Page 7

SIX

The air is thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and perfume as I make my way down the dark hallway. When I reach the door to the dressing room to find Rachel, it swings open. The heavy scent of fruity body spray and imitation Chanel No. 5 perfume makes me grimace while two girls standing in the doorway wipe white powder off their noses.

I hate drugs.

Doctors repeatedly asked me questions that I couldn’t provide answers to, causing my fingers to tremble and my drool to fall down my chin from the drugs they had given me. It didn’t bring about any improvement in my mental state. All it did was make me lose control of my body, and I was barely able to stay awake.

“Oh, hi,” say the girl to my right, wearing a rainbow-colored wig. She elbows the girl next to her with black hair and says, “She’s new.”

“Where can I find Rachel?” I ask, hoping she is not among them.

“See, I was right,” Rainbow Hair says, turning away to stop at the mirror and check her nose. Lucky guess, it’s cocaine.

“She’s in the back, winding down, if you know what I mean,” the person with black hair says, stepping back to let me in.

“Thanks,” I reply, walking past them in search of Rachel. The smell of marijuana, sweat, and perfume makes my stomach churn.

The back of the dressing room is filled with clothing racks. Under the modern lights, different sets of makeup adorn the mirrors where two other girls sit, getting ready. A pile of platform heels in different sizes and colors is near a corner.

One of the girls spots me from the mirror as she dabs at the dark circles under her eyes with a beauty blender.

“I’m looking for Rachel,” I ask.

The blond girl seated next to her says. “Behind the curtain.”

I glance to my right, spot the curtain, and turn around, only to discover Rachel rubbing her finger over her gums.

“You must be Rachel.”

She tosses me a look, making a popping sound with her finger.

“Hank sent me.”

She points at the costume rack, smacking her lips. “The costumes on the left are clean.” If you wear it, you clean it. Buying your own is best. Don’t fuck the customers until you get to know them better, or they will get attached. Bring your own makeup because you don’t know where anyone’s mouth has been. Hank has a strict rule about drugs.” She glances at the girls behind me and says, “Not everyone follows the rules around here.” I want to point out that she doesn’t either, but I’m not there to judge. “If you do, don’t let Hank see you. If a girl is on a man’s lap, don’t steal them.” She takes a deep breath. “Around here, it’s like taking food from a baby’s mouth.” Her gaze drops to my feet. “I recommend heels. Men like a woman who screams sex when she walks. The goal is to make them think you’re down to fuck. If you choose to do so, that is entirely up to you. It’s not love. It’s not personal. Don’t let it be.”

“Got it,” I say, recognizing her as the girl on the stage when I walked in.

She walks to the clothing rack and slides the hangers across the shiny aluminum pole. She pauses for a second and whirls around. “Oh, I almost forgot. Don’t leave with the customers. We’re not responsible if something happens. We’re not your parents, and this is not a daycare.”

“I can handle myself.”

Her eyes sparkle with interest. “Feisty. I like it. Oh…” She pauses again. “Character Night is next week. We allow the customers to dress up. They can wear masks until Halloween.”

“That’s a month and a half away,” I point out.

“I understand, but this town is unique. We even have a haunted carnival and circus. The Circle of Freaks should be here by now.”

“What?”

“The circus,” she says quietly. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s a Stockbridge tradition dating back centuries. The Circle of Freaks comes to town every fall and leaves a week after devil’s night.”

“The circus is called Circle of Freaks?” I ask, confused, never having heard of them before.

I’d heard about the carnival when we moved after my mother married Chris, but I never heard of a circus called Circle of Freaks.

“Yeah, no one knows what goes on inside but the ones who can afford it. Some say it’s scary and awesome. But again, expensive as fuck.”

A shiver of excitement runs down my spine, like a child excited about going to an amusement park.

“Have you gone?” I ask with interest.

“To be fair, yes. The circus, no.” She sighs disappointedly. “Once they become available online, tickets sell out in sixty seconds. “You’re lucky to get tickets to the haunted carnival on any given night. The girls around here usually go early before they sell out. You can come with us if you want.”

“Oh,” I say, with a surprised edge to my voice, not used to being invited anywhere.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“I moved here when I was fourteen, left, and now I’m back.” I shift the conversation back to her. “And you?”

“I moved here three years ago. Tried a semester at Stockbridge University, and it didn’t work out. Now I work here.”

“They have a university?” I ask incredulously, never having heard about it before.

There is so much I don’t know.

“It’s a new school. Ivy League. It opened four years ago and keeps the rich small-town feel like the old days. The town has maintained its aesthetic, and Halloween is big around here. The only difference is that now you see electric cars and old homes equipped with keyless entry and smart cameras. Stockbridge is one of those small-town gems everyone wants to move to. I believe people find Stockbridge appealing because not many places like this exist. That’s why the rich don’t sell, and the poor can’t afford to live here, but like every other place, there’s the occasional run-down motel and strip club to hire broke bitches like us,” she says with a laugh. The modern lights accentuate the glitter on her tan skin.

“Thanks for the history lesson,” I say softly.

“Can you dance?” “Can you dance?” she asks, her green eyes wide with amusement. “Do you have a type of music you like to dance to?”

“So far. I enjoy listening to music from the ‘80s, ‘90s, and alternative rock genres.”

She nods as if she can hear the music in her head. “Not bad. It’s better than the auto-tune and AI-generated shit nowadays. The crowd will love the change. During mask night, they play Halloween-themed songs. Most of the girls here like it, so they don’t have to see the fucker’s faces when they give them a lap dance.” She slides four hangers off the rack and plucks one off. “Here.” She hands me a hanger with a black-and-white scrap of fabric. She walks over to where the accessories are and grabs a red piece of round foam. “This would look adorable on you, paired with your sneakers.”

I realize it’s a clown outfit, give her a small smile, and briefly look down at my shoes. “Thanks.”

Her brows pinch. “You look familiar.”

My stomach churns. The red piece of foam slips from my fingers. “I just moved back,” I say truthfully. I quickly pick it up and clench it in my fist. “I haven’t visited Stockbridge since I left years ago.”

“Oh, well… Welcome back,” she says awkwardly. “In that case, relax, walk around, and get to know the girls. Maybe get a feel for the customers. You’ll soon learn who the regulars are. Look cute. Collect a few tips. No pressure. You can dance tomorrow or the day after. Practice at home or whatever. Anyway, what’s your name?”

“Thank you, Rachel. Call me Trix.”

She points at the curtain. “Well, Trix. The changing room is back there.”

I put on the brand-new black-and-white-striped thong, fishnets, and garters. The matching bikini top covers my nipples and not much else. Stretchy strings essentially hold it together.

I sit in front of the mirror, looking around to find something that will cover my face so no one will recognize me without touching any of the makeup brushes or beauty blenders.

I find a tube of white face paint and apply it the best I can with my hands. Then take black eyeliner and draw a sinister smile over my mouth. I color my eyelids, draw a line on the bottom and top, and add a bit of red lipstick over the black with my finger to complete the look.

I disregard the two girls snorting cocaine and walk out of the dressing room through the dark hallway, scrunching my nose at the smell of stale perfume, smoke, and alcohol. I pause when I notice a petite woman serving at the bar wearing a corset.

Her black hair is so dark under the lights, it shines blue. Black eyeliner lines her eyes, her nose is small, and the highlighter she applied to her cheekbones glitters like tiny diamonds over her sharp cheekbones. She’s stunning. Her waist is small, positioned above her flared hips, and she wears ripped tights over toned thighs. Her tits aren’t done like the other girls currently waiting tables.

She’s different from the other girls. She doesn’t seem like she is on some type of drug. When she smiles at the guy seated at the bar, I notice it doesn’t reach her eyes. You can tell she doesn’t belong working in a place like this. Underneath the makeup and outfit is an innocence about her. And the man she’s serving at the bar can sense it the same way but for very different reasons.

I walk to the far left and sit, leaving two seats between me and the man babysitting his beer. He does a double take when he finally notices me, lowering his gaze to my exposed skin, causing the tiny hairs to rise in warning. His gaze continues southward, akin to a dull razor grazing my skin. But if I intend to earn money for a room tonight, I must handle this in my own way.

“What’s your name?” he asks above the thumping music.

“Whatever you want it to be,” I reply in a fake sexy voice.

I catch a glimpse of the girl behind the bar. The man smiles and tilts his head to openly stare at my tits. I want to slap him, but I can’t. It’s not like he’s being disrespectful. This is the perfect place for him to get away with his actions. I need to constantly remind myself that this is why men come here.

“I like that,” he says.

“I bet you do.”

“What should I call you?” he asks.

Is he dumb? He is free to refer to me as he pleases, as long as he refrains from touching me.

“Like I said, whatever you want it to be.”

“How about Harley?”

