“A kiwi fruit and a—” He turns.
“—rose milk,” I finish. “Extra pearls.”
He smiles, locks his arms around my waist, possibly a little smug because I’ve just kissed him on the mouth. He strokes my neck, and a fleeting thought pops up: our three-way, Shaun, Ella, and I daisy-chaining while his party downstairs turned lively. I’ve wondered, in the past, about the lovesick kind of girls who have sex while their boyfriends watch. A window into the pleasure of soft bodies, curved and fitting. Shaun took us in; of course he did—like a drug—fucking us like he had something to prove. Our girl-on-girl action just a game for him. The sex something he believed he was controlling, our preference for each other too impossible for him to fathom.
The girl behind the counter writes down our order on a neon slice of notepaper, and then whips her blond ponytail around her shoulder.
I love Bubbleology, Dolly sings, her small fists clenched, it’s my favorite!
She crosses her eyes and giggles, and it’s hard not to eat her up, she’s so adorable.
You can drink this, I say, but then you’ve got to go back inside, okay? Oneiroi’s waiting for you.
Shaun hands me the bubble tea while Dolly takes the Light, sucking the chewy tapioca balls through a fat green straw. I’m not a fan of bubble tea, but Dolly, on the other hand, can’t get enough of it. Absolutely loves it. When you’re a multiple, different tastes can translate to different personalities. Take Marmite: Dolly and I love it, but Oneiroi hates it. Ask Runner to take a bite of toast with it on and she’d gag, preferring jam herself. And the Fouls, well, they don’t really eat, choosing to watch and then scold us for our greed.
“Go easy!” Shaun says, knocking the straw out of Dolly’s mouth.
Dolly tightens her grip around the plastic cup.
It’s okay, I soothe, take your time. No one’s going to take it away from you.
Dolly throws Shaun a dark look.
“What?” he says.
Behind us the door sounds. A polite ting. We turn.
Cassie approaches, Amy close behind with a preteen girl. She is small and thin, with long jet hair that a rushed hand appears to have tied into a messy ball, a black bomber similar to Grace’s worn above laced-trