Seduction Page 18

  “Really?” Desire throws her head back and chuckles, proving how shallow she really is. “Pussy-whipped already?” She straddles me and starts grinding. “Give me five minutes—I’ll change your mind.”

  I grab her arms. “Not interested.”

  “No?” She cocks her head. “Think she’s so perfect? Your little princess got an abortion a few months ago.”

  I go rigid. My heart sinks into my stomach, all the passion sucked out of my body. “Get off, now.” I let go of her arms.

  She slides from my lap, hugging herself. “Don’t believe me? Ask.”

  One thing I know about Desire: she’s not a liar. Doesn’t need to be; the bitch in her runs deep. “Who told you?”

  “Estevan,” she says proudly. “After Marisela made her grand exit from the Water Street Oyster Bar, I split a bottle of wine with him.”

  Rage swells inside me. “He abused her,” I growl.

  “I know. He admitted it,” she says. “But from what I hear, she deserved it.”

  Disgusted beyond expression, I eyeball her. Why do some dancers act subhuman? “Who else knows?”

  She reaches over, circling my shoulder with her fingers. “You’re the only one who matters.”

  Chapter 22

  I escort my cousin and his friends outside and watch them zip away in their rented minivan. I gaze at my watch—midnight. I’ll wait in the parking lot for Marisela. She should be tipping out now. I’m not sure how to approach the abortion subject. I’m pretty tolerant after working the club circuit. Women make bad choices sometimes. But terminating a pregnancy because you just don’t want to have a baby—kills me. There’s no way I can stay with a woman, even Marisela, if she’s willing to do that.

  And now I have to know.

  The door opens and Sam, the bouncer, sticks his head outside, looking my way.

  “Marisela?” I ask.

  “Right behind me.”

  She’s slouching, walking slower than she usually does. “Craig.”

  “Bad night, baby?” I grab her dance bag off her shoulder.

  She shrugs. “Good money, but I’m not in the best of moods.”

  I know the feeling. “Want to grab a cup of coffee?”

  She uses the tip of her tennis shoe to obliterate some gravel. “Actually, if you’d just give me a ride home, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Where’s Macey?”

  “Staying the night with her boyfriend.”

  We get in my car and head to Ocean Drive in relative silence. I glance in my rearview mirror, stare out my windshield, then let out an exaggerated sigh, but nothing seems to catch her attention. “You alive over there?”

  She glares at me with annoyance. “Did you and Desire enjoy your time together?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Love the way she perched on your lap.”

  I blow out a breath. “You know better.”

  “Do I?”

  “I think you just want to argue with me because you’re pissed off at everyone else.”

  “I’m drained.”

  “You’re only nineteen, Marisela—how can you be?” I thrum my fingers on the steering wheel, using my other hand to flick my directional on before I turn into her driveway. Then I kill the engine and slam my palms on the dashboard. “Happy one minute—down the next. What’s going on?” I slant my body so I can see her.

  “I asked you to give me some space, remember?”

  “Are you running away?”

  “No!” She rarely raises her voice. Then she opens the car door. “Walking.”

  I jump out and stalk to the passenger side. “Hey!”

  We face off.

  “Go home, please.”

  I don’t know what’s come over me, but I can’t let this go anymore. I’ve been tolerant and patient, kept my emotions in check. But once she lied to me it opened up Pandora’s box. She’s a mess. So am I.

  “I don’t like secrets.”

  “And you think I do?” She gazes up at me.

  “What happened with Estevan?” I demand.

  She clicks her tongue. “I already told you.”

  “Not at dinner,” I clarify. “Why’d you leave Austin? Why didn’t you call your family? Ask for help?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she assures me, spinning on her heels.

  “Marisela Gonzalez.” I sound like a father. “Don’t walk away from me.”

  She keeps moving.

  I scramble after her, grabbing her by the hips. “Look at me.” I spin her around.

  She lifts an eyebrow, studying my face. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  Goddamn this torture and the expanding hole in my heart. We’re on the brink of breaking up. I sense it. “I deserve the truth.”