I lean across the bar, squeezing my tits together. “Is that the best you can come up with?” His eyes lift.

I arch a brow. “Harley?”

He leans close, one foot flat on the ground, still perched on his seat. I can see him better in the glow of the red lights under the bar. He has a goatee. His shirt is open at the throat, revealing a bit of chest hair the same color as the black hair on his head.

He could be my father, and if he knew what I did to the last one, he would run the fuck out of here and never come back.

“Do you like it?” he asks hopefully.

I meet his gaze. “I don’t need to like it. It’s what you want to call me.”

“Oh, I was hoping you did.”

“Why is that?” I ask.

His eyes dip to my chest. “You should like what a man calls you when he looks at you the way I am now.”

When he notices me staring at his wedding ring, I playfully tilt my head and smile. “You mean the way you look at your wife you have tucked away somewhere?”

“She’s not as captivating as you.”

“Is that what you tell all the women here?”

He shakes his head. “No, just you. You have an innocent look about you. Ingenuous.”

The bartender snorts, but he ignores her and acts like he didn’t hear it. I bet he told her the same thing.

I stare at him for a minute. The music changes to a techno beat, taking over the silence that stretches between us for a few seconds.

Then I laugh, tilting my head back as if he’s just shared a hilarious joke.

“What’s so funny?” he says with a jittery smile.

If he only knew who he was talking to.

My face grows serious. “That you think I’m innocent when I’m sitting almost naked at a bar.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and slides the money across the bar with two fingers toward me, stopping about halfway. “I think cash is always welcome. What would you do for it?”

My eyes drop to his hand holding the money hostage like I’m a dog desperate for a treat, and he knows it. But the thing about dogs is, if they’re hungry enough, they bite the hand that feeds them.

“It wouldn’t matter if I take it, would it?”

“And how would you do that?” he counters.

“You wouldn’t have taken it out if you hadn’t planned on giving it to me in a place where any other woman here would do anything for less.”

“Ingenuous and sharp.”

“How would you know? We just met.”

He smiles wide, but it’s crooked. Like someone punched his face hard enough and damaged it.

“Lucky guess.”

“Lucky isn’t what I would call it,” I say with disinterest.

Feeling bored, I lean back on the barstool and look around.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Nice try, asshole.

“I don’t drink while I work.”

“Need to be clear-headed,” he muses. “I respect that.”

This man doesn’t have an ounce of respect. I’m sure his wife believes he’s out working late while she’s slaving away in the kitchen preparing dinner, and he’s here offering me two hundred bucks. But she isn’t my problem.

If she knew who I was at this point, she wouldn’t be so nice, and I wouldn’t feel sorry for her.

Like Dr. Foster.

Every session, Dr. Foster dissembled, keeping his true intentions hidden underneath a professional smile while he tried to hide the hard-on in his pants as he sat opposite me. Dr. Foster harbored a fantasy. He wanted to fuck me because, in his mind, his cock was my savior. I could tell by the way he watched my hands or the way his eyes lingered on my crotch.

He hoped I would confess to what I did and why, but all I did was feed his fantasy while I served my sentence. In my mind, I was satisfied with the outcome. Chris deserved what happened to him. Maybe that makes me a killer. A monster with no remorse.

One thing I did learn from Dr. Foster and the others just like him was that their need to fix me had nothing to do with what I did. It was so they could feel less guilty for beating their dick when they thought of me.

Men will tell a thousand lies to achieve the euphoria they long for—a euphoria absent from their lives. They will do anything for it. Blur the lines. Cross them. Make up anything to justify what they want.

They perceive it as a necessary self-serving sacrifice. Then they cover it up, like a dog does to shit so it won’t stink. The man beside me exemplifies this.

Rolling my shoulders back, I push my chest out. Like I expected, his greedy eyes are on my breasts. I turn to face him again and ask, “What is your name?”

“Randy,” he says quickly.

The bartender walks over. My eyes flick to her. Her eyes dart to Randy. “Would you like to order anything else, Randy?” she asks.

He’s a regular.

I’m not surprised, but something is missing. Whatever he wants, he doesn’t want on the main stage, and it involves sex.

“No, I have everything I need right here.” My gaze falls on the bills he’s still pinning to the bar with his finger.

I glance at the bartender and give her a wink. “What do you do, Randy?”

“I’m a professor at Stockbridge University,” he says proudly, trying to impress me. “Do you attend?”

It’s Monday. College students aged twenty-one do not typically hang out at a strip bar on a Monday night.

