Libertine [on hold]

Chapter 5 - New in town

                I was the new girl in the club and the pressure was on me. Tonight was my first dance and I was nervous as hell as I got ready. I’d walked to the club, being too scared to use my old credit card in case it would be traced, and not willing to pay cash for an expensive cab. Even though it was cold as hell, I walked all six blocks from my rotten apartment to the place where I would be performing that night.

                Nervousness was biting me like a vicious scorpion, or a poisonous snake, digging its way into my skin and releasing the venom. My heart was beating irregularly again, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. Instead, I took a sharp breath before I came to a stop in front of the back exit – it was in a dark alley, and I was supposed to get in here.

                “Hello, doll,” a raspy voice said behind me and I whipped my head back. There was a guy there, almost hidden in the shadows, but emerging slowly. If I wasn’t so fucked up, I would definitely think him handsome. But as it was, I was too damaged, too broken, to even consider it.

                “Hello,” I said politely as I started climbing the stairs that led to the entrance.

                “What’s the rush?” he asked sweetly, climbing the stairs after me, the scent of pot potent and sweet on his skin. I looked at him nervously, and he was even more handsome up close. Rugged strong chin, piercing blue eyes, sandy hair. Not too tall, but muscular.

                Just. Like. Christian.

                I gulped the fear and bile that were rising in my throat and turned away, trying not to call any more attention to myself. This guy was high, and if it had only been pot, I would’ve been okay with it – but as he came closer, I could smell the liquor on his breath. I knew what that meant. Liquor equals trouble – and violence. And I wasn’t about to get hurt, not again.

                I pulled the doors towards me and took a sharp breath as they didn’t budge.

                I pulled on the handle again.

                “Having trouble, babydoll?” he asked me sweetly, his hands suddenly around my waist.

                “Get off me,” I begged, my voice loud and shrill even to my own ears.

                “Shhh, baby,” he whispered in my ear. I struggled against him, but I was nothing compared to his weight. Nothing to his stocky figure, nothing to his muscular arms as he turned me around and lifted up my skirt.

                “NO!” I shouted loudly. “Please,” I added, begging, desperate.

                All he did was rip my skirt off and stuff it in my mouth, raising my hands above my head so I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything.

                I was scared. And I was drifting, just like so many times before.

                I watched as he rammed his body into mine.

                I watched the tears streaming down my face wordlessly as he bruised my cheeks, pushing me against the brick wall.

                I watched myself breaking all over again, watched my future unfolding from above.

                Maybe it was all gone now. Maybe it was all over. Maybe I’d be a pretty little angel with perfect white wings, sitting on a fluffy cloud. No worries. No problems.

                I came to as he finished with a loud moan and pulled out of me.

Drip, drip, drip.

                I will not cry.

                I will not cry.

                “Thank you, baby,” he whispered into my ear, then started digging around his pockets for something as I slid down the wall, now completely stiff, numb. I felt him dripping out of me, felt my walls breaking, felt my tissue tearing.

                He thrust a hefty amount of hundred dollar bills in my hand and kissed my cheek softly, tucking my hair behind my ear as I lay motionless.

Drip, drip, drip.

***

When I came to, I slowly picked myself up. Wiped myself with the remnants of my skirt and pulled my sweater down, so it looked like I was wearing a dress. Counted my money.

One thousand and 32 dollars, 57 cents. That’s what I was worth.

I dragged my weary body around the building and entered through the main entrance, making my way through a sea of oblivious faces into the back of the club.

Do you know what just happened to me? I wanted to scream.

Do you realize I’ve just been raped? I wanted to shout at them.

I did neither. I collapsed on a chair in the backstage area, my eyes locked on the image in the mirror.

“You’re late,” someone snarled at me and I looked up to see a dark man in a fedora. “Should’ve been here an hour ago. You’re on in 20 minutes,” he let me know.

                I nodded mindlessly. Got ready. Put on a wig. Covered my red hair. Added contacts to cover the green in my eyes. Powdered my shoulders to hide every evidence of the freckles that sprinkled my complexion.

                I danced for the first time that evening.

                I entertained my first client, too.

                I charged one thousand and 32 dollars, 57 cents.

                Once a whore, always a whore.