  “What, need some real-life entertainment? More information about how Estevan smacked me around? Where I slept and what I ate when I was in hiding? How many guys propositioned me when I was stuck wandering the streets in Austin? Want a playlist of the songs I performed at nightclubs so I could afford to eat? How about a blow-by-blow on what topless bars I did guests dances at for tips? Am I leaving anything out?” She’s silent for a minute. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

  “Not this time.”

  “I may regret this later, but I’m absolutely not interested in answering to anybody but myself. If you can’t live with that, go back to Desire.”

  My fingernails dig into her flesh. “What about the baby?”

  Her eyes grow wide with surprise. “You son of a bitch.” She slaps my chest with both hands. I recoil. “Where’d you dig that up at? A background check?”

  “You’re not denying it?” My stomach lurches.

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Do you know what it’s like being on the receiving end?” I ask.

  That calms her down momentarily. “What do you mean?”

  “Amy allegedly got pregnant and had an abortion without discussing it with me first.”

  “I’m sorry.” She gazes into my eyes. “I don’t know what else to say…But I’m not Amy.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Good.” She takes a deep breath. “Then just leave it alone, please.”

  “I can’t. I need to know what you believe, where you stand on certain issues.”

  “I believe in privacy.”

  “That could be construed as an admission of guilt.”

  She laughs, a little too maniacally for comfort. “Why don’t you go fuck something?”

  I step back a few feet, a jumble of morbid thoughts whipping through my mind. My hands are shaking. “Careful what you wish for.”

  She tips her chin at me, her eyes flashing. “We’re done.”

  I give the gas pedal an extra stomp as I race out of the driveway. A few minutes later I pull into Divas. I don’t shit where I sleep, but if I want to get hammered, this is the right kind of place. As soon as I’m through the door, dancers flock around me, girls who used to work at the Den. The doorman waves me by and I let a couple of them drag me to a table in the back. I look around. Three girls are dancing on the long, L-shaped stage. I shake my head. “Down with the Sickness” by Disturbed is playing. What better song to feed my rage?

  The bar is on the far side, near the entrance. There’s a big screen hanging on the wall behind it, and VIP is little more than a raised floor surrounded on three sides by a Plexiglas half wall. I nearly gag from the acrid urine stench wafting from the nearby men’s room. The carpet is fire-engine red and the tables are old. Hell, I’m sitting on a plastic patio chair, the three-dollar model from Walmart. But the place is fucking packed. With no cover charge and two-dollar longnecks, I’m not surprised. Even the table dances are half price tonight.

  Chastity and Diamond stand in front of me and start shimmying out of their dresses. I lean back and spread my legs. I get a face full of titties and ass, but it doesn’t do anything for me. As soon as the song ends, two girls switch places with them. I don’
t know the blonde, but she faces away from me and grinds her ass into my crotch so hard it hurts. I growl, but she doesn’t stop. Someone starts massaging my shoulders from behind. I close my eyes, picturing Marisela. Wondering what in the hell I’m going to do.

  After the third table dance, I signal for a time-out. I can handle only so much cheap perfume and getting my dick rubbed raw. “Order a round of drinks. I’ll take a rum and Coke,” I tell Chastity.

  She smiles and takes off for the bar, where I see Sargent waiting. He’s dressed in jeans and a button-down long-sleeved shirt and is wearing a tie. He looks my way and smiles. A few minutes later he arrives with the waitress. We shake hands.

  “Someone die?” he asks.

  “You could say that.”

  I reach for my wallet, but he stops me. “Comp the drinks, Shelia,” he tells the waitress, then sits down. “How’s business at the Den?”

  “Steady,” I say, uninterested in pursuing a conversation. “I recognize a few faces here.”

  “We’re growing,” he observes, looking pleased. “There’s an arm-wrestling competition next week. A thousand dollars up for grabs.”

