Almost Perfect—01
Preface
I didn't know how long I had been lying on the floor, looking up at the man who had ripped my family apart. In that moment, staring into each other's eyes, I remembered everything, every lie he'd ever told me. His eyes told me he was afraid.
He should be. It was his turn.
"Liberty, you can do this," a voice said, squeezing my shoulder. That voice filled my body with warmth, with hope. "You're not alone."
I thought about everything that had brought me here, to this dirty floor in this dirty building. I had finally found a home, far away from here. But I needed to let my enemy know that I hadn't forgotten about him, about what he did. He didn't deserve to sleep at night, to enjoy a hot meal, to watch baseball. He didn't deserve normal.
He deserved justice.
"Let's finish this. It's okay," that loving voice whispered in my ear, and I knew he was right.
I closed my eyes and fired.
*******
There was only one thing that had ever made me more nervous than going to work at that club. That was being alone with my mother's boyfriend, Ray. There were at least some parts of my job that were redeemable. I couldn't say the same thing for Ray. But I didn't have time to think about that now, which was good, because I never really could stand to think about him. Right now I had to go to work. And at work, I had to stay alert.
It was Thursday, our busy night, when the convention—goers were out for their last hurrah and the weekend tourists were just starting out. At The Treasure Chest, we always made our best money on Thursdays. They didn't have as many girls on as Friday and Saturday, and we all have a lot more opportunity for attention. Not that I wanted it. I knew that didn't make sense to anybody, but it was the truth. I got to the club at nine and in the locker room the girls were talking, trying on their crazy, tiny outfits, teasing each other. I always listened to them before we went out on the floor; it soothed me to be around the hum of other people after being in my quiet apartment all day. They talked about the crazy things their kids had done that day, the fights they'd had with their boyfriends, how they'd waxed their own bikini lines and how bad it hurt — but how aerodynamic it would make them. I did my own waxing, too, but I couldn't make up funny stories about it like Adriana or Keisha could, so I just kept quiet. I pretty much always kept quiet. All the other girls had plenty of things to say, to fill up the space.
The Treasure Chest was considered upscale for Vegas, and we had some of the prettiest girls. There were about thirty of us in total, mostly young with a couple of lifers thrown in. In stripping, you're considered a lifer if you've done it for ten years or more. Most of us, myself included, start at twenty one. So even though the lifers are still relatively young, they're getting old for this place and they know it. They make jokes about getting traded down to the Gulch, which was a grimier club a few blocks over, where the women were older and the drinks came in plastic cups. "At least the liquor over there is cheap!" Tracy said sometimes, after a shift where she couldn't get anyone to go to the Champagne Room with her. Tracy is good humored and she always laughs when she says it, but her eyes look hooded. I think she might be scared. You don't make good money at the Gulch, and from what I hear the management encourages mileage.
Mileage was something bad when you were a stripper. It meant something like you had to do as much as you could, go as far as you could go, without actually having sex during a lap dance. I'd heard that a lot of the guys still came that way.
I didn't want to end up at The Gulch. I didn't want poor Tracy to, either.
I was always nervous before I went out, and I didn't like putting on my outfit, but I did enjoy the makeup. For those few precious minutes in front of the mirror before it was time, it was like I was a little girl again, digging through my mother's overstuffed makeup bag. I had better makeup at work, more expensive stuff, but I remember the distinct smell of her inexpensive, sparkly eyes shadows and blush. If hopefulness had a scent, that's what it smelled like, even though her compacts were cracked and plastic. My mother's makeup promised transformation, something better than what was already there. I would lock myself in the bathroom and rummage through her bag whenever she was napping on the couch, holding my breath so she wouldn't wake up and catch me. And after, as I looked up at myself in the mirror, all of ten with bright blue eyeshadow on, I thought I looked pretty. Not as pretty as my mom, of course. No one was as pretty as my mom.
So now, it always comforted me, the sparkly eyeshadow, the black mascara, the hot pink blush, the process of transforming my face into something that made people stare. My beautiful mask. Playing dress—up with my face was so much more fun than playing dress—up with my body; because if you looked at just my done—up face, I could be anybody. I was almost perfect. I could be one of those girls in town for the weekend, out to dinner with my fiancé, having a two—hundred—dollar bottle of wine and not even blinking when the bill came. I could be any one of those girls at a club, from a suburb across the country, who just came in for the weekend. With a face like this, I could be waiting for my boyfriend to bring me a twenty—dollar drink that I might not even finish. I could be wearing a beautiful dress and a thousand—dollar watch, have a decent apartment and good job to go back to, parents and siblings somewhere, all hoping I'm being safe and waiting to hear about my crazy weekend in Vegas.
But I don't actually have any girlfriends, and my watch is a cheap plastic glow—in—the—dark one I bought at Walmart. I'm not from the suburbs, and I've never had one of those nice, ridiculously expensive dinners at a five—star restaurant with anyone. I don't know who my father is and my mother, rest her soul, is dead. My sister's gone. No one cares if I'm safe. The only place I'm going after work is to my cheap apartment in the scary part of town, with my mask off before I even leave the building. I will eat macaroni and cheese that came from a box and go to bed, alone. So no, I'm not wearing a nice dress tonight. In fact, underneath my white button—down shirt and short plaid skirt that resembles a schoolgirl's uniform—a slutty schoolgirl's uniform—I'm wearing a leather thong and a black bra that has cut—outs for my nipples. And hot pink fake—suede sky—high spike heels.
Maybe I'm a little bitter. But I know I shouldn't complain, because a lot of people have it so much worse.
I tried to concentrate on my sparkly eyeshadow in the mirror until Alex tells me it's time to go out. I was first tonight and being first on a shift meant you were a warm—up act; the girls that came on later were usually the prettiest and got the biggest tips from the late—night, liquored up crowd. The Treasure Chest was different from most other Vegas clubs this way — girls actually wanted to dance onstage here. At some of the other, bigger clubs there were over a hundred, sometimes two hundred, girls who worked there. A lot of the dancers didn't want to bother going out on stage when they could let the newbies do it and they could go into the crowd and do lap dances, where if they hustled they could make a lot more.
