Читать книгу Dark Awakenings: Volume 2 of the Little Girl Lost Trilogy - Cindy Hanna - Страница 10

C HAPTER F IVE

New Beginnings

I awake the next morning, glowing. Thoughts of Carlos still linger. Mmmm, such delicious fantasies. I roll over and view the clock. Still time. I roll back and resume my Carlos fantasy.

I wasn’t clumsy or awkward with words. Oh, no. I seduced him with my sultry voice, luring him into my world. Wrapped my leg around his upper thigh and pulled him close. Clawed my nails up and down his back, much to his delight. Stood on my tiptoes, nuzzled my lips against his neck to nibble and kiss just below his jaw line. Tasted the saltiness of his neck. I felt his body respond and trembled with the urgency of my own needs. And our passion had continued. Lost in each other, we forgot time, space and our own identities. The only thing that mattered was merging as one…. And in my fantasy, we had.

With the greatest effort, I extract myself from my Carlos fantasy. I pull myself out of bed, let Princess out and then take a bath. I smile as I wash myself, imagining that the hands that bathe me are not my own, but those of Carlos caressing each and every curve of my body…. I finish washing, towel dry and throw on a pair of jeans, boots and a sleeveless blouse.

I get the Sunday paper from the front walkway, then pour myself a cup of coffee and fetch a yogurt from the fridge. Settling in at the kitchen table, I skip the sections announcing world events and turn to the ad section. There I find it—my call-out. It reads:

Ladies, tired of not being able to face what’s reflected back at you in the mirror? Interested in taking control of your life and changing it for the better? If so, I’ve got the solution—pole-dancing classes. During my six-week course, you’ll shed some unwanted pounds, become comfortable with and accept yourself and have a brighter outlook on life. If this appeals to you, please contact Sally Whitmore at 555-4344.

Smiling, I lean back and take a sip of my coffee. I hear the front door open and with it, Angel’s voice. “Hey, girl. Where are you?”

“In the kitchen.” I look up and admire my friend as she enters the room. I swear she hasn’t aged a day since we met. Petite, five-foot nothing, 100 pounds tops, the only change is her new shoulder-length bob of jet-black hair that shines and swishes from side to side.

It finally happened. We grew up. Out of nowhere. One day we were being our crazy selves, flying by the seat of our pants, the next we assumed normal respectable lives.

Seeing Angel, a thousand memories of shared experiences flood my mind. Hanging with our group of druggie friends in high school. Having sex with all the boys in that group. Running away from home and beginning a life of prostitution that led to my getting pregnant. Angel by my side as I delivered that child on one of the same grungy beds where I’d laid hundreds of johns. Fleeing our pimp to become strippers. Angel helping me through overcoming my addiction to crack. Her shoring me up when my second son, born premature, lost his battle to live. Holding me together when my husband died in a car accident.

I smile as Angel passes by me and heads straight for the coffeepot. Grabbing a mug from the holder on the counter, she pours herself a cup—black—and holds the pot out. “More?”

“Sure.”

She freshens my cup, then returns the carafe to the warmer. Angel leans over the newspaper. “So, is it there yet?”

I tap my finger on my ad. She reads, then looks up. “So, you ready?”

“Think so.”

“First class tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“How many students?”

“Five.”

“Nervous?”

“A little. This is so strange, yet feels so right. More and more housewives are finding pole dancing is an excellent form of exercise. Builds self-confidence and self-esteem. Breaks them free of their shells and taps into what lies beneath.”

“Nice commercial.” Angel smiles and looks up with her caramel-colored eyes. “What do you have to lose?”

“It’s not what I stand to lose, but them.”

“The women?”

Nodding, I say, “I wanna make their lives better.”

“Like yours?”

“The ones who need it the most are the ones who think the least of themselves. The ones who’ve been broken by their life choices and society. I can relate. After everything that’s happened—losing my son, James dying, falling apart and then getting better—I wanna help other women find their strength so they can heal.” I pause to swirl my coffee before taking a sip. Unable to meet my friend’s eyes, I mumble into my mug, “What if this is a stupid idea?”

“It’s not like you had this crazy thought and jumped right into it. You took your time. Really thought it through…. Give it a chance.”

Can always count on Angel. She’s been my best friend for fifteen years. Can’t believe all the stuff we’ve been through. How she’s always supported me. Heaven knows I’ve tested the limits of our friendship. Can’t recall the number of times she covered for me and helped put the broken parts of my Self back together. All those times I disappeared and kept her worrying while I was off on three-day crack binges. Why’d she stay? Never would have made it through half the stuff I did, if it hadn’t been for her.

Changing the subject, I ask, “Wanna see the room?”

“Sure!”

We top off our mugs. I add cream and sugar to mine and then head for the stairs. As we cross the living room, Angel points at the coffee table. “Did a good job.”

“Sure did.”

We climb the dark staircase. I grin as the eighth step creaks under my weight. One of the many quirks I love about my house. We round a corner at the top. Stretched before us is a wide hallway. To the left is my room. Farther down is a closed door. Arriving in front of it, I rest my hand on the knob. “Promise to give me your honest opinion?”

“I will.”

I swing the door open, revealing a flood of light filtering in through two walls of wrap-around windows. In the center of the large room is a raised stage with a single gleaming brass pole. Five additional poles surround it on a lower level. Rays of sunlight streaming through the tree branches reflect off the poles and create a dappling effect on the light tan walls and floor. As Angel enters, I hear her gasp. “Wow!” she says while rotating slowly. “You and your mom did a great job!”