  “I’ll spread the word,” I say sarcastically. Then I take a long swig of my drink, hoping I get so wasted I won’t remember my own name.

  He laughs. “How’s my sweetie doing?”

  I slam my glass down.

  He rubs his hands together. “Bad subject, bro?”

  I don’t answer. The last thing I want to do is reveal my relationship status to Sargent. The minute he finds out Marisela is single, he’ll be all over her. “Thanks for the drink.” Now leave the table. Thirty seconds later, he does.

  I dig out my wallet, grab a fifty, and head to the DJ booth. “Three Days Grace and Tool.” I fling the bill at him. “And if you’re into classics, a little Sabbath.”

  He gives me a thumbs-up and I return to my seat. There’s a fresh rum and Coke and two Alabama Slammers waiting for me. I smile at Chastity, who’s waiting for me, and down all three. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and wonder how much money I’ve spent. “Get me another drink, darlin’.”

  “Never seen you drink this much, Craig.”

  “I know when to stop.”

  She reaches under the table, squeezing my thigh. “You never used to.”

  I look down, watching her hand work my leg. I crack a smile, the kind meant to heat her insides. But I know if I let this go any further I’ll lose Marisela forever.

  —

  Craig has been gone for over two hours and I still haven’t moved from the spot on the floor in my bedroom. I’m desperately assessing everything, wondering why Estevan told Desire I’d been pregnant. If he wanted to make things hard, he could have posted something on all our social networks. But if he did, that would mess his life up, too. Why not tell Craig directly? I crawl to my nightstand and grab my cellphone. My thumb hovers over the dial button. I haven’t initiated a conversation with my ex in months. It rings.

  “Marisela?” Estevan asks, sounding surprised.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Did you change your mind? Ready to go back to Austin with me?”

  “That’s never happening, Estevan. Never. I’d sooner get diced into a thousand pieces like you often threaten to do.”

  There’s a brief pause. “That can be arranged.”

  Usually that kind of talk frightens me, but for some reason, this time it makes me laugh. I get up and start pacing next to my bed. “This isn’t a friendly call,” I say. “Why did you tell Desire about my pregnancy?”

  “Couldn’t figure that out on your own?” He snorts. “See what happens when you drop out of school? Your IQ drops exponentially. Stupid bitch—she wants your boyfriend.”

  What did I ever see in this guy? “Stay out of my life, Estevan.”

  “Can’t do that,” he says. “But I’m sure that white boy already dropped your ass—so half of my plan is done.”

  I hang up. He’s an elitist and a racist. I see people for what they are inside—not for the size of their bank accounts or the color of their skin. I moved to Corpus to get away. But my nightmare follows me wherever I go.

  Shaking my head, I open the closet door and grab my backpack. I sit on the edge of the bed, unzipping one of the outside pockets. There’s a handful of college pamphlets inside. I’m most impressed with the University of North Texas College of Music in Denton. A senseless dream, but one worth keeping. I gaze at the majors—composition is one of my areas of interest. I play guitar and piano, but no one really knows I can sing. With the exception of the people who saw me perform in Austin. I did so well, the owner of one of the little jazz clubs offered me a full-time job as a house singer. I turned him down.

  Next, I count my money. Thanks to Craig buying me offstage and all the table dances, I made eight hundred dollars tonight. I walk to my closet and stash the funds in a shoe box. I’ve saved six thousand dollars to date. Not a bad start, and most definitely enough to fund a move to any city in Texas I choose.

  My cell vibrates—text message.

  It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

  Fancy quotes? Should I ignore him, or text something witty in return? I answer.

  This above all: to thine own self be true.

  If he wants to sling quotes, I can play that game, too. He comes back with…

  It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong.

  He’s stuck on my having lied. Technically I did, but not maliciously. I only wanted to protect the people I love. I swallow, hard. I love him. But thank God I never confessed. There’s no way I’m going to crawl back to him, begging and explaining my past, any more than he’s willing to discuss his own history. At least a hundred lovers—that number probably rivals Tiger Woods or Bill Clinton.

