She twirls around the pole twice before she sways, tugging playfully at the flimsy knot at her hip until the mini skirt falls. It lands at her feet and she kicks it up with her heel, launching it a bit further than she'd intended. The grimy audience is in full swing, but she keeps the smile plastered on her face and ignores the eyes openly leering at every part of her exposed skin. Her skirt manages to make its way into the hands of one particularly greasy looking patron—who's far too close to the stage, considering that she could easily uppercut him with her heel if she kicks far enough—and she feels his lustful gaze burning through her.
It makes her skin crawl.
She assumes he's new; she hasn't seen him before, but the way Bobby's patting his back has her stomach dropping. Of course he's the one who recruited him. Takes a scumbag to know a scumbag, she supposes.
Her eyes rip away from theirs and return to the nothingness of the far wall. She dips low, rolling her hips until she's on her knees, bent over with a fake smile as she allows men to stick dollar bills into her top. Their hands linger a second too long, an inch too low, and then she's shaking her head, bringing her waving index finger in front of their faces. She's not surprised that they laugh but they all return back to their seats without much problem. For once.
She wishes she could look out and see not the faces of gross men ogling her, but the face of Rick, the sweet man she's been getting to know for the past few weeks. He doesn't come by often—only once or twice a week—and they usually opt for places that are more... well, not here. It's usually a small coffee shop or a dainty cafe, which is where she has plans to meet him later.
They've learned a bit more about each other since their initial meeting, though she's still keeping some things close to the belt. He's knows enough, though, more than she's told most of the people she's encountered through this place. It took a while for her to realize that he was really only looking to talk to her, but their days out only proved to solidify her opinions of him. He didn't—and doesn't—seem to be playing her, and she doesn't think this is just some elaborate ruse to get into her pants. He's really just this nice.
It's a new notion for her.
He's the first guy to know what she does—hopefully not for much longer, though—and still talk to her, and treat her, like a human being. Not a play toy, not a stripper. He doesn't talk down to her and there's no judgement present when he speaks. If anything, there's a genuine curiosity about her life and her education.
He's offered to pay for her tuition at least twice and she's shocked at how it didn't come off sounding like charity, but more like he truly wants to help her out. She's let on that she doesn't want to be doing this and he knows that. He also offered to, alternatively, pay for her father's rehab so she can use the money set aside for it's intended use—her schooling. As freeing as the possibility of having her school or her father's rehab paid for is, she can't take his money. She has to do this herself, and though she appreciates his generosity, she's turned him down.
A grin almost breaks out onto her face at the thought, the fact that he's become an actual friend, but then she catches herself.
She's still on stage. She has to keep the sultry, seductive charade up for—she swiftly glances at the clock on the far wall—another half an hour. But then she's done.
The looming end of her shift brings a new light to her, lets her breathe knowing that her time on the stage is almost up. The harsh lights beam down on her, casting her exposed skin in a blanket of heat, but she pushes through, braces her hand high on the pole and swings, propelling her body around until she slides gracefully to the floor. Thankfully for her, it was cleaned earlier because of an incident—she doesn't want to think about what it was—so instead of the usual sticky, unnerving substances adhering to her skin, she's met with just the stage.
It's a small blessing.
The half hour passes somewhere between painfully slow and just slow enough and she practically bounces off behind the curtains after throwing one last, fake smirk to her loyal, and disgusting, audience. She lets out a heavy sigh the second she's no longer being watched and stalks off towards the back room.
There are a few other girls in the back and she gives them a small, tight lipped smile.
"You done already, Kit?" Celine, one of the only girls she's actually held a conversation with before, asks as she preps herself for showtime.
She hasn't told any of them that she's not Kit, she's Kate—though everyone knows that none of them actually go by their real names—but she doesn't have any plans to either. As companionable as the conversations can be, she doubts she'll be friends with any of them after she's left this place.
She nods to the blonde. "Just finished," she confirms. She grimaces as she peels off the remaining leather that's practically glued itself to her hips. "It's a full house tonight."
Celine groans. "James or Bobby?"
Kate laughs, knowing she's asking about the general disposition of the audience—are they mostly James', like the surprisingly nice guy that stopped in a few weeks back, or like Bobby, who all of the girls know of. "Bobby, unfortunately."