“School wasn’t in the cards for me,” I say blithely.

His eyes fall between my legs, then back to my face. “I think you’ve found a better use of your time here.”

I smile seductively and reach for him, slowly drawing circles over his wrist, causing his hand to tremble. “I thought you said I was smart, Randy?” I lick my painted lips slowly while the bartender continues to watch me from the corner of my eye.

“I never said that.”

I pout. “But you said I was better here than at school,” I say in a little girl’s voice. “Isn’t that where smart people go? To school?”

He shakes his head slowly, but his eyes never leave my mouth. “I never said…”

“How old is your wife?”

“Thirty-five.”

“And you?”

“Forty-six.”

“Is she pretty?”

He nods.

“Does she know you’re here?”

He shakes his head.

“What do you want, Randy?”

“I want to fuck.”

“Hmm…your wife doesn’t fuck you, Randy?”

“It’s not her. It’s me,” he stammers. “I can’t.”

“Why?” I ask like I don’t care.

He closes his eyes briefly. Sweat coats his brow. “I can’t finish,” he admits.

“You mean your dick?”

He looks away shamefully. “Christ,” he mutters.

I continue to swirl my finger over his wrist and feel his pulse racing.

I tilt my head. “Tell me why you don’t finish.”

“I don’t find her attractive—not like I used to.”

Dick.

“Why? Is she fat?” I press, “Too old?”

“I think…” he says, looking to his right at the bartender, “about someone else.”

I’m betting the bartender goes to the same university where he teaches. It’s why he is here sitting miserably alone instead of throwing money at the stage or paying for a lap dance. Randy is picky. He likes innocence. That’s why he teaches. He wants to feel important. Doted. Like a king. One thing I learned in the psych ward was how doctors profiled their patients. Got in their head. Asked the right questions and observed. You can find the rest in a book on psychiatry.

I remove my hand and stand, causing him to jolt back in his seat. I sit beside him where the money is within reach.

I lean in and smell his cologne, similar to the one Dr. Foster wears. I’m sure he only wears it when he visits this place. My gaze settles on the visible patch of hair above his shirt, causing my stomach to tighten. I don’t like men with chest hair. It reminds me of Chris.

I lower my voice. “You think of her, don’t you?”

His throat moves when he swallows. He knows who I’m talking about. She’s watching Randy. But I know things. “When you fuck your wife, you think of her, but when you open your eyes and see your wife, you don’t finish. That’s why you’re here, hoping she’ll say yes.”

“Please,” he says in a shaky voice.

Something hot burns inside my veins. It’s thick and heavy, like a drug-induced high. A dark energy I didn’t know existed. My finger swirls over his crotch, his hard cock pushing at the seams. “Randy, Randy, Randy,” I sing-song. “What are we going to do with you?”

“I’ll do anything,” he says eagerly.

His cock pulses under my fingertip over his pants. Begging .

“Listen carefully.”

“Okay,” he says like he is a child I’m scolding.

“You’re going to go home and divorce your wife.” When I run my finger over the tip of his cock, he trembles, about to shoot his load. “You’re not going to come back here until you do. Then you can fuck whoever you want for whatever price you want to pay. Hard... and fast.”

He whimpers.

“If not”—I lean closer to his ear—“I’ll go visit your wife and crawl in your bed, and I’ll fuck her so good, she’ll divorce you anyway. In the end, you’ll be alone, and I’ll tell them not to let you in, and I’ll tell the school how you help your students after school.”

“Please, don’t,” he begs.

I pinch my fingers.

His eyes go wide.

I lick my lips. “Do it, Randy. I know you want to.”

“I do, but I want...”

I pinch his cock harder. “What do you want?”

“I want to fuck her.” He licks the sweat from the top of his lip. “I want to fuck you and her.”

He wants me and the bartender. What a stud.

“Wow,” I say brightly, glancing at the bartender hanging on every word. I turn back to Randy. “You have goals, but here’s some advice for you, Randy. Your students will never learn if you fuck them.” I squeeze the head of his cock hard. He emits a guttural groan. “Don’t come back until the divorce is final.” He nods, out of breath like he’d just finished a marathon and crossed the finish line.

Sweat drips down his forehead. He looks down at his crotch, then at me as I pick up the money.

I raise my brow as I roll up the two hundred-dollar bills. “You see, Randy”—I smile—“you can finish.”

He stares straight ahead as I slide off the barstool, done for the night, and head toward the changing room.