I beam.

“It’s nicer than any studio I’ve ever seen! They’re gonna love it!”

“What about the mirrors? Too much?”

Angel surveys the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the two windowless walls. “No. They make it bright.”

“And, if someone is uncomfortable with them, I can always draw these closed,” I say, pointing to curtains.

Angel’s eyes wander to the newly built-in service counter where the closet used to be and says, “Remember when we packed away James Charles, Jr.’s stuff?”

“How could I forget?”

“Never told you how much I admired your strength. How you dove right in. Got the job done.”

I look at Angel. “That wasn’t strength. I couldn’t bear the visual reminder that my baby was gone.”

“You’re healing.”

“Time helps.”

Angel walks to the center of the room, and runs a hand up and down one of the gleaming brass poles. Turning to me, her face displays a devilish grin. “Wow! This brings back memories…. Remember how nervous we were when we auditioned for Luigi at the strip club?”

“Yeah. What was up with that? After tricking, you’d think taking our clothes off would’ve been easy, but….” I look at the wall clock. “Wanna get going?”

We arrive in Hollywood, park the car and stroll Sunset Boulevard. Walking along the strip takes me back. I was such a naive eighteen-year-old. Desperate to escape the pain of my brother’s death, I was lured by the drugs my pimp offered and what I mistook as the exciting life of a prostitute. Thought it’d be fun to get paid for having sex. It wasn’t. Thought I’d feel better about myself. I didn’t. Thought I could stop any time. Impossible with a pimp like Ax.

Seems like yesterday that Angel and I, on rare occasions, used to come here to get slutty outfits to better lure johns. Yup, Hollywood was the place back then.

Based on the window displays, it looks like it still is. Every imaginable sleazy getup is represented here. And the shoes! This is the place to get every variation of jaw-dropping come-fuck-me heels. Bold colors, animal prints and clear acrylic. Such extreme heels that it defies reason that women can walk in them. And the boots…. Where do I begin? There are short, thigh-high, patent leather, ballerina and crotch-height ones.

Today’s shopping spree involves finding a specific item—stripper shoes. Can’t pole dance without the right heels. And, although I’ve instructed my new students on the exact pair to get, I have procrastinated buying them myself. So here I am. Shopping at the last minute.

Navigating several blocks from where we parked, Angel and I enjoy looking in the windows along the way. I point to a mannequin. “Look at her hair.” Pastel pink and cropped to a fashionable bob. “Remember when I wanted my hair that color?”

Angel laughs. “Yeah. Just one of your many crazy ideas.”

“Hey!”

Angel lists them. “The whole pink hair thing, the almost-getting-tattooed phase before they were in fashion—especially for women— and let’s not forget the how-short-can-I-wear-my-skirt-without-getting-arrested period.” Angel pauses.

I shrug. “You know I had damn good-looking legs!” We pass by a nail salon and stop. “Wanna get our nails done?”

Angel looks at her watch. “Is there time?”

Entering the salon, we stand before the limitless display of nail enamels ranging from subtle to neon. Picking up a particularly offensive shade, I hold it up to Angel. “There was a time I would have gone straight for this one.” I replace the bottle. “Thank goodness I acquired some taste.”

We laugh, and then both select shades of dark red and take a seat. An hour and a half later, with our toenails and fingernails gleaming, we continue toward the shoe shop, only a block away. Entering, we mock the majority of the foot-torturing accessories displayed. On the back wall, I find what I’m seeking—a pair of clear acrylic five-inch heels with clear straps, rhinestones across the toes, and a one-inch platform. I smile. They’re worthy of melting any stripper’s heart. A short time later, shoes in hand, we leave the store and head to Angel’s car.

That evening, bubbling with anxiety, I make a run to the market to pick up a few things. As I round the corner to head down the last aisle, the one closest to the produce, I’m surprised to spot him— Carlos. Although he is turned away from me, I recognize his back and tease of dark curls accenting his tanned skin just above the collar.

My heart skips a beat. My tongue grows thick in my mouth, and I swear I’ve forgotten how to speak once again. Ignoring the betrayal of my body, I head toward the stack of cantaloupes, right beside him. The closer I get, the clammier my palms become, and I have to readjust my grip on the hand basket lest it slip from my hands. How should I initiate contact this time? Already done the dropping-of-groceries ploy. Probably should go with a new approach this time. I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll try the less dramatic, yet still effective, “hello.”

I take my time approaching. Like a lioness closing in on its prey. No need to hurry. I watch him. Scrutinize his movements. Relish every delicious step that brings me closer to him. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. Wait! From behind one of the display tables, a boy of about four speeds his way toward the man—my man. He’s clutching a small bunch of bananas. “Daddy! Daddy! Are these good?”

I freeze.

His back still turned to me, Carlos reaches down and lovingly scoops up the boy, bananas and all. The child shoves the fruit so close to his father’s face that Carlos is forced to lean back to focus, and then he says, “They’re perfect. Good job.”

Before Carlos has a chance to turn, I abruptly change course and head toward the farthest checkout. All the while, my mind is rapid-firing questions. A son? He didn’t mention a son. But then we didn’t really have much of a conversation. Married?! Is Carlos married? If so, where’s the boy’s mother? This could change everything, making Carlos off limits. Shit!