"Well, better brace myself then. Have a good night, Kit," the blonde smiles to her as she saunters past, turning to do one last once over in the mirror before she disappears.
Celine's already gone by the time she returns the pleasantry, so she just turns around and makes her way towards one of the benches in the back. None of the other girls say anything to her, just throw sidelong glances as if they're still sizing her up. Her gaze stays trained forward as she walks, ignoring the others when she passes. The staring and hushed whispers were unnerving at first but she's gotten used to it, doesn't even pay them any mind now.
She grabs her clothes and takes her bra out, hooking it around her waist and pulling it up before she unties her show top. She throws a loose, almost transparent v neck over her head and shimmies into her jeans, stuffing the previous outfit into the bag without much finesse.
Her bag is slung around her shoulder and she practically sprints through the room, brushing past the last batch of girls that are set to go on any minute, and out the back door. She usually leaves through the front, but given that there are more people out there than usual, she'd like her departure to go unnoticed.
The door swings closed behind her as she enters the night.
They're supposed to meet later that night, enjoy each other's company over some coffee after her shift, but she sends him a text saying that she can't make it. She doesn't give any details, knowing too well that he'd do something stupid like rush over to her the second he found out.
He's confused, to say the least. She gets a reply asking if she's okay, if there's anything he can do, but she just tells him that yes, she's fine—because she is, really—and no, he doesn't have to do anything. When she gets the final text from him saying okay and that he's there if she needs anything, she sighs, tosses her phone onto the couch next to her, its weight making no sound against the cushions.
She makes her way into the bathroom slowly, mindful to keep the light off so she doesn't have to look at herself. She's not ready for that. Her hand rises up, the pads of her fingers trailing across her bottom lip. Her tongue follows, darting out to assess the damage—not too bad. It's split towards the left, a small vertical cut that stings when it's touched, but that seems to be the worst of it.
What she needs is some ice for her eye, but she's all out. She's been meaning to stop at the store and get ice cube trays—her previous set was cracked and essentially useless for keeping water contained—but there hasn't been much time between the club and school, so she hasn't gotten around to it yet.
The neighbor across the hall slams their door shut and Kate jumps, spinning around so she's in the bathroom doorway, staring through the apartment. Her chest heaves, slowing down only when she realizes it wasn't her door being opened.
She's still a little shaken, a little jumpy, and she hates it.
It shouldn't have happened in the first place. She always pays attention when she's leaving, always has herself on high alert, but she just wasn't quick enough, didn't register him until it was too late.
She takes a deep breath and screws her eyes shut. She can still feel her heart thumping against the cage of her ribs and she leans against the door frame, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as a few tears escape and slide down her cheeks. Her fingers immediately wipe them away and she sniffs, steeling herself, erasing any evidence of moisture from her face.
She shakes her head. She's fine. It's just a few scratches, a few bruises.
It's her first attack—but she doesn't want to call it that; it sounds so... brutal, makes her sound like a victim—outside the club, which is impressive in itself considering she's been working there for a while now. She's heard stories about the other girls getting followed out, guys trying to force them into their cars, getting slapped around, but they don't really compare to having it actually happen.
She pops an Advil into her mouth, swallowing it with a glass of water and a sigh. Her eye is throbbing and she curses to herself. She really needs that ice.
And to calm herself down. She's downplaying it—deep down she knows it's a problem, knows she has to do something about it—and telling herself that she's fine, but her body doesn't seem to agree. It keeps trembling of its own accord, her fingers shaking even as she works to still them. She takes one look around her apartment, greeted by nothing but the dark lighting and the open space. It's too quiet.
She doesn't want to be alone.
If you need anything, I'm here. His words ring in her head, her bottom lip tugged between her teeth. He did say anything, and she does need ice.
A deep exhale escapes her lips as she flips on the light, her face twisting when she sees the extent of the bruise surrounding her left eye. She composes herself as she grabs her makeup bag—if she's going over there, she can't do it like this. She uses an excessive amount of cover up to mask the majority of the bruise, only stopping when it's clear she's not going to be able to completely make it disappear.
It looks decent enough, the purple and blue sufficiently covered by a heavy layering of different foundations and cover up.
It'll have to do.
No one answers at his loft when she knocks and she debates leaving, figures he's gone out for the night. She should've called, but she knew he'd ask questions and that isn't something she wanted to do over the phone.
Or in person, but the latter is inevitable.
