The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (13 page)

“It’s not like that,” Patty said, and she realized it really wasn’t like that. At least not for her. For the few months she’d been dancing, Patty felt powerful. In control. For once, she was successful, and on her own terms.
 

“It is, Patricia. And as long as you live here, you will not be engaging in—”

“You wouldn’t kick me out,” Patty challenged her mother. “You wouldn’t do that to Whitney.”

Patty felt a flash of guilt using her daughter like that. But she knew that no matter how her mom felt about her and her decisions, she loved Whitney more than anything. Likely more than she’d ever loved Patty herself. Her mother would never do anything to harm her granddaughter.
 

Whitney’s mother took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to do this,” she said. She squeezed her hands together until Patty could see the white on her mother’s knuckles. “But if you continue in this…job.” She swallowed again. “I’ll have to fight you for custody of Whitney.”

Patty took a step back, her mother’s words a slap in the face. “You wouldn’t,” she said.
 

“I think it would be best.”

“You’re doing this because you hate me. You blame me for Dad’s death. For everything. You’re a bitter old woman who wants to make my life miserable.” Pain contorted her mother’s face, but Patty couldn’t back down.
 

“Your father’s death was an accident,” her mother breathed. “A terrible accident.”

“An accident that never would have happened if he hadn’t come to pick me up from that party, and you know it. You’ve hated me ever since.”

Her mother shook her head no. “That’s not true.”
 

“It is, and we both know it.” For a moment, they were both silent. Each daring the other to speak.
 

“Patricia, I don’t—”

“You don’t get a second chance with my baby.” Patty waited and then added, “Besides, what makes you think that
my
child would want to live with an old lady instead of her own mother?”

A thick silence built between them. Twice her mother opened her mouth to speak, but closed it before saying anything. There was a glisten of a tear in her eye, but Patty knew she wouldn’t cry. She never did. Not over Patty.
 

“Ma.” The noise came from the floor where Whitney was happily sitting and sucking on the end of a hairbrush.

Both Patty and her mother spun to face the baby.
 

“Ma.”

“Did you say Ma?” Patty dropped to her knees and clapped her hands at Whitney.

“That’s the first time she’s said that,” Patty’s mother said and joined her on the floor. “What a big girl you are, Whitney.” She turned her attention to the baby.
 

“Ma.” Whitney dropped the brush and twisted herself around so she was on her hands and knees.

“That’s right, baby,” Patty said. “Ma. Come to Ma. Come to Mommy, baby.”

“Ma. Ma.”
 

Whitney started crawling and Patty clapped her hands, encouraging her forward. “Come to Mommy, sweetie.”
 

“Ma.”
 

Patty froze mid-clap, her empty stomach twisting into a knot as she turned to stare at her baby girl who was still babbling and instead of coming to her, had just crawled directly to Patty’s mother.
 

***

For the next few weeks, Patty tried to convince herself that Whitney didn’t really prefer her grandmother over her own mother. She threw herself into her work with a renewed energy, forcing herself to master new pole techniques, choreographing totally unnecessary floor routines. Unnecessary because nobody really cared about her dance moves. Just as long as she was moving, the stage would be littered with dollar bills. But she cared.

Dancing at the Lady had quickly become more than just a job. She was good at it. In only a few months, the other girls had started coming to Patty for help with routines and song selection. For the first time in a long time, she actually felt like she was doing something right, because clearly, she was failing miserably at being a mother.
 

As she got ready for her shift, Patty spared a quick glance at the clock that hung over the locker room. She still had twenty minutes before the night shift started. She’d been early, again. Because being early for work meant she wouldn’t be home for Whitney’s bedtime. She wouldn’t need to hear Whitney cry for Grandma—or “Ma” as she continued to call her—when Patty tried to read her a bedtime story and tuck her in. She wouldn’t need to feel the burning humiliation as her mother came in to calm Patty’s child when Patty herself stood by and watched. She wouldn’t need to deal with the dull ache that started beneath her rib cage and carried her throughout the night.

