Snare: Road Kill MC (A Novel) Page 3

  Whatever, it took me three years to climb the strip ladder. I'm not blowing it. Pays the bills and then some. I barely made it when I was pregnant with Jaylin, and I'm not going to quickly forget those days.

  I hike my huge purse on my shoulder, turning in her direction. “Lola—I can't talk, gotta get Jaylin.”

  She hikes the extreme arch of her eyebrow, a very 1940s old-movie-star look. Actually, Lola is a little obsessed with anything from the era. Big band, Marilyn Monroe, she digs it.

  I cross my arms. “What?”

  “Can you feed Rex?”

  I'm instantly suspicious. “Why?”

  “I got a date. I told you about him, remember?”

  I nod. I don't like Lola's dates very much. Don't date the Dicks. They can watch, they can give us the green, but don't date them. My voice is flat as a pancake. “You're dating a Dick.”

  Lola pulls an offended face. “Uh-huh. But he's different.”

  I lean forward. “They're all the same. It's a feather in their cap to date a dancer. Date a Penis, not a Dick.”

  She covers her mouth, but giggles escape, her platinum-blond hair bouncing at her shoulders.

  All the strippers call the clients Dicks. If they aren't patrons, they're Penises. It's easy. Same anatomy, different motivation.

  It's simple to me, anyway. But Lola does a lot of VIP work. Small rooms in the back where we do private dances. It scares the tar out of me, but it's where the real money's at.

  Money I might need.

  Jaylin starts kindergarten this fall, and I got her on the list for an exclusive, foreign language immersion school. She's at the top of the list. Tested gifted and she's a minority. I hated to pull the race card, but as a single mom, I need every advantage for my baby girl. And Native American female hits a lot of privilege buttons.

  I gulp down the pang of sadness. The lump of regret sticks in my throat. I need a moment to get over myself.

  “I'll feed Rex,” I say. After all, Lola and I live in the same building. And if she doesn't have a guy over, I let her watch Jaylin when I have a date. I keep seeking other men. I don't find what I'm looking for. They’re all compared to Snare. And fall short.

  I straighten. “When do you think you'll be home?”

  “Jesus, Mom.” Lola winks, her hazel eyes sparkling. It's her best feature. Not as a dancer but as a human being. All her humor and interesting personality can be seen in those twin windows of amber and green. She's an open book.

  Me, not so much.

  She lifts a bony shoulder. “I don't know, ʼho.” She leans forward, her hand on my shoulder, and looms. Her height of five nine towers over my five foot three. “I have another blind date for you.” She squeezes my arm, expectant.

  I begin to turn away, tipping my cell out of the front pocket of my jeans. I glance at the time. Ten minutes. “No,” I say with a laugh and start to walk toward the employeesʼ back entrance.

  “You're going to wear out those batteries on that thing!” she yells loud enough that she announces my rub-out schedule to whoever's listening. God.

  I flip her off without turning around as I slam the glass door open with my palm.

  Lola's laughter follows me into the cold early spring sunshine glinting off the cement sidewalk and warming the cobblestones beyond. Only a sliver of bright light slices between our cars lined up in the back alley. The buildings cause artificial shadow to darken the long, narrow space. We have permits to park here between the buildings, but service trucks have taken off two mirrors on my Fiat in the last year alone.

  I don't bother to fix it anymore. Cars don't matter, living in downtown Seattle. The only reason I have one is so I can run Jaylin to ballet and preschool.

  I ease into my car, wedged between the dumpster and the restaurants that line the street. Beyond them, Puget Sound sparkles in icy-gray glory, mirroring the glare of sunshine that can't bust the typical pewter overcast of late winter in the Pacific Northwest.

  I'd do almost anything to have some actual sunshine.

  I pull out in traffic so deep I have to wait for the kindness of someone to let me in. Takes awhile.

  I glance at my cell twice. Late again. Another ten bucks I can't afford.

  Lola's words come back to me.

  “What's a blow job, Kitty? Just suck a guy off, get a few hundred. It makes all the difference. And—don't tell me you weren't sucking off every swinging dick with the other low-end clubs before you got The Crawl gig.”