She's about to turn on her heels and walk back towards the elevator when she hears it ding. Someone steps out and it takes a few seconds for her to realize that it's him, it's Rick, and he's coming right towards her, head down as he looks at his phone.
He looks up before he reaches his door, his stride slowing when he realizes that someone's standing there.
"Kate?" He squints, tries to reveal the face under the dim lighting of the hallway, the night outside doing nothing to help with illumination.
"Hey, Rick."
He comes closer. "What are you doing here?"
She shifts on her feet, turns her head so maybe he won't be able to see that anything's wrong. She's less confident about her make up job right now under his gaze than she was alone in her apartment bathroom. She had the forethought to bring sunglasses with her and put them on before he saw her, but it's still just a thin veil.
"Do you have ice?" isn't what she planned to say but it's the first thing that comes out of her mouth.
He nods slowly. "I—Yes I have ice," he says, shuffling next to her so he can unlock the door. It swings open and he motions in front of him. "Come in?"
She follows him wordlessly, immediately wishing that the loft wasn't as bright as it is.
"Thanks," she says, trailing behind him as he moves towards the kitchen. "I'm, uh—I'm making iced coffee and I realized I didn't have ice."
He turns at that, his brows knitted together. "Iced coffee?" She nods, kicking herself. She could've done so much better than iced coffee. "Alright, Kate, what's going on? And why are you wearing sunglasses? It's almost midnight."
"Didn't want to deal with people on the way over," she half-lies.
He doesn't buy it. "Kate," he starts, his legs bringing him closer until he's in front of her. "Is that—is that a bruise?"
She takes half a step back when he hesitantly goes for her sunglasses, only stopping when his eyes plead with hers and she lets him tug them from her face. She's not looking at him, her eyes cast down at the floor. She doesn't want to see his face.
His gasp is not subtle. "Do you have a black eye?" His voice is laced with concern and she can't take it. "Kate. What happened? Why do you have a black eye? Who did this to you?"
She sighs and finally looks up, giving him the most comforting smile she can muster. "I'm fine, Rick, really."
"You're not fine," he argues, pointing for emphasis. "You have a black eye."
"It looks worse than it is."
"Because you've tried to cover it up with makeup," he says, his hand gently brushing at the bruised skin beneath her eye. "Let me wash this off, please? And I'll get you some ice."
She's about to protest, doesn't want him to see what she did before she covered it up, but he's already going for a wash cloth. He's running the water and she watches as he puts his fingers under it, testing to make sure it's not too cold. When he comes back the cloth is damp with warm water, the excess dripping onto the floor.
He looks at her for permission and she gives him an almost imperceptible nod. She sighs when he brings the cloth to her face, wincing slightly when the texture of the cloth irritates the bruise.
"I'm sorry—"
She shakes her head. "It's okay. I'm fine."
The argument is on his lips but he doesn't use it, just nods and goes back, even more gently. The tenderness he uses as he wipes off her makeup is almost overwhelming. His fingers brush stray hairs out of the way, sweeping them behind her ear in a gesture that's blanketed with security and comfort.
She knows when he's finished because his breath hitches.
"Kate."
Her name carries so much horror and concern that it threatens break her resolve. She's been pushing back any real tears since it happened, adamant that she stay calm and not let this rattle her, but if he keeps looking at her like that, if his voice keeps sounding like that, she just might crack.
"It's really not as bad as it looks," she says again, her eyes searching his as she tries to convince him of that.
"Really, because it looks horrible," he retorts. "What happened?"
His voice is soft, too soft, and she lets out a breath.
"I was leaving the club, and I went out the back door like I do when I don't want to be seen. I wasn't paying close enough attention I guess. I was just focused on getting to the car and home so I could get ready to meet you, and—" She pauses, looks away from him. "This guy came out of nowhere. He was in the club tonight, one of my regular's buddies, and he was drunk off his ass. He must've been waiting outside. I don't know if it was for me specifically or if it was just a coincidence, but he—he jumped out and caught me by surprise. Tried to push me towards his car." Rick's hands ball into fists at his side and she notices, curling one of her hands around his and squeezing before she even realizes what she's doing.
"Someone must have heard me scream because they got him off me, but not before he got a swing in," she gives him a small smile, pointing to her eye in reference.