  I’ll rely on a biblical principle this time.

  Judge not, lest ye be judged.

  His response…

  Be no flatterer; neither play with any that delights not to be played with.

  Oh really? He’s drunk—I know it. Now he’s accusing me of playing with him. I don’t recognize this quote and punch it in on Google. George Washington? Wow, I’m impressed.

  All right. Try this one, Craig!

  If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

  Thirty minutes later, my phone is still silent.

  Chapter 23

  I slowly peel my face off my leather couch, suffering from another hangover. It’s been a bloody week since I’ve seen or heard from Marisela and I’m having a hard time dealing with it. I pad to the kitchen and open the fridge. I grab a V8 and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. The girl hasn’t called her sister, the club, or anyone I know since the night she broke up with me. The only reason I know she’s alive and well is because of Macey. She gives me limited updates. But when I press her for more information, she shakes her head and walks away.

  I’m having lunch with my cousin later, before he heads back to Lake Jackson. There are a couple of things I need him to do to help me neutralize Estevan. After I eat breakfast, I head to the pool to swim laps for an hour. I flip the stereo on and punch play on the CD player. There’s some compilation disc in there—the new single by Godsmack, “1000hp,” blares out of my speakers. I dive in; the warm water relaxes my tense muscles. I start with the sidestroke, then switch to freestyle, pushing myself harder and harder. But I can’t keep my mind focused.

  Every time I’m in the pool I remember my first interlude with Marisela—how defenseless and fucking hot she looked shivering in the shallow end, waiting for me to take her. The memory is so vivid my cock pitches a tent. Crap. Time for a cold shower. I get out of the pool, grab a towel, and sit on a chair near the glass doors.

  My father taught me to go after what I want. His sordid lifestyle also gave me every reason to never compromise my morals. And unless Marisela can give me a good reason for getting an abortion…The house phone rings.
I reach for the wall and pick up the headset.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Dave.”

  “What’s up, bro?”

  “You need to cancel any plans and drive to Kingsville with me tonight.”

  I laugh. “Kingsville?” Beyond the university, that place is pretty lame.

  “Marisela is singing at the Country Luau Saloon.”

  Singing? She sings? Another secret. The girl doesn’t even have her guitar anymore. “How’d you find out?”

  “My cousin is the DJ. They had some kind of contest last week and she won. From what I hear, she’s incredible.”

  It doesn’t take long for me to decide. “Pick you up at six.” I hang up.

  I rub the back of my neck with both hands. A singer? What else does that girl do? Who’s she hanging out with? I plan on finding out.

  —

  The broom closet doubles as a dressing room? I strip my jacket off and throw it on the chair in front of the mirrored vanity in the corner. There are shelves of cleaning supplies, toilet paper, paper towels, and a utility sink on the far wall. And a leather love seat in the middle of the ten-by-ten space. First thing: get my helmet head under control. I open my backpack and take out hairspray and a comb. I bend over, then shake my hair out, spraying it stiff from underneath. The end result: super volume. I look in the mirror and smile. Nothing says singer slut like big hair and gobs of black eyeliner.

  I can’t believe I won the amateur contest last Friday. I hooked up with an old high school friend who attends A&M in Kingsville and we just happened to grab a late-night snack at the bar. I reach in my pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. I smooth it out. My playlist. I get a six-song set. I’ll start with Janis Joplin, try to hit notes Adele makes look easy, and end with an original piece I wrote recently using the piano at my sister’s. The house band is backing me up tonight, so who knows? If I do well, maybe I’ll get invited back.

  I check the wall clock. Nearly seven—I start in forty-five minutes. Butterflies assault my stomach; in fact, it feels like I need to throw up. I run to the sink, waiting. A wave of nausea comes and goes, and I gag once, but nothing comes out. Still, I turn the water on and rinse my mouth with hot water. Gross. I never get stage fright. But of course, this is the closest to home I’ve ever performed.