Chapter One
Carolyn
The lingerie looked a heck of a lot better than I thought it would. It was cheap, of course, because I couldn’t afford anything more expensive. It was sluttier than I would ordinarily wear, too. It wasn’t sweet and sexy with an elegant thread count and a beautiful sort of class to it.
This stuff was to lingerie what big platform stripper shoes were to regular high heels. This stuff screamed dirty, depraved sex. So, I was surprised that I still looked cute wearing it. At first glance, it was just a regular bra and panties set, along with a garter belt and stockings. A closer look, though, revealed the fabric was transparent.
I supposed that could still have been classy in the right circumstances, but—in this case— the lace over the bra was expressly made to make my nipples and the entirety of my pussy visible. It highlighted them. It covered all around them and made them more prominent. This stuff was designed to reduce whoever wore it to her sexual organs.
On one level, I imagined that, on rare occasions, it could be a fun thing to spice things up. The problem was that kind of assumed a relationship and what was going on wasn’t a relationship. I took another look in the mirror and sighed.
“You can do this,” I said.
But I couldn’t.
I went outside, and saw my landlord, Timmy Hortz, naked and excited on the couch. He’d always seemed like a nice enough guy. He wasn’t ugly or anything. He was just a typical middle-aged guy. He took one look at my face and stood up, covering himself up.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” he said.
He grabbed his pants and pulled them up. “I can’t let you stay, here,” he said. He reached into his wallet and pulled out three bills. “I’m sorry. I should have never have let you suggest this. You’re a nice girl. You don’t need this.” He handed me sixty dollars and said, “Here. You have to move out tomorrow, but this should get you a motel for tomorrow night. It’s all I can do.”
Twelve hours later, and with all my stuff packed into the back of my little sedan, I drove away. As much as I needed a place to stay, I couldn’t bring myself to screw the landlord. He had seen it, before I had even tried. He didn’t pitch a fit at all and was very nice, but he didn’t budge. The apartment was furnished, so there wasn’t any furniture involved, but stuff still filled my car.
He waved me down and gave me another forty. “I hope that gives you two nights,” he said. As I drove away, I thought about how he hadn’t suggested anything like what I’d tried to do. I brought it up. I was the one who grabbed the lingerie at the sex store, in the little strip mall by the gas station I always used.
I always screwed things up. Always.
I drove away from that apartment building with nothing but a gas card my brother sent me for Christmas that probably had forty dollars on it and the hundred dollars in cash. Well, in terms of spendable money, that was what I had. In terms of items with no cash value, I had my clothes. In terms of items with no value at all, I had my guitar.
That darned guitar!
I didn’t make it. I didn’t hit the big time. I didn’t get signed to a record label. Nobody saw me in any of the gigs I played and changed my life, the way you read about in all of the music magazines. None of that happened. Instead, I stopped just short of screwing my landlord to keep a roof over my head. On the bright side, that probably meant I’d be much better at singing the blues.
I felt about as horrible as I could feel, and I particularly felt bad about what I had tried to do to Timmy. He was a nice guy, and even though he owned the apartment building, he wasn’t rich. There were only ten apartments, and it barely broke even. It was falling apart, as well. Any profit he might have made in the past three months had been eaten up by my not paying rent.
The worst part about it was he probably would have worked out me paying the back rent over several months, if I hadn’t asked to screw him instead, to stay another month. He didn’t want to, but I begged and begged. I didn’t want to either, of course. It was an all-around bad situation, but – of course – all around bad situations were essentially the story of my life.
My phone rang suddenly, and I didn’t recognize the number. I almost swiped to send it to voicemail, but – ultimately – how much worse could this day get?
I answered, “Hi there.”
The voice on the other end was deep and seemed to rumble through me from my ear down to my toes. “I’m looking for Rollie Carter,” he said. “Do I have the right number?”
“That’s me,” I said. “Childhood nickname. Except it’s not Roll-ee. It’s pronounced Rawlee.” I realized I was almost on the brink of tears and I hoped it didn’t show in my voice.
It did. “Did I get you at a bad time?”
“No,” I said. “Or at least, there really won’t be a good time for a long time. Who’s this?”
“My name is Carl Fontaine,” he said. “Are you available for a gig?”
“A gig?” The disbelief in my voice must have been apparent to him.
“I saw a video of you playing at the Cat and Mouse Club. It blew me away. I’d like you to play at my club.”
“Play at your club?”
“Six-month contract, five nights a week. What do you say?”