LITMIR.BIZ

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      Angel surveys the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the two windowless walls. “No. They make it bright.”

      “And, if someone is uncomfortable with them, I can always draw these closed,” I say, pointing to curtains.

      Angel’s eyes wander to the newly built-in service counter where the closet used to be and says, “Remember when we packed away James Charles, Jr.’s stuff?”

      “How could I forget?”

      “Never told you how much I admired your strength. How you dove right in. Got the job done.”

      I look at Angel. “That wasn’t strength. I couldn’t bear the visual reminder that my baby was gone.”

      “You’re healing.”

      “Time helps.”

      Angel walks to the center of the room, and runs a hand up and down one of the gleaming brass poles. Turning to me, her face displays a devilish grin. “Wow! This brings back memories…. Remember how nervous we were when we auditioned for Luigi at the strip club?”

      “Yeah. What was up with that? After tricking, you’d think taking our clothes off would’ve been easy, but….” I look at the wall clock. “Wanna get going?”

      We arrive in Hollywood, park the car and stroll Sunset Boulevard. Walking along the strip takes me back. I was such a naive eighteen-year-old. Desperate to escape the pain of my brother’s death, I was lured by the drugs my pimp offered and what I mistook as the exciting life of a prostitute. Thought it’d be fun to get paid for having sex. It wasn’t. Thought I’d feel better about myself. I didn’t. Thought I could stop any time. Impossible with a pimp like Ax.

      Seems like yesterday that Angel and I, on rare occasions, used to come here to get slutty outfits to better lure johns. Yup, Hollywood was the place back then.

      Based on the window displays, it looks like it still is. Every imaginable sleazy getup is represented here. And the shoes! This is the place to get every variation of jaw-dropping come-fuck-me heels. Bold colors, animal prints and clear acrylic. Such extreme heels that it defies reason that women can walk in them. And the boots…. Where do I begin? There are short, thigh-high, patent leather, ballerina and crotch-height ones.

      Today’s shopping spree involves finding a specific item—stripper shoes. Can’t pole dance without the right heels. And, although I’ve instructed my new students on the exact pair to get, I have procrastinated buying them myself. So here I am. Shopping at the last minute.

      Navigating several blocks from where we parked, Angel and I enjoy looking in the windows along the way. I point to a mannequin. “Look at her hair.” Pastel pink and cropped to a fashionable bob. “Remember when I wanted my hair that color?”

      Angel laughs. “Yeah. Just one of your many crazy ideas.”

      “Hey!”

      Angel lists them. “The whole pink hair thing, the almost-getting-tattooed phase before they were in fashion—especially for women— and let’s not forget the how-short-can-I-wear-my-skirt-without-getting-arrested period.” Angel pauses.

      I shrug. “You know I had damn good-looking legs!” We pass by a nail salon and stop. “Wanna get our nails done?”

      Angel looks at her watch. “Is there time?”

      Entering the salon, we stand before the limitless display of nail enamels ranging from subtle to neon. Picking up a particularly offensive shade, I hold it up to Angel. “There was a time I would have gone straight for this one.” I replace the bottle. “Thank goodness I acquired some taste.”

      We laugh, and then both select shades of dark red and take a seat. An hour and a half later, with our toenails and fingernails gleaming, we continue toward the shoe shop, only a block away. Entering, we mock the majority of the foot-torturing accessories displayed. On the back wall, I find what I’m seeking—a pair of clear acrylic five-inch heels with clear straps, rhinestones across the toes, and a one-inch platform. I smile. They’re worthy of melting any stripper’s heart. A short time later, shoes in hand, we leave the store and head to Angel’s car.

      That evening, bubbling with anxiety, I make a run to the market to pick up a few things. As I round the corner to head down the last aisle, the one closest to the produce, I’m surprised to spot him— Carlos. Although he is turned away from me, I recognize his back and tease of dark curls accenting his tanned skin just above the collar.

      My heart skips a beat. My tongue grows thick in my mouth, and I swear I’ve forgotten how to speak once again. Ignoring the betrayal of my body, I head toward the stack of cantaloupes, right beside him. The closer I get, the clammier my palms become, and I have to readjust my grip on the hand basket lest it slip from my hands. How should I initiate contact this time? Already done the dropping-of-groceries ploy. Probably should go with a new approach this time. I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll try the less dramatic, yet still effective, “hello.”

      I take my time approaching. Like a lioness closing in on its prey. No need to hurry. I watch him. Scrutinize his movements. Relish every delicious step that brings me closer to him. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. Wait! From behind one of the display tables, a boy of about four speeds his way toward the man—my man. He’s clutching a small bunch of bananas. “Daddy! Daddy! Are these good?”

      I freeze.

      His back still turned to me, Carlos reaches down and lovingly scoops up the boy, bananas and all. The child shoves the fruit so close to his father’s face that Carlos is forced to lean back to focus, and then he says, “They’re perfect. Good job.”

      Before Carlos has a chance to turn, I abruptly change course and head toward the farthest checkout. All the while, my mind is rapid-firing questions. A son? He didn’t mention a son. But then we didn’t really have much of a conversation. Married?! Is Carlos married? If so, where’s the boy’s mother? This could change everything, making Carlos off limits. Shit!

C HAPTER S IX

       Unease

      I purchase my items, barely hearing the checker when she tells the amount. Gathering my bags, I head to my car. My mind swirls and protests against what I saw—Carlos with…a son. I quicken my pace. Want outta here. To create distance between what is threatening to foil my fantasies about him and me.

      Halfway to my car, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle. Thinking Carlos may have spotted me and is coming out, I don’t turn but walk faster. Anxious to make it to my car. Don’t want to see him. Not now. Can’t. Gotta think this through first.

      Each step I take convinces me I’m being watched. Followed. Expect to hear Carlos call my name any minute. I approach my car. Fumble with the keys. Get in. Backing out of my space, I look around, thinking I’ll spot him. I don’t. What? But why did I feel watched? Followed? If not Carlos, then who? Jesus! I really gotta get a grip.

      Princess greets me at home and shadows me as I put away the few things I purchased. I click off the downstairs lights and head upstairs, anxious to work things out in my journal. Sitting on my bed, I write:

      What’s going on with Carlos? A son? Never occurred to me. But married? What if she was there? Watching? Okay, that puts a different spin on things. Slow down. Don’t get carried away. Maybe he’s divorced. Didn’t seem like the cheating kind. What am I saying? I don’t even know him. Besides, what’s the “cheating kind” look like? And then there’s the whole felt-like-I-was-being-followed thing. But when I looked…nothing. Maybe I’m just stressed about my first class tomorrow. Mind’s working overtime. That’s gotta be it. I hope.

      I close my journal. Reach down to pet Princess. Turn off the light and go to sleep. But mine’s a restless one, filled with bizarre dreams.

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