Page 63 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
"Get it together, Nelly," I muttered to myself, grabbing my purse and keys.
My errands today were simple: groceries, pharmacy for some pain relievers—since my stupid knee had been acting up again—and picking up a new-to-me work outfit from the dry cleaner's. Even preowned, the sequined two-piece had cost several hundred, but I’d learned a fresh stage fit was worth every penny. Like a new color, or new cut, or new section of skin peeking out, was enough to make me desirable to my Alpha audience again. The tips rolled in so easily every time I walked out in something they’d never seen before.
If only remaking myself was truly as easy as donning a sparkly tube top and miniskirt.
If only I could slip out of my skin and put on a new one to become someone completely different, someone who never came so close to achieving her dreams. Maybe then the past wouldn’t hurt so damn much.
But the aching pain of all I’d lost was softening day by day. I checked weekly on Grandmother. We didn’t talk directly now. It only seemed to upset her when I tried to tell her who I was, when I tried to get her to remember she had a grown granddaughter. I also couldn’t take the agony of it—realizing she was increasingly more trapped by her own mind, realizing all she wanted was her husband who’d been gone for months now.
Seattle was different.I was different.The time when I’d lost all hope of forging a new life was gone. Yet, also, the time whenI’d hoped of regaining my old life had drifted away too. I had zero thoughts now of trying to make a comeback. Swan Lake had well and truly dried up. The principal dancer inside my body and brain and soul had shriveled away.
In a strange, paradigm-shifting way, I wondered if I’d ended up where I was always destined to be—on a stage, but not the one I’d once envisioned; in a home, but not the childhood one I’d planned on keeping forever; making enough money to support myself and help my grandparents, only... cash was tossed at me like confetti and the people I’d desperately wanted to pay back for all of their sacrifices no longer needed me to.
Life.
Not a solid stage, expertly crafted and cleaned for balanced ‘slip and grip’.
It was shifting beach sand walked in unstable stilettos.
It was slick roads driven on tires with zero tread left.
It was unpredictable. Sometimes awful. Always leading us toward a future whether we wanted it or not.
A future that might include what once felt impossible—like stripping on a stage, which was exactly what I’d be doing later today.
17
NELLY
Four days ago…
[Almost present day]
Club Midnight, Seattle's Central District
Swiping my access card, I pushed through the back entrance of Club Midnight, the heavy door giving way to familiar darkness that smelled of cleaning solution and lingering perfume. My fingers immediately found the beaded bracelet at my wrist, a habit I couldn't shake. The skin beneath it was still slightly damp, which was good. The blocker needed to stay to work effectively, and I couldn't risk anyone discovering what lay beneath my carefully constructed façade. Not when Crystal had stuck her neck out to get it for me, and certainly not when this place represented the only dancing I might ever do again.
The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in an unflattering fluorescent glow that made the walls look sickly. I nodded to the back door bouncer, a mountain of a man whose name I'd never learned, as I clocked in. He barely acknowledged me; his eyes were fixed on his phone. That was fine. I’d ratherbe ignored than force small talk. I moved through the employee area of the club, heading towards the dressing area. The club always felt alive, though in daytime it was sleepier. It seemed to cloak around me each time I entered, and that feeling contrasted strangely with my final memory of Imperial. I could still close my eyes and hear the echoing hollowness as I walked out after getting my severance.
"Cutting it close tonight, Lucky," said the bartender as I passed the back service area. He was stacking glasses, his movements precise and economical. Lines of liquor were loaded onto a rolling cart, preparing for the night.
"Still fifteen minutes early," I replied, not breaking stride. The stage name still felt strange sometimes. Like I was being ironic, using it only because my life was anything but lucky.
“Fifteen minutes is cutting it close for you,” he observed.
“That’s because I’m pathologically punctual."
He laughed, the sound echoing off the empty glasses and bottles.
Arriving far earlier to work than necessary on most day was an old habit, just like the way I ate and the early hour I woke. Imperial always demanded perfection in everything, including timekeeping. Being fifteen minutes early there would have been considered late.
I moved into the changing area, the hum of music through speakers changing into the buzz of getting ready for business. Six women occupied the room, all in various stages of undress. The air was thick with hairspray, perfume, and nervous energy. Unlike the disciplined silence of ballet dressing rooms, this space absolutely shook with raucous laughter, shouted advice about makeup techniques, and music from several different phones creating a jumble of competing beats.
"There she is!" Crystal called out from her vanity. Her platinum blonde hair was piled high on her head; her eyesalready lined in dramatic black. "I was beginning to think you'd finally figured out you’re too good to strip. Maybe even got a better job offer.”
"From who? The Seattle Ballet?" I snorted, dropping my bag onto my chair. "I think that ship has sailed, crashed, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean."
A mixed-up pang of regret and grief shot through me. I pushed it away with practiced ease.