"God," he whispers, his eyes far too intense for his own good. He rushes forward and envelops her in his arms, but he breaks apart immediately when she groans. "I'm so sorry. Kate, are you okay?"
She nods, holding her breath in as she wills away the searing pain. His eyes fall to her arm, cradled around her ribs for dear life.
"What else did he do?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing, it's nothing," she tries to assure him, but she knows the discomfort is shining through on her face. She sighs. "I was slammed against the wall and fell onto the railing." Rick eyes widen, a silent gasp on his lips. "My ribs broke my fall."
"Jesus, Kate," he says, his hand going to find hers. "Can I..."
She hesitates for a second but uncurls her arm, gives him a nod. He's already seen her body on stage, already inspected her black eye. There's no point in hiding it now.
His fingers hover at the hem of her shirt, tugging it up slowly to reveal a pattern of small bruises around her ribcage, all in varying sizes and all looking different levels of pain. His hand is splayed over them and her stomach ripples under his touch. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from wincing; they're still fresh and annoyingly sensitive, but she knows that he's being careful.
"It's okay," she says, tries to bring her voice back to its usual, light tone. "As seedy as that place is, Victor isn't very keen on the clients roughing up his girls." She resists the shudder that wants to take over her body. His girls. She's not his girl. "He's taken care of it."
"Please don't go back," he says, and the firmness of his voice catches her off guard.
She blinks. "I—what?"
"Don't go back to the club."
She's just staring at him now, eyes wide and confused. "I have to go back, Rick," she says, as if that's obvious. "It's my job."
"No," he shakes his head. "No type of job worth having has you going home with black eyes and broken ribs."
"It's only one black eye," she murmurs quietly.
He gives her an incredulous look. "Kate," he sighs, his hands coming up to his face. "I—when I saw your eye, your ribs, I—" He pauses. "This is terrifying. I don't want to have to see you with more black eyes, more bruised ribs, or, god forbid, something much worse. What if no one came out? What if he managed to get you into his car?"
She doesn't meet his eyes, doesn't want him to see the emotions running through hers because she knows. She's spent the entire ride back to her apartment thinking about it, the whole time she was waiting for him thinking about it. Hell, she's been thinking about it since it happened. It's just pure luck that someone was in the back room when she screamed—normally it's empty when the last set of girls go on stage.
"I know, Rick," she says, more forcefully than intended. "You think I wasn't terrified? Do you honestly think that thought hasn't crossed my mind? I was thirty seconds away from being something a lot worse than just bruised. I know."
His face softens, wipes at the lone tear she didn't even realize was sliding down her cheek. "Then don't go back. You don't want to be there to begin with, so just—don't."
"What about work? What about money? I need to pay for school, Rick. And my father's rehab, and I need this job to do it," she mutters. "It's disgusting and you're right, I don't want to be there, but it gets the job done and I make more money there than I would waiting tables or working retail. Trust me, this was a last ditch attempt at making something work."
"I've told you that I'll help," he reminds, and she looks up at him, his blue eyes boring into hers.
She sighs. "And I've told you that I can't let you do that."
"Why not?" he challenges. "Look, I know you want to do this on your own, and I admire that. I respect that. But friends help friends out. Friends don't let other friends put themselves in dangerous situations if they can help." She lowers her eyes. "And I can help, Kate. Please, just let me help."
She chews on her bottom lip to keep it from quivering, to keep herself tethered. She hates the pained expression on his face, hates the horror she saw when he revealed her eye, and she hates the sharp intake of breath he couldn't suppress when he traced her bruised ribs even more. She doesn't want to keep stripping, doesn't want to go back to that place anymore.
It's tainted now. She won't be able to go out the back without a crippling fear that someone's waiting for her around the corner.
When she brings her head up his eyes are on her—not intense or angry, but concerned—quietly pleading with her to let him help.
So she does.
"Okay," she whispers, so quietly she's not sure she's even said it.
But she did. "Okay?"
She nods silently, but can't help how the corners of her lips curl up at his relieved smile. He exhales and his arms wrap around her shoulders as he pulls her to him, careful not to jostle her or put any pressure on her ribs.
"Thank you," he breathes, and she's sure he can feel her heart beating against his chest. "I'll go get you that ice."
Thank you all for your sweet reviews, the response to this has been much more than I expected! I hope you enjoy this and I look forward to what you guys think.