  “No,” I'd whispered, thinking of all the times I gave Snare a blow job. We'd tried so hard to keep our hands off each other. Tried so hard to do everything but sex. In the end, all it did was prime us to do it, and we ended up in that closet, his body owning mine and me letting it. “I didn't suck any of them off.”

  Lola had narrowed her eyes to disbelieving slits. “Everyone does VIP. Nobody gets to The Crawl if they haven't been on their hands and knees.”

  I nodded. That's usually true. That's why I was almost four years everywhere else. I could have been at The Crawl two years ago if I'd been willing to do VIP. “I was four years, working those dives before I got here. In a few years, I'll be too old.” Late twenties is ancient in this biz. Hell, at twenty-three, I've got maybe five more years of prime earning time.

  Lola had cradled her breasts in her hands like a push-up bra. “Well, I'm working this gig until Thorn tosses me out.”

  I smiled, she'd smiled.

  It is what it is.

  I already feel bad enough for leaving Snare. I can't accept pay to do sexual stuff. I work out almost two hours a day to stay in perfect shape. Eat next to nothing and choreograph my own dance routines. I'm good. And I know it. I rose through the ranks of the shit titty bars because I just work that hard.

  I don't tell Lola why I don't have to do extras. It's not my role in this life to make people feel bad because they'll do something I won't. I'm saving everything for my baby. Snare's daughter.

  Our daughter.

  She deserves the best. I couldn't pay Snare back for everything he saved me from, but I can do right by Jaylin.

  I'm just hoping the final price is something I can pay.

  *

  Schools always smell the same. Jaylin's doesn't smell any different than how I remember from when I was little.

  Walking through the halls, I notice there aren't any kids. All the parents have picked up their children. I'm the only irresponsible one of the group.

  I move through the classroom door, and Jaylin catches sight of me in the doorway. She squeals.

  Looking at her squeezes my heart so painfully I can barely breathe. Jaylin looks achingly like Snare. Black hair, incredibly bright blue eyes, dusky skin. They could be twins.

  But where he's rugged and broad—strong and tall—Jaylin is delicate, fine-boned. Of course, she's not five yet, but she's dainty like me. I'm small boned, but I'm toned.

  Jaylin's got enough energy for us both. “Mommy!” she cries, running to me.

  I sweep her into my arms as soon as she's within arm's reach. “Hey, monkey.” I cradle her against me. “How was your day?” I kiss the tip of her nose.

  “Fabulous!” she says.

  I wink. She has her daddy's brains too. Every word is used with enthusiasm.

  Glancing up, I see the cool eyes of her teacher regarding me with at best, disdain, at worst, judgment. I've sure seen that a lot.

  “Ms. Reynolds?” she calls out, her voice like frost on grass.

  I let Jaylin slide down the front of me, and I tap her on her nose with my finger. It's pink because she's getting over a cold. Dammit.

  I stand, automatically straightening my maxi skirt over my legs. After digging around in my purse, I pull out Twenty Yawns. It's a little too young for her, but it’s Jaylin's favorite book. There are a few things I splurge on.

  “Will you read this while Mommy talks to Teacher?”

  Jaylin nods, her brilliant blue eyes big with wonder. When we drive to ballet, I'll hear all about h
er day.

  “I have something for you, Ms. Reynolds.”

  I nod. I know what's coming. A big, fat bill. There's been a bunch of tardiness this month. I can't make it here to pick Jaylin up on time. I'm still being trained at The Crawl. I have to pay my dues. I can't say, “Sorry, boss man, can't make the routine because I gotta pick up my kid.” We all have obligations.

  Sometimes, mine seem like more.

  “Yes, Ms. Cronin?” I keep my face blank when what I really want to do is cry.

  She flips her palm out, and I frown. I know what the overage bills look like. This envelope is creamy, thick. Final.

  I take it from her, and she folds her hands behind her back.

  “What is this?”

  “That is a dismissal notice.”

  I jerk my face up from staring at the envelope. “What?” I ask. My head feels hot, and my palms dampen the expensive paper between my fingers.

  “The contract for enrollment at our institution states that excessive late pickups is grounds for dismissal. After all, Ms. Reynolds, actions speak louder than words.”

  The effort to hold tears back makes my chest tight. My throat burns. “I love my child, Ms. Cronin,” I choke out.

  She lifts her hand, squeezing my arm. “I'm sure you do, Kitty, but your lifestyle disallows punctuality.”

  I tear my arm from her grasp. “What does my work have to do with this?” I raise the thick envelope in my hand, wanting to smack her in the face with it. “I pay on time. I pay the overages. I've begun a new job...”

  “Yes, I see from your updated file that you work at The Crawl now.”

  Heat rushes to my face, and I know my fair skin reveals my shame. I don't need words. It's there, painted on me in red. I'm a stripper. I swallow my pride. “There's only two months left at school. I don't have any other arrangements for Jaylin.”

  We turn and look at her. Her little rosebud mouth silently moves, sounding out the letters to make words.

  I whip back to face Cronin.

  She retreats a step. “I'm sorry. You should have considered that more closely when you were late to fetch her.”

  Silent tears roll down my cheeks. I can't lose this job. I have a one-year lease on my apartment, and I just paid every bit of extra money to Jaylin's college IRA. If I dip into that, the penalties will take all the benefits of what I'm trying to do for her.

  Cronin turns away, purposely signaling the end of our conversation.

  My breath hitching, I spin and march to where Jaylin sits.

  “Oh, and Ms. Reynolds?” Cronin calls out, using the false name I've given her. The one I've given everyone so I can never be found.

  I don't speak. I just stare her down. “I've withdrawn my reference for Progressive People.”

  My belly does a slow flip. “You can't do that,” I say.

  Cronin folds the papers and slides them inside a slim laptop case. “I’m sorry. Though Jaylin is gifted, I’m afraid that is the sort of institution that aspires to fill its confines with children of parents who are forward thinking enough that punctuality is the most rudimentary consideration.”

  “Pulling out four-dollar words doesn't mean you're smarter than me, Ms. Cronin.” My voice comes out bruised, and I can't help that. “It just means you're less kind.”

  I take Jaylin's hand, and we walk out the door. My lip trembles, and I bite it, something I haven't done since I hid from Riker and bit it to stay quiet. I use the maneuver now to bottle the emotions threatening to overflow.

  I walk swiftly, passing car after car. We get to my beat-up Fiat, and Jaylin silently opens the back door and pops in.

  “Why you cry, Mommy?” her small voice asks quietly.

  We've moved a lot. Usually my crying signals something.

  “We staying in our house, Mommy?” The voice is scared now. It causes my tears to become a blurry river. I hate that voice. The voice of my child not being secure because I can't provide what would make her feel that way.

  I nod quickly, too quickly. “We're staying,” I manage.

  “Why Mommy cry?”

  “Because”—I capture her eyes in the rearview mirror—“Mommy is late too much to pick you up from school, and Teacher said I have to take you somewhere else.”

  There, I've said the awful thing, revealed the truth of my inadequacies.

  Jaylin opens the door as I huddle in the front seat, crying jagged pieces of my heart out.

  She comes in beside me and takes my hand.

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  My four-year-old gives me comfort. Comfort I don't deserve.

  I grab onto her like a lifeline.

  It's her father I miss. Snare would make this all go away. But I love him too much to wreck his life.

  We sit like that for a long time.

  Finally, when half of Jaylin's ballet class is over, we pull out.

  I almost miss a man sitting on a shiny black bike. The beast of machinery is chromed to the hilt. He doesn't look like he's doing anything but hanging out in the preschool parking lot. That's the thing, though. He looks out of place.

  My eyes sweep the bike, landing on him. His gaze follows my little car as Jaylin bounces up and down in the backseat. My tears are forgotten as she proceeds with tales of school that day.

  If only I could get rid of my sadness that easily.

  My eyes move back to the guy on the bike. The man is huge. His long golden-brown hair is tied at his nape. His hard, pale eyes are like chilled fog and never look away from our car.

  He blows smoke rings in the air. One after another.

  I shiver, hitting my turn signal and pulling out into traffic. A few seconds pass, and I flick my eyes at the rearview mirror.

  He's gone.

  The breath that I'm holding eases out. I've gotta get a handle on my emotions. Nerves are screwing with me. New job, Jaylin's school issues. I don't normally look at a stranger and get a vibe that shakes me to my core.

  Sometimes there's an indefinable presence about someone. That man had it.

  And somehow, it reminds me of Snare.

  5

  Snare

  “Works at The Crawl in downtown.” Pictures flow out of Noose's hands like playing cards, flipping onto the banquet-sized tabletop of the place where we meet for church. Me and the brothers circle the table as photos of Sara flutter down on the solid, polished wood.

  Hurts to look at her. Makes something deep inside squeeze into a tight shitty ball.

  Noose has some shots of her working her body in the club. Fucking perfect tits, hot ass—fuck. I scowl. Noose is bright enough to make sure she's wearing clothes when the brothers see her in these shots. I'm disturbed by the pictures. Mainly because I pop a fucking boner from the get-go. And because Sara looks way too thin. I remember Sara having soft curves. This girl? I can count every rib.

  And what bites my ass the most is the fact that my stepsister is a fucking stripper.

  Whistles all around.

  My eyes cut across the group. “Shut the fuck up.” I seethe. “This is my sister you're fucking fantasizing about.”

  They shut up. Except Noose. “The one you fucked?” His voice is soft in the sudden silence.

  Every man's eyes find mine. Heat climbs my neck. Feels like someone could light a match and I'd blow up like a bomb. I glare at Noose.

  He grins back.

  I hold up a palm. “Stepsister,” I correct.

  Viper, our prez, wheezes out a breath. “Thank fuck because I'm for a lot of sick shit, but dipping your wick in your own flesh and blood is not okay.”

  Storm speaks up. “Fuck it, I did my cousin.”

  I sigh, rubbing a palm over my face. About three times. “Shut up, moron. I'm talking about a girl that moved in when I was a teenager...”

  Storm laughs, nodding his head. “Perfect. Built-in pussy.”

  I stand, and the chair I'm sitting in tips over. “Sara is not and was never built-in, motherfucking pussy.” My head begins to pulse in ti
me with my heartbeat, my vision trembling at the edges.

  “Okay,” Storm says, making a push-away gesture with his hands. “Be a sick fuck, I was just saying...”

  “Don't”—Wring admires his flint stone as he casually sharpens his blade—“say,” he finishes slowly, pegging his eyes on Storm.

  “Yeah, okay,” Storm agrees, casting his eyes at his tapping fingertips on the table.

  I love my brothers, but sometimes, a few of them are as worthless as balls on a priest.

  “The Crawl is a class outfit. She's new.” Noose taps his finger on one of the shots of her leg wrapping a pole, and a small piece of me drifts into my throat, lodging like a painful thorn. “Billionaire owner has a slice of this flesh pie. Jared McKenna. Married one of the strippers that worked at another high-end gig a couple of years ago. Big scandal.” Noose chuckles. “Every stripper out there wants to work at one of his clubs. He has health care, decent wages, protection, the works.”

  Why doesn't this make me feel better? Oh yeah, don't give a fuck about health care. “I don't want Sara taking off her fucking clothes for guys.”

  Silence suffocates the conversation.

  “Sara Thomas hasn't seen you in five years, Snare. She doesn't want to be found,” Noose goes on quietly. “Goes by the name Kitty Reynolds, seems like she's doing okay. It's maybe not what you want for her, but she's making bank.”

  I twist my head, looking at Noose like I could incinerate him with my gaze. “Yeah. Okay. Got it. So Rose suddenly says she wants to give up banking, use those fucking hot gigantic tits to bring in some heavy tips—”

  Noose has me in a fisted stranglehold before I can get the next word out. “Rose doesn't get naked for anyone but me.” His pale eyes darken to pewter smoke.

  I didn't think it could get more quiet.

  “Boys,” Viper says, lightly rapping the wood table. “Stop the bullshittery, and let's get a course of action. Between having to come up against Chaos last year, and our regular needs, Snare's stepsister is not a huge priority. She is not—how would a fancy pants like you say it?—ah yes, in peril.” Viper flips up his hands.