Page 9 of Crossed
The club itself is two towns over in Coddington Heights, about an hour away from Festivalé. Close enough to get to but far enough to maintain anonymity without too much worry.
That’s not because I’m ashamed of what I do— quite the opposite, really. I just can’t risk Parker finding out where I work. If he knows, he’ll ruin it, just to make me depend on him more.
And that’s not something I want to deal with.
But I love exotic dancing.
Ienjoyseeing the lust in people’s eyes when they watch me onstage, using the hollow steel pole as a blank canvas while I paint my body around it like a brushstroke. And I especially like the way it feels to control my sexuality, bleeding money from the people who come to watch. Counting and wrapping the stacks of bills at the end of the night sends a rush through me, one that feels a hell of a lot like success— no matter how fleeting the feeling is. I’ve been objectified for as long as I can remember, puberty hitting me early and showcasing just how little people care for a girl’s age as long as she’s aesthetically pleasing to their baser instincts. It’s one of the many reasons my own mother was a piece of shit. She was a bitter woman, one who couldn’t handle both an autistic son she never wantedanda well-endowed daughter who garnered more attention simply by existing.
If it was random people on the street, she got annoyed. When it was the men she’d bring to our home, she’d get jealous.
When I was young, the subtle jokes and leering glances made me afraid. But once I became a nineteen-year- old left to care for myself and Quinten, I learned that it’swomenwith the real power, only most women don’t realize it. I did. I mastered how to utilize everything in my arsenal, so now I’m the one in control. At least in all the areas that I can be.
It’s the main reason why I don’t date. Have zero interest in the opposite sex, actually. I’ve spent my entire life witnessing what happens when you get close with a man through the lens of my mother, and it’s always the same.
Hearts in the eyes, can’t eat, can’t sleep kind of infatuation. Flowers and gifts and “Oh,thistime, it’s different, baby girl. He’s the one.”
Then come the sharp words, the bitter fights, the sound of fists hitting faces. The late- night crying and the need to have your daughter take care ofyouinstead of the other way around.
And then, finally, the disappearance. Packing up and leaving when you realize the man you fell for isn’t the man you thought he was at all.
My mother was a nomad at heart, and it was damn near impossible for her to stay still long enough to dig her heels into the ground. The second she started to sink in too deeply, she’d rip herself away, and I was the unfortunate luggage that got dragged along while she looked for something that always seemed just out of reach.
I wonder if she’s still searching now that she’s been without us.
Realistically, she’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere, suffocated by her vices or one of the men she claimed to love.
When I was little, I’d pretend that I was a lost princess, stolen away from my castle and toted from place to place, hidden away on purpose so my fictional parents, ones who would love me right, wouldn’t be able to track me down. It was comforting, thinking there were people out there desperate to find me. As I got older, I stopped seeking out my imagination and started watching my mother instead. Easier to be prepared that way.
Similar to religion, her patterns never changed.
When her smile started to thin and the flowers turned into ice packs, I knew it was time to leave.
Chantelle Paquette could only take so much abuse, only get insodeep with the men she thought loved her, before she’d sneak us off in the night like criminals slipping through metal bars. Another city. Another man. Same neglectful parenting.
But experience shapes us whether we’d like it to or not, and theexperiencesshe gave me were valuable lessons.
I learned to not plant roots when you wouldn’t be around to tend to the soil.
How to care for my brother by remembering all the ways I wished she had cared for me.
Most importantly, I learned not to trust anyone who says they love you, because in the end, they always love themselves the most.
And despite all that, despite me seeing it happen with her time and time again, I never in all my life thought she would leaveme.
But things changed once she had Quinten.
I shake the memories away. I’llneverbe like her.
My ratty black high- tops crunch on the gravel in the parking lot of the club, and I head toward the employee entrance that’s situated in the back, my leggings, ball cap, and oversize hoodie engulfing me in its fabric.
Benny, one of the bouncers, is standing outside, his bulky frame and curly hair casting a shadow from the yellow streetlamp hovering above the door. There’s not much to watch, but there is a back alley that’s hidden from the exterior cameras and connects to the main street, so usually someone’s out here just to make sure nothing goes awry.
He gives me a nod and moves, unlatching the door handle so I can slip inside.
I smile my thanks before the door latches behind me, and I head down the hallway, the shiny linoleum floors squeaking beneath my sneakers as I head into the back room.
The other dancers are lounging around, each one taking up their own vanity, adjusting themselves as they either rest between their sets or get ready. I know most of them by appearance, but that’s it. I’m not sure I’d notice them on the street, and in any case, none of them are chummy with me.
