The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (6 page)

Patty's mother shook her head. “You have to remember.” She grabbed Whitney and tucked the baby into the crook of her arm. “There now, don’t you feel better?” she cooed.
 

“Of course she feels better,” Patty said. “She just threw up all over me.” She picked at her shirt, resisting the urge to pull it off. “So disgusting.”
 

“I would’ve thought you’d be used to disgusting by now. Babies aren’t all rainbows and sunshine, you know?” Patty's mother raised an eyebrow at her daughter and walked past her down the hall, talking softly to the baby in her arms.
 

Patty watched them go. Maybe if she hadn’t been quite so sleep-deprived, she would’ve been angry. She should’ve been angry. Her mother had been all helpful for the first little bit, and that was a good thing, since she had no idea what she was doing. But for the last week or so, she’d totally backed off, leaving Patty to do everything by herself. Really, she should’ve been angry with her mother for leaving her to stumble along with no idea what to do. But all Patty could think of as she watched her mother and child walk away from her—was relief.
 

***

“Let me tell you, my husband thinks he’s doing me some huge favor just watching the kids for an hour once a week,” the woman sitting across from Patty continued. The woman, Jennifer maybe, had been on a tirade about her husband for the majority of her manicure. At least she wasn’t a hand talker, Patty thought.
 

“Red again this week?” Patty held up the bottle of polish.

“Of course,” Jennifer said with a head nod. “I mean, it’s not like they aren’t his children, too,” she slipped back into her rant. “It’s not like I had them all by myself. And I don’t care if he works all week. He still needs to spend some quality time with his children. He acts as if it’s a huge ordeal to play with them once in a while. I’m telling you…”

“Patty.”

“Right. I’m telling you, Patty. Make sure the man you marry understands how important it is for you to have time by yourself. It’s way too hard to do it this way.”

Patty unscrewed the cap and pulled out the brush. The red polish gleamed like blood. She wanted to tell the woman that she didn’t have the first clue about what hard was. That having a baby on your own, and working in a nail salon part-time while you paid a neighbor to watch your illegitimate child because your mother was trying to teach you a lesson, that was hard. But she didn’t. Instead, Patty applied the bright red to each of the woman’s smooth long nails. One at a time, she methodically painted them the way she’d been trained, only nodding and occasionally offering a fake smile in response.
 

She would have given anything to have a husband like Jennifer’s. Because what her client failed to remember was all the times she’d come in and gushed to Patty about the flowers he’d brought her, and the way he’d surprised her with a family trip to Disneyland, or even how they’d spent an evening in, playing games with their kids. That was a family. And little did Jennifer know that Patty used to dream that she might have the same life for herself one day. Those dreams died the day she told Lance, the guy she thought she loved, he was going to be a father.

“Get rid of it,” he’d said.
 

“It’s too late. I’m almost five months.” She’d clutched at her stomach. She’d hoped he’d be happy, that he’d want to marry her. But, if she’d been so sure, why did she wait so long to tell him?
 

“Five months? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Why hadn’t she told him? She knew the answer to that. She’d been terrified of his reaction. Patty stumbled over an explanation but Lance cut her off.

“It doesn’t matter. Figure something out. I don’t want it.”

“Lance, please.” She’d fallen to her knees and cried like a baby herself. After all, at eighteen, she practically was. “I love you. We can be a family.”

He’d laughed. A cold, mean sound. “Family?” He spat the word at her. “You can do what you want. I’m out.”

He’d walked away then. Without a second glance. As she watched him go, the tears gradually dried. Finally, she’d pulled herself up with new resolve. Sure, she could make him pay. But what was the point? Lance didn’t have any money either. And if he didn’t want her or her child, she didn’t want him.
 

“Are they dry?” Jennifer’s voice snapped Patty back to the present and away from the awful memory.
 

She nodded. “Yes,” Patty said. “They should be. You’re all done. Can I book you for next week?”

“Of course.” Her client smiled and pulled a few bills from her purse. “And there’s a little extra in there for you.”
 

When Jennifer was gone, Patty took her time cleaning her station. She didn’t have another client booked, and since she was paying Mrs. Johnson to watch the baby anyway, she wasn’t in a hurry to get home. The only thing that waited for her there was crying and dirty diapers. Her job at the salon may not be glamorous, but it was something, and at least Harriet, the owner, had been understanding about her schedule after Whitney had been born.
 

“Hey, do you have time for a walk-in?” Patty looked up to see one of the shop girls looking at her.
 

Patty peeked around the girl and saw a stunning blond woman with perfectly teased hair standing at the front of the shop. Dressed in a black leather jacket, her red lipstick and heavy eye make-up stood out among the rest of the women in the salon, but to Patty, she looked like a movie star. “Of course,” Patty said.
 

She was stunning and elegant and the most confident woman Patty had ever seen. She approached the table and sat down with a wave of perfume.

“Hi, I’m Patty. How can I help?”

“I’m Bridgette.” The woman thrust her hands out. “I chipped a nail and I couldn’t get in to my regular place.”

The nail was an easy fix, so Patty got to work, trying her best not to stare at the beautiful woman in front of her and instead concentrate on her job. She worked in silence for a few minutes before she finally worked up enough courage to blurt out, “Are you famous?” Patty could feel the blush up to the roots of her hair. “I mean, you look famous.”

The woman tipped her head back and a rich laughter erupted from her throat. “Famous?” she asked when she recovered her composure. “Only to the guys down at the Lady.”

“The Lady?”

“The Lusty Lady,” the woman said without lowering her voice. “I’m a dancer.”
 

Patty choked and tried to cover the noise by coughing. She hastily put down the nail polish she was about to use and leaned across the tiny table. “You’re a stripper?” she whispered the question and looked around to see if anyone else had heard.

“No, honey,” Bridgette said, laughter edging her voice. “I’m a dancer. There’s a big difference.”
 

Patty felt the blush refresh in intensity. “Sorry,” she stammered. “I mean…I know…there must—”

She picked up the bottle of polish again, happy for the distraction.

“It’s okay,” Bridgette said. “It really is just dancing.”

Patty didn’t look up. “So, you don’t take your clothes off?”

“Oh, of course I do.” Her matter-of-factness almost caused Patty to lose control of the brush again.
 

“But you said—”

 
“I know what I said. But there’s an art to what I do. A rhythm, ya know? It’s so much more than taking off your clothes. It’s about power and control. When I’m up on that stage, I’m in complete control and just by moving my body I can have the entire audience entranced. It’s a performance on a base level. My dancing has to appeal on a level that’s almost primal, ya know?”

Patty didn’t know, but she nodded just the same. She’d never met a real life stripper, or dancer, or whatever she was. She’d been raised to think strippers were dirty and bad people. But the woman sitting in front of her was anything but bad. Bridgette was very clearly the opposite of everything she thought she knew.

She blinked hard before refocusing on the nail in front of her.
 

“You know,” Bridgette said. “You’d probably be good at it.”
 

“Pardon me?” Patty jerked back so quickly, the nail brush slid across the woman’s hand, leaving a slash of red in its wake. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Reflexively, she reached for some cotton and dabbed it on Bridgette’s finger, which only served to smear the mess further.
 

“It’s fine,” Bridgette said. “Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.”

Patty looked up and met the other woman’s eyes. There was laughter in her features, but kindness too. Patty took a deep breath and reached for the bottle of polish remover. “I really am sorry,” she said, calmer this time. “I don’t know what that was all about.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t trying to frighten you. You just look like the type of girl that’s got moves, that’s all. But I get it, it’s not for everyone.”

 
Not finding anything else to say, Patty nodded and bent down to her task again. She cleaned Bridgette’s hand and quickly finished up the nail. The topic of dancing or stripping, or whatever it was, didn’t come up again but when Bridgette opened her wallet to pay, Patty’s eyes grew wide at the wad of bills stuffed inside. If Bridgette noticed, she didn’t say anything, but she did take a package of matches out and scrawl her name on the inside.
 

“Just in case,” she said, and pressed the matchbook into Patty’s hand.

Chapter 3

I drove home in a fog. A roommate? No, of course I wasn’t okay with it. And William was going to freak out. As straitlaced as they came, he definitely wasn’t going to like the idea of me living with some other guy. Or any guy, really. Once, in a moment of temporary insanity, I casually mentioned the idea that at some point in the future we might move in together. Without missing a beat, he quashed the idea.
 

“Whitney, I’m a professor at Glenmore Academy,” he’d said, as if that explained everything.

“And?”

“And, as a member of such an elite and prestigious teaching community, we are held at a much higher standard than everyone else. The general population is expected to have loose morals, and make poor judgements. But as faculty for Glenmore Academy, we have an obligation to our students and society as a whole to live above reproach. It’s the example we set that is crucial for the young minds we mould and shape every day.”

I’d forgotten all about that conversation with William. I pulled into the driveway and grabbed the shopping bags out of the back seat. I was pretty sure that those strict standards didn’t apply to substitute teachers, but the memory of a lifestyle questionnaire niggled at the back of my mind. I decided to ask William about it later, after I broke the news to him.

Of course, I’d been secretly ecstatic that William had rejected the idea of living together. In fact, I’m not even sure why I’d mentioned it in the first place. It was one of those spur of the moment, this is going to last forever, type of moments. But the truth was, I wasn’t nearly as serious about him as he was about me. Or anything else for that matter. William was just so serious about…well, everything. When we first started dating, I thought it was because he was so driven and focused. And despite all the beige in his life, that was a good thing. I mean, Grams always told me I needed a stable, reliable man. It just wouldn’t do to date anyone remotely unstable or uncertain. And I agreed with her, mostly. But in the last few months, I’d started to waffle a little bit in my resolve to only date the reliable man.
 

Even if I didn’t want to admit it, which I didn’t, I was afraid Kat might be right. Maybe William was boring. Like fall asleep eating dinner, boring. But that was just a small thing. William was sweet and considerate, and he really did care about me. And that could be hard to find.

The house was dark and quiet and of course I’d forgotten to leave a porch light on. I juggled the bags in one arm and fumbled to get the keys in the lock of the back door. Maybe having someone, even if he was a virtual stranger, to come home to, would be nice after all.

The phone was ringing as I pushed through the door. I dumped my packages on the counter and lunged for the cordless before it could go to the machine.
 

“Whitney, you’re home.” William’s voice came through the line.
 

I tucked the phone under my chin and went to unload the bags. “You called me at home, didn’t you?” I tried not to roll my eyes.

“Well, yes, I did,” he said. “I tried your cell earlier but you didn’t answer.”
 

I shook my head. Sometimes William didn’t get my sense of humor—okay, pretty much never—and I’d almost completely given up trying to explain it to him. “Yes,” I said. “You did. And I was actually just about to call you. You’re still coming over for dinner tonight, aren’t you? I’m cooking something special.”

“You are, are you?” I could hear the hesitation in his voice. Probably because he knew I couldn’t cook. Well, it’s not that I couldn’t cook. I just wasn’t very good at it. And there was a big difference. “I was going to suggest we go for Italian,” he said. “But if you already have something planned…”
 

I shoved the bag of salad fixings into the fridge and turned to grab a platter for the steaks. “I do,” I said. “I picked up some steaks and I have something to—what the hell?”
 

The platter almost slipped from my hands, when out the window, I saw a shadow of a man loaded down with boxes making his way across the yard.

“Whitney?”

Reid. Obviously it was Reid. But what—

“Whitney, hello. Are you there?” William’s voice reminded me he was still on the line.
 

I flicked the switch for the porch light, illuminating Reid, who was stacking boxes on the step. “Sorry,” I said to William. Reid looked up, that same piece of hair hanging in his face. Seeing me, he smiled and waved. “I’m here,” I said into the phone.
 

Reid turned and headed back to his car. What was he doing here? Grams said he wasn’t coming until tomorrow.