Caught for Christmas (Stripped 3.50)

So I’m flat broke. I press my last five-dollar bill between my fingers, feeling my stomach turn over. Without glancing around, I toss the money inside the diaper pail. It’s shameful, and not only because I’m contributing so little money. It’s shameful because I know I’m going to do worse tomorrow night. I’m going to steal from this place. I’m going to betray their trust.

“Bianca!”

I jump at the sound of my name. It feels like everyone stops and turns to face me.

Amelie smiles and waves me toward her. “Don’t put that on the table. I want to see.”

Dumbly, I look down at the small package I’m holding. At least I could make this from the supplies in my apartment. I’m not sure I could have made myself show up empty-handed. “It’s nothing,” I manage to say. God, I wish no one was looking at me. “Just something I made.”

“You made this?” Amelie looks excited, and I curse myself in my head. Why did I say that? I meant that it’s small and probably not even pretty.

I try to back away while she rips into the tissue paper, but I’m trapped by people and baby clothes all around, forced to stand in the middle of the pile while my lame offering is exposed.

Amelie squeals as she pulls out the knitted hat—brown with little teddy bear ears. Cute, but it’s not like it was my idea or anything. I saw it once on a kid in a fancy stroller that looked like it belonged in the space age. That hat probably came from some ritzy store that I couldn’t afford. This hat I made myself. I enjoy knitting. It’s something to do with my hands when my body is too sore and tired to move.

“This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” Amelie says, sounding awed.

“It’s amazing,” Candy agrees. “I didn’t know you could knit. You’re so talented.”

It makes me blush and stammer that their praise seems genuine. I’m not used to that. I’m not used to doing anything right, actually. I prefer to stay in the edges, in the shadows, so that my inevitable fuckups don’t get witnessed by anyone else.

Everyone is witnessing this, though. The hat is getting passed around, with each person exclaiming over it and rubbing the yarn between their fingers.

“Do you take commissions?” Vivian asks. “I would love a scarf in this fabric.”

I’m not sure what I even answer. Something that sounds like yes but really means no. The truth is I’m not even going to be around long enough to make anything. Once I do the job tomorrow, I’ll have to run. That fact feels like acid on my skin. I would have loved to skip work today, but I couldn’t risk raising suspicion.

Then Amelie is standing, and before I can back away, she has her arms around me. It feels sweet—and painful, because I don’t deserve her gratitude. I don’t even deserve to be here.

I manage to extricate myself without causing a scene, and they’re already moving on to some game involving baby bottles.

My stomach feels like it’s going to claw its way out of my throat. Hunger? Okay, sure, but I already tossed my last five dollars into a diaper pail. Besides, as starving as I am, I’m not sure I could keep anything down.

I press my hand over my mouth and stumble out of the dressing room. I’m not even sure where I’ll go since the Grand opens in an hour, but I have to get out of here.

My eyes are on the floor, head down—so I don’t see the wall of masculinity in front of me until I slam into it. I know without looking that it’s him. West.

And God, it’s almost like I want to be caught by him. Like I want to be seen by him, because before I can remember to hide my eyes, I’m looking up. He can see the tears in my eyes.

Concern darkens his expression. “What’s wrong?”

I can’t even answer him. I can’t speak. I brush past him—he lets me. The dank outside air feels like freedom, but I know it won’t last for long. I’ll have to go back to dance, and he’ll be there. He’ll be waiting.

Chapter Four

I like dancing because of how honest it is. Trading sex for money has been around for centuries. Since the beginning of time, really. Cavewomen who bared their breasts, their bodies would have learned how to trade that for food and protection and warmth. The practice is still around today, part of every relationship—the endless transaction of pleasure and survival.

Stripping just brings it out in the open, makes the equation a little simpler for everyone to understand. This much for a lap dance and that much for a private show. It’s the opposite of a con because everyone knows what they’re going to get.

And that’s how I dance—sexual but also straightforward. Some people have called me emotionless. The ice queen. Oh, they’re probably right, but it doesn’t hurt my tips any.

Then Ivan gave the Grand to Candy, and she switched the place over to a burlesque theater. A little more flash, a little less flesh. The biggest difference is that I’m usually dancing with other girls. I have to admit, it’s kind of nice. There’s an energy to the group of us, a collective strength.

Then the song ends, and I’m alone again.

Up there I felt nothing but the burn of muscle and beat of music. Now I feel nothing but dread.