///
I've done four loads of laundry and I'm on my last. I've packed all of my clothes into a few suitcases, and I've filled up three boxes with all my important things: pictures, comforter, odds and ends, and put them in the back of the SUV. The house came furnished, thank God, but the bed belongs to me, and it's gonna have to stay here. I can't be here anymore. I need to get as far away as I can.
I started to pick up, but I just couldn't bring myself to care enough to finish. Fuck it. I've no clue where I'll go. Maybe I'll stay in a hotel, maybe even my car. Hell, maybe buy a hammock and set it up somewhere remote, where no one can find me. Sounds good, but he would find me. It's time for me to run again, but this time, I may need to go the route of a new identity, I just don't know how, but I have motivation to figure it out and do it, somehow.
Finishing up the last of my packing, I hear it. I hear the voice that makes me fear for my life.
"Look here. The cunt is back," For a moment I look around the room for a place to hide, any life line to save myself, but it's hopeless. He knows I'm here and have nowhere to run.
My bedroom door meets the wall with a jarring thud and I jump. Too scared to look at him, I busy myself with folding laundry. Keeping my head down and eyes on the clothes, I pretend he's not behind me − pretend he'll disappear into thin air if I just ignore him long enough.
"Where the fuck you been, bitch?" He sneers from behind me. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. It's best to keep my mouth shut than to have to fight him over something I say. Reaching out, he grabs ahold of my hair at the roots, pulling me down with such force that I land on my ass. He likes to look down on me just to show me how low and worthless he sees me. "I fuckin' asked you question, bitch, and I want an answer." With my head forced back to look into his face, I see his bloodshot, dilated eyes. "Fuckin' answer me," he screams in my face, pulling my head further back at an awkward angle.
"I was visitin' with a friend," I cry. My neck is aching and I can't help but think of how close I was to getting out of here.
"Whores don't have friends, you stupid ass," he laughs as he lets go of my hair, but not before shoving me forward, smacking my face on the hardwood floor. He's a bully. Finding any way he can to push me around, whether it's physically or mentally.
"How the fuck would you know?" Wrong answer. I know it before the words leave my mouth, and I brace myself. I know what's coming. Closing my eyes and biting my cheek, I prepare my body for the pain that's coming.
He picks me up by my throat and dishes out two quick fisted punches, one hitting the side of my face, the second into my jaw and mouth. My face immediately starts to sting, and I can taste blood in my mouth from my now busted lip. The force of his hit is enough to knock me back to the ground, but fuck it. I don't stay down. I know it's always a bad decision to fight back, but I will never stop fighting him. It's instinct. Sometimes I wish I could push him far enough to just finish me off for good. Let's see where that gets me now.
Pushing myself up, I turn to look at him and wonder how I never saw the true Ryan. For a split second, I wonder ‘why me', but I know why. He's the devil, making sure I always pay for my sins. I brought this on myself, intentionally or not. This is payback for what I did.
"Ryan? Why are you here? What do you want from me?"
"You're gonna come with me for a while. I need money and you haven't even begun to pay your debt to me. You belong to me. A life for a life sort of thing, right? You make me the money you owe me, I don't go to the cops. You don't have a choice."
****
Three weeks later …
I don't want to be here. Ryan drug me, kicking and screaming from the house three weeks ago to some strip club, owned by none other than a biker gang, and I've been here dancing every night since. It's safer here than at my house, and that's saying something. After a few nights of going home with Ryan, the club owner decided that I would be staying at the club in one of the back rooms with some of the other girls who stayed here when they needed to crash. He was getting sick of Ryan bringing me in bruised and beaten, saying no one wants to pay to see some beat up bitch, and if I wasn't making money, he wasn't making back the money that Ryan owed him.
I knew there was no way around it. I was coming here whether I wanted to or not. It's not because I can't get away from Ryan, I can't get away from him and the two club guns who stay at our sides. Right now, Ryan owes them, and I'm the means to paying his debt, which makes us both their prisoners. I'm just so tired of fighting and being forced into shit I don't want to do. My old bruises are only just starting to fade and heal. Ryan still makes sure to get in a good punch here and there, making sure I know my place. He also makes sure I have plenty of that makeup that's made to cover tattoos, to cover up my bruises. How fucking sweet.
///
I miss Rampage so much it's physical ache. I miss the way he looks out for me, the way he makes me feel, but I'm glad I never told him about Ryan. I didn't know what Ryan was into, let alone with another club. I could have been the cause for Rampage starting a war with another gang. He wants to protect me, and I see now how bad it truly would have been if I pulled him into my shit life. Fuck buddies or not, he would protect me against anyone, and I know this.
Standing by the stage, a young, sweet girl named Bunny makes her way to the back. She's wearing a pair of bunny ears on her head, glitter on her chest, and she's holding a bunch of crumpled up bills in her hands.
"Hey, Lailah," she sings as she gives my cheek a quick kiss.
"Hey, hun. How is it tonight?" I ask as I peek around the side of the stage. Ryan is sitting right by the stage with his two club goons sitting on either side of him, all watching me. This is his way of reminding me of what will happen if I fuck up. He's explained to me that he will hand me over to those goons anytime I get out of hand, letting them do whatever they want with me. I've overheard them talking about the things they would like to do to me, in great detail, knowing that I can hear them, and I'm scared to death.
"Rowdy. When it's time for you to go up, they always start pouring in." Bunny says.
"That's great. Thanks, babe."
"No problem. Kill ‘em, baby doll."
I hear the crackle of the microphone come on and the music's slow rhythm begin. It's my cue to go on.
I told the lighting guy to keep it dim tonight, cloaking me in shadow. My makeup is heavy, covering my new and fading bruises. I gave the DJ my song for the night and it's my favorite. It's something slow and sexy, but empowering. It's something I need right now.
My hair is long and smooth down my back because I know the men like it like that. I'm wearing my little white fringe number; a G-string with fringe around the waist and my top is tiny with the same fringe. Six inch cherry red peep toed shoes complete my look. Taking two quick shots of Jack for courage, I hit the stage.
The smooth, slow bass of Pour It Up starts to play through the speakers. Taking a deep breath, I glide onto the stage to jeers and whistles as I take myself right to the pole. I guess in some sad way, I tell myself pole dancing is an art form, unlike just taking your clothes off and dry humping the floor is. I give them a show for their money. I perform, I act, I dance. They see my body, but it's all just part of the show. That little story is how I've been able to do this for so long and I have to admit, I'm damn good at it. Now I'm doing it because I'm being made to, and it truly makes me sick. How can I ever dance again after this?
Giving the pole an around the world, I hook my leg around the pole and slide down to the floor and begin my dance. Working my way back up the pole, I slowly glide back down. Letting my heels find the ground, I bend myself over, giving my ass a good shake, letting my hands travel my body slowly, touching myself seductively. I give them what they want, working the stage like I love it. I keep my head high and I get my money. Grabbing onto the pole, I make another round, doing my dance while praying for it to be over. I'm good at what I do, and this is all I've ever been good at. This is my life, and it's not even on my own terms. Life is not worth living for me anymore.
10
Sick Love
Rampage
Three weeks. Three goddamn fucking weeks.
I hadn't heard from her for a few days after she left, but my bed and I gave her that. She needed a few days, fine. Three days was all I would give her. Sis gave me her number. I called, but I got nothing except for some generic fucking answering machine. Fuck that nonsense. Lil had no clue where she lived, and the only address she could get from the college was a P.O. Box in some state halfway across the fucking country. What the fuck was that all about?