Page 29 of Master
Holy shit!
“Oh my God, that’s a Ponderosa pine!”
“The tree?” Tarook followed my gaze, seeking the reason for my excitement.
I jumped to my feet, intent on getting a closer view of the rusty orange tree trunk. I imagined the dead snake-rat falling out of the upper branches and upon my head, and reconsidered.
“It’s from Earth." I let my gaze travel up the sturdy trunk and over the stout, light green needles that grew in tuft-like groupings. “Pine is one of the more populous species of trees on Earth as it adapts to most climates. I glanced about, my eyes growing wider as I pointed to another tree. “That one is a sugar pine, and the one over there is—I think—a loblolly pine.” The ground shrubs were sparser here, the undergrowth impeded by a layer of shed brown needles.
When I glanced back, Tarook held his arms crossed across his chest, his face a mask of respect. "You seem quite knowledgeable. Did you work with trees on Earth?”
"Kinda," I shrugged. "I was a high school science teacher."
"So, you know about trees." He reiterated, retrieving our packs and setting us back on the path.
“Some," I said and laughed. "The curriculum touched on many subjects—chemistry, biology, astronomy, physics, geology, meteorology. I taught a little of everything. My favorite was the study of plants, a science called botany.”
"Your parents must be very proud of you. In my world, being an educator is a greatly respected.”
I liked how the Vaktaire considered teachers, but still shrugged. I would never know what my parents thought or who they were for that matter.
The path narrowed further, causing Tarook to step into the lead, cutting away obstacles with his massive knife. Just as well, I didn't want to talk about my life in foster care. I hated the pity that always painted the faces of those I told, and I couldn't stand the idea of Tarook looking at me like that.
And sadly, my story was better than most.
I remembered nothing of my true parents. When I entered foster care at age two, most expected me to be adopted easily. That wasn't the case. Even as a toddler, I found connecting with and trusting people hard. None of my foster families were necessarily cruel. They just didn't want to invest in a child who learned early on—the only person I could depend on was myself. In the sixteen years I spent in the foster care system, I went through five different families. The day I turned eighteen, my foster mother—a rather self-absorbed bitch named Leigha—met me at the door holding a packed suitcase. She wished me luck, closing the door in my face with a resounding slam.
I had it better than most. I'd saved enough money from a part-time job during high school to pay a few months’ rent on a small, crappy apartment. I did a little of everything to survive… waiting tables, being a cashier at Walmart, the nighttime janitor at an office building, and donating blood. Sleeping four hours a day and living off Ramen noodles, I still had trouble paying rent. The dream of going to college and making a better life for myself seemed impossible.
When one of my co-workers told me about his sister's job, mentioning she made six figures, I listened. When he mentioned he thought me prettier and sexier than his sister, I thought he was attempting to hit on me.
He was trying to warn me.
I attended the interview on Thursday afternoon and went to work on Friday night. For a solid week, I threw up after every shift.
After the first month, when I made more than a solid year of working my three part-time jobs combined, I compartmentalized my new gig as a means to an end.
Still, it wasn’t easy to call myself a stripper.
I wasn't like the other girls. I only worked the pole and made my patrons strictly observe the no-touch rule. Some girls turned lap dances into something more for bigger tips. Not me… not ever. Stripping meant college and a better life. Except for the bare living expenses, every dime I earned went toward my education. I gave none of the patrons a second glance.
Except for Curtis.
He first came to the club celebrating his college roommate's impending nuptials. Curtis was eleven years older than me and blushed the first time he caught my eye. I intended to treat him like any other patron, but Curtis returned once a week for six months until I finally agreed to go out with him. It was how he looked at me—like he saw my soul, not just my gyrating body.
The day I graduated from college, Curtis proposed, and I accepted. Six months later, we moved from Florida to Athens, Georgia, hoping I would never have to face the embarrassmentof my past. Not even the Outlander gals knew my history as a stripper. In hindsight, my past on the pole certainly helped me deal with being sent to the hedonism ship. Who’d have thought I’d look back on those years with anything but shame?
“What was your life like on Earth? Do you have a mate?” Tarook’s sudden question sounded awkward, as though he felt the silence too much to bear. He glanced back at me, and I noticed a darker tan coloring his cheeks.
"A mate? We call them husbands on Earth, and yes, I had a husband. His name was Curtis. He died a few years ago."
The tension that resided on Tarook's shoulders dissipated as I spoke. Was he asking for more than just making idle conversation?
“Did he die in battle?”
“In a way,” I sighed, sadness gripping my heart. “He had pancreatic cancer.”
Tarook slowed to walk beside me as the path widened, his face tinged with confusion.
