn sure Coty would have something to say about that if he was privy. What he would struggle to understand is that converting my wagon was a choice. I could live in an apartment — hell, Foster would have let me stay at the trailer park for free no doubt — but I like living in my wagon.
Coast clear, I slip through the fence and tromp through the brambles until I hit the road that runs parallel. The day is beautifully sunny and warm, and the gulf breeze blows, such a contrast to the nasty weather we had on Sunday and Monday followed by the cold spell yesterday. In the fall it tends to be hit or miss with the weather for Bike Week. Sometimes it is absolutely lovely; sometimes there’s a damn hurricane in the gulf. This year, we got it good.
Getting to the house takes me hardly any time at all. I enter through the front door, just in case Mom is awake. I prefer she not know that I usually sneak through the side. As soon as I step foot inside, a squeak peals through the house. I look down at the toy to blame and kick it out of the way, eyes traveling from one toy to the next and the next before moving on from there to everything else thrown haphazardly around the trashed house. One by one, as I make my way deeper inside, I pick up or kick things into organized piles.
When my arms are brimming, I finally let my focus search for any humans in this pigsty. Mom is sitting at the dining room table, leaning back in the chair, eyes glassy. The skin beneath one is a fresh reddish-purple and nearly swollen shut. She gives me a sloppy, lazy grin. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey, Ma.” Eyes watering at her state, I kick through more mess to get to her, bend down, and give her a kiss on the forehead. Spotting an empty basket nearby, I dump all the toys in my arms inside it before carefully plucking the paraphernalia off the table.
“Where’s Reece?” I ask, padding into the kitchen.
“Little bitch bruised herself up somehow, and your Dad took it out on me, as usual, when he came home for his lunch break,” is her response. Over the years, I have learned to listen, but not pay any damn mind to a thing that comes out of her mouth.
Going through the usual process, I remove a lidded container out of the cabinet, close the used needle inside it, and toss it into the garbage can. Baggie of heroin held gingerly in my hand, I hesitate. A tingle runs through my veins, my heart rate increases, and I run my thumb against the rigid plastic zipper.
I brusquely empty the contents down the sink drain and wash my hands before doing anything regrettable. Then, I shove the empty baggie into the garbage and make my way back toward the dining area. The sound of bubbly coos come from the nursery. As I pass the dining room table, Mom’s eyes are more closed than they were before. Guess I walked in just after she shot up.
With a sniff and lifted chin, I head to see Reece. Baby girl is sitting on her floor like the angel she is, with a toy pressed against her face, drool dropping off it in rivulets. Her big eyes find me instantly, the toy drops, and she teeters forward, landing on her hands and uncurling her legs until she’s on her knees and can crawl.
My eyes trail up to the crib. The drop flap is still in the up position, latches locked. I look back down at her again, eyebrow raised. “Another new trick, hm? Two in a week? Does Ma know you can climb out of your crib, too?”
She scales upward, starting at the tops of my feet until her chubby little hands are on my knees, then she pats at me playfully. “Up, pup, pup.” I mean who am I to say no to that sweet request? But first, a diaper change. As always.
I do a little wiggle. The jostling makes her lose balance, and she plops back down onto her butt. I collect all the necessary things, putting away some stuff en route, all the while she crawls around following me. Once everything is in hand, I lie her down and notice the bruises on her chunky thigh from when she got it stuck the other night have definitely blossomed.
She shoves her fist into her mouth, still completely unfazed by her shitty environment. Happy, sweet baby. I soak her innocence in while going through the motions of cleaning her up. Then I stand and head back toward the kitchen to toss the dirty diaper. Tilting to the side, I peek inside her room from a distance. She is already distracted by that toy she has in her mouth again, so I leave her be.
Mom is officially passed out, head lolled back, arms limp at her sides. I do a quick cleanup of everything, hoping the effort will save her from any upcoming rage doled out by Dad. At least for today. Maybe, before I leave, I can even put Reece down for a nap. If Mom is lucky, Reece will stay asleep — or at least in her crib — until Dad gets home. Or, better yet, maybe Mom will be on the upswing in time to get her out of the crib and at least paint the picture of a successful day at being domestic before he steps through the door.
Step by step, I take care of as much as possible, making the place look presentable but not actually cleaning it. Putting away toys, making sure clothes are where they belong — mostly in the hamper — moving dishes from tables and counters to the sink, things like that.
And this right here is another reason why I prefer my car over an apartment. Too much damn upkeep. When I pass Ma for the last time, my steps falter, hands twitching to reach out and check her pulse. But I don’t. I can’t. That doesn’t stop my gaze from drifting down to her chest… just to make sure it rises and falls… just once.
I swear time moves in slow motion; for too long she seems inanimate until a light inhale and exhale hisses through her open mouth. I blink rapidly, clearing the bleary vision that had accrued and continued on my path, stepping into Reece’s room and scooping her up.
“Wanna play dress up?” I coo, hooking her on my hip and stealing her away to look for that cocktail attire. Afterward, Reece joins me in the bathtub for a proper cleaning. While I shave and rinse off, she crawls around the bathroom, getting into every damn thing. Nailing this sister gig, I totally get her to sleep, too.
When I return to the saloon and check in with Kris, I head straight to the back to put on my makeup, this time dolling myself extra since I have to fly out of here right at the end of my shift in order to get to the Kick-Start Party on time.
Once completely ready, the other dancers are just starting to show up. The number on the early shift today is double compared to yesterday at the same time. Jess is standing at the booth, checking in and working out details with Kris. I sneak up and tackle-hug her from behind.
Jess squeals. I step back, giving her room to turn around, and immediately check that bruise under her eye. She did a much better job covering it up today. Being suddenly demanded here at the saloon last night, she probably got a bit sloppy with the application in her haste. The true test will be if it passes HFL notice. If that is even for the best anymore.
As though we never stopped our conversation from last night, with a dropped voice, she asks, “How do you… how do you stop Coty from slapping you around?” The longer this thing with her and Gabe goes on, the harder I shake my Kio pom poms. Of course, with the new rules to my “contract,” a real relationship between Kio and Jess can never be. He can protect her, though. All the Hell for Leather members can.
