Five Ways to Fall

It’s still dark when I bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, struggling for air, shaking with disgust. That’s the second time I’ve had that nightmare.

No, not nightmare. Memory. Because it happened.

Exactly. Like. That.

Thank God it had ended with me throwing on my dress—skipping the bra—and running out the door. But, if Cain doesn’t hire me for this job, the nightmare may very well have a new ending soon. I need this job. It has to be Penny’s.

“You’re a skeevy bastard!”

At least I have some entertainment from my neighbors.

If I can piece together the last five days at this place, it sounds like the guy has issues keeping his pants on with any and all willing females and the couple is trying to work their marital problems out with verbal abuse and flying objects. They usually make up by noon. Then I get to listen to them have wild monkey makeup sex. Today sounds more hostile, though, so I think she caught him in another compromising position last night.

I moved to this small studio apartment two weeks ago. With its sunny-colored stucco walls and red tile roof, the building looked approachable. Cozy, even. It was the low rent that won me over, though. The extended-stay hotel was costing thousands per month and, though Sam ensured I had more than enough to cover it, I decided that the whole I-need-enough-money-to-disappear-off-the-face-of-the-earth plan required extreme changes to my lifestyle. So, I quietly moved here. As far as Sam knows, I’m still at the extended stay.

Right now, I really wish I were.

Maybe I went a little too extreme.

Something loud hits the wall next to my bed. I’m picturing a skillet. I’m hoping it’s not a head. I’d call the cops and report it, but I don’t need them on my doorstep asking me any questions or taking my name. So I wait, crossing my fingers that someone else makes the call.

As I do, I check for any responses to my many chat-room inquiries. I know that I need a new identity. I just don’t know the first thing about getting one. The internet seems like the best place to start my research. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Not even a little nudge in the right direction. Aside from one guy telling me that my problems can’t be that bad and another one offering to send me pictures of his penis, I’ve had no response.

And today . . . nothing.

But I have time to figure things out, I tell myself. It’s not as if I have the money right now, anyway.

Dragging myself out of bed to the tune of “you and your filthy dick can go straight to hell!” I stagger to the fridge to pour myself a glass of orange juice, keeping an eye on the liquid as it pours. I learned the hard way that roaches are common in low-rental apartment buildings, that they can get into a poorly maintained fridge, and that you should stick to screw-top jugs versus cartons or you may find brown corpses floating inside.

The day I learned that hard lesson, I also had a mini-meltdown before coming to terms with my situation. I’d rather deal with roaches here than roaches in a federal penitentiary for the next twenty-five to life.

This is a means to an end.

I’m savoring the cold liquid, rejoicing in the small miracle that I feel less vile about last night after some sleep, when a sudden hard rapping sounds against my door. It startles me and I freeze, my mouth full of juice.

No one visits me. No one knows where I live. This must be a mistake.

But what if it isn’t? What if Sam found out that I moved? I don’t think he’ll be happy. He’s always saying how important it is for us to tell each other the truth. Ironic, given that we speak in code and never truly admit to anything. What will Sam do when he finds out? The prospect makes my heart begin racing. On tiptoes, I scurry to the door and peer through the tiny peephole to find a dark-haired man with sunglasses on.

Holy shit.

It’s Cain.

What is he doing here? Crap . . . my application. I gave him this address. I didn’t think he’d use it.

I jump back as his fist rattles the door with another knock, followed quickly by, “Hi, Charlie.” There’s no inflection at the end, so he knows I’m standing on the other side of the door. He must have seen me move past the peephole.

“Uh . . . just a minute!” I call out, my eyes frantically scouring the apartment, my heart—already racing—ready to explode. I catch my reflection in the closet-door mirror.

“Shit!”

I don’t have a stitch of makeup on and my hair is a straight, matted mess after my shower last night. He’ll see exactly what I look like, with the added bonus of dark circles under my eyes. I don’t want him to see the real me. He needs to see Charlie. Confident, well-put-together twenty-two-year-old pole-dancing diva Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. But I also can’t leave him standing out there for half an hour while I hide myself behind a mask of smooth curls and heavy kohl liner.

I can at least get dressed, I note, taking in my thong and tiny white tank top. Not that he hasn’t seen me in less. Throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a more presentable tank top, I take a second to hide the assortment of wigs I use for drops under my sheets. With one last cringe at the state of my apartment, I finally open the door.

Damn. Cain looks different. Not that he didn’t look good before, but he looks younger today—more relaxed—dressed in dark blue tailored jeans and a white golf shirt, untucked, made of that thin material that hangs so nicely off curves and muscles. And Cain has a lot of nice curves and muscles. His hair is combed back but a little messier, with wispy ends circling out around his neck.

I can’t peg his age. He’s one of those guys who could be twenty-five . . . or thirty-five. There’s a hardness in his jaw and sharpness in his gaze that you don’t get with youth. Plus, he’s a successful businessman who runs a popular strip club. He has to be in his mid-thirties.

Whatever age he is, Cain is hot.

Sam was twenty-five years older than my mom when she married him. He didn’t look anything like Cain does, but she certainly found something extremely appealing in him. Hopefully something aside from his money. I have only faint memories of my mother, but I do remember her smiling a lot after Sam came into our lives. I wonder if she’d still be smiling. I wonder if I’d even be in this situation, had she not died.

I’ve never been attracted to an older man before, but I think Cain is the kind of “older guy” I could be with. Dating Cain is not on the table, though. Right now, I don’t know if having Cain as my boss is even on the table.

I am certainly not on the table, given my need to stay under the radar until I can vanish in a few months.

I need to stop thinking about Cain and tables.

I can feel his stare at me from behind those sunglasses. I can only imagine what he’s thinking right now. I know I look completely different. Younger. I hope he doesn’t start questioning my identity . . .

Shit!

My eyes. I forgot to put in my contacts.

I exhale ever so slowly. It’s too late to do anything about it now. Maybe he won’t notice. He is a guy, after all.

Cain slides his sunglasses off and settles those coffee-colored eyes on me, offering a warm smile. The first one I’ve seen from him. “I hope you don’t mind me swinging by.” Lifting the Starbucks tray he’s carrying, he adds, “Cold and hot options. Ginger said you were a caffeine junkie?”

He’s certainly much less intense than he was the first night I met him. His voice is softer, too. And it’s sweet of him to ask Ginger about my preferences. I can’t help but be suspicious that this coffee buffet is his way of lessening the blow that I suck as a stripper and don’t have a job. That I’ll be heading back to Sin City or some other seedy club to perform lewd acts for management. Ginger confirmed that Rick’s not the exception in the sex trade industry. Maybe Cain would still let me bartend, at the least.