No, if she went to work early, she could avoid all that and focus on the one thing she did right. Besides, the locker room was usually empty until about five minutes before a shift started when suddenly all the girls arrived in a frenzy of activity. It was as if no one wanted to be in the club a moment longer than necessary. No one but Patty.
 

“Hey, sugar.” Patty turned to the door just in time to see Bridgette saunter in. Bridgette was still the lead dancer. The money maker. But not because of her stage skills. Bridgette was a complete master of the lap dance and generally only one stage performance was enough to keep her busy working the crowd for the rest of her shift. Patty had a lot to learn from Bridgette, because her pole skills might be stellar, but she still struggled with lap dances. A lot. Bridgette told her it was a mental block, and as soon as Patty got over whatever it was that was holding her back, she’d be making the big bucks.
 

“Hey,” Patty said to her friend, “you’re early.” Bridgette was notorious for arriving ten minutes late for her shifts, an infraction that the manager let slide only because her payout was always the biggest.
 

“I’ve decided today’s the day,” Bridgette announced. “I’m sick of watching your clumsy laps. You need to start focusing if you’re going to make any real money after your payout.”

The payout hung over Patty’s head every night. She was supposed to perform a minimum of ten lap dances a night, and give the manager a cut from each one. She managed to make the minimum every night, but just barely. The majority of her earnings came from her stage performances, and while that was impressive cash, she knew she was missing out.

“I told you,” Patty said, “I’m just not very good at asking. It’s—”

“It’s confidence, baby,” Bridgette said. She dropped her duffle bag and grabbed Patty’s hand. “And I have a plan. Practice makes everything perfect, so that’s what you’re going to do.”

Patty laughed, but she followed as Bridgette pulled her from the locker room. “What do you mean, practice? I’m not ready yet and besides, if we cut into day shift, the girls will get pissy.”

“Oh no, Patty Cakes. You’re not getting paid for this. I told you, practice.” Bridgette hurried through the club, which was still mostly empty. There were a few girls left from the day shift attending to their regular customers. The room would start to fill up about six. Right when all the men who didn’t want to go home to their families showed up to unwind. “You have to start somewhere,” Bridgette said and stopped in front of Stan, who was lining up glasses behind the bar.

Patty hadn’t spoken to Stan much since the first time they met. She noticed him though. He was always around, and she’d caught him watching her more than a few times, but not in a creepy way. In kind of a sweet way. The story around the club was that he wanted to take over the Lady but his father kept giving him the crap jobs. Most of the girls liked Stan, the way that one likes a lost puppy, or a little brother. And Patty had to admit he was cute, and there was something about the way he looked at her, like she could count on him for anything. All she had to do was ask.

“Hi, Stan.” Bridgette’s voice oozed sexuality. She had an incredible talent for talking completely normally one minute, and the next, usually when a man was around, sounding like a sex kitten in heat. “I need a favor.”

“No,” Patty said, the second she realized what her friend intended. If Bridgette thought for one second that she was going to practice lap dances on Stan, which was clearly her intention, Patty wanted no part of it. It wasn’t right.
 

Before Patty could take more than a few steps back to the locker room, Bridgette’s hand locked around her arm and spun her around. “Yes,” her friend said. “You need this. And who better to practice on? Stan’s totally safe. Like our little mascot.”

“Thanks, Bridge.” Stan frowned, but it quickly turned into a smile when Bridgette batted her eyelashes. Typical.

“You need to get better,” Bridgette said to Patty. “And you,” she turned to Stan, “need a lap dance.”

“I don’t know if I need—”

“You do,” she said. “Now come on.” Bridgette led them both to the back of the club where there were semi-private curtained rooms. “No one will bother you here,” she said. “Besides, it won’t get busy for a bit yet. You have plenty of time.”
 

With a gentle shove, Bridgette pushed Stan into the chair and turned to Patty. “Now remember. Look him in the eyes, smile, but just a little, you want to keep him guessing, and swing your hips. No touching. Just get close. Really close. Make him think you’re going to touch. Let him feel your heat.” She turned and pointed at Stan with one perfectly long, red nail. “And you, remember the rules. You don’t get to touch, either. And give her tips. You should know enough about it.”

Stan nodded. Patty shook her head once more in futility and Bridgette left, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

For a second, Patty contemplated leaving. She didn’t have to practice on Stan. No one was going to make her. But she trusted Bridgette and her friend was only trying to help. Besides, she—

“You don’t have to,” Stan said, interrupting her thoughts.

Patty turned, her mind made up. “No, I need to,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you?”
 

“No.” He smiled at her. And there it was. The look that told her he’d do anything for her. “I don’t mind,” he said.
 

“Thanks,” she said and approached him slowly. Stan didn’t look smug, or entitled, or any of the other things she assumed he’d feel. The owner’s son probably got his fair share of free lap dances, at least that’s what she would think. But he didn’t look any more comfortable than she felt, which oddly, allowed her to relax.

“Just do what you usually do,” he said. “I’ll try to help.”

She nodded and forced herself to focus on the task. The music from the main stage was pumping, a Def Leppard song. Not usually one of her favorites to dance to, but she’d danced to worse. She slung one leg over Stan and started into her usual shimmy, gyrating her hips and occasionally leaning in to wiggle her breasts in his face while she looked over his head at the wall.
 

Stan cleared his throat, and said, somewhat roughly, “Patty, I’ve been meaning to apologize to you.”

Patty stopped in mid-gyration and snapped her head down to look at him. “For what?”

“I was a total jerk to you when you first came here.”
 

Patty shrugged and resumed her lacklustre dancing. “Were you? I didn’t notice.”

“I was,” he said. Patty looked up to the ceiling and shook her hair out while he continued, “My dad had just lost his shit on me. Told me I was only in the business to get chicks. Said I was no better than the scumbag managers he hires. I guess I thought I might as well prove I was just as much of a dick as he thinks I am. I don’t usually act like that.”

“That’s what Bridgette said.”

“Do you believe her?”
 

Patty didn’t answer, only offered another shrug as she continued her moves. “Is this doing anything for you?”

He ignored her question. “So, did you believe her that I’m not a jerk?” he asked again.

She still didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. The truth was, she had believed Bridgette but she was glad for the distance there’d been between them, but not because he intimidated her.

“Patty, look at me.”
 

She did then. His eyes were the color of sea glass with flecks of black around the edges. They were gorgeous and if she was being honest with herself, there were a lot of things about Stan that were gorgeous. Her stomach did a flip and she continued to stare into his eyes while she danced. Her moves took on a new energy because there was something about the way that Stan was looking at her in return. Something that scared Patty more than it should have.

“See?” Stan’s voice was suddenly deeper. “Isn’t it better when you look in my eyes?” They both knew he wasn’t talking about the dancing anymore, but Patty couldn’t look away.
 

“So much better,” her voice matched his.

“More intimate,” he murmured. “Like you’re really connecting.”

Patty leaned in, close enough that she could smell a whisper of cinnamon on his breath. “Definitely connecting.”

Stan reached up and let his hands trail down the sides of her body. His fingers barely skimmed her, just enough of a touch to fan the desire that was building deep within. She bent her knees, slowly dancing down, closer to him. At the same moment their lips connected, Stan’s hands connected with Patty’s waist and he pulled her firmly onto his lap.

As she guessed, he tasted like cinnamon with a trace of whiskey and his kiss was firm but not demanding. He knew what he wanted, and Patty’s stomach fluttered with the knowledge that he wanted her. She’d been avoiding him, terrified he didn’t feel the same way, or worse, that he did. But as his hands travelled her body, his mouth claiming hers, Patty ran her hands through his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, and pushed any and all worries from her head as she lost herself in him.
 

“Hey,” a voice came from behind them, jarring them apart. “No touching the—”
 

Patty jumped up and tugged at her dress. An exercise in futility.
 

Manny, the DJ, stood holding the curtain to the side. “Oh, Stan,” he said. “Sorry, man. Didn’t recognize you. Patty, your set’s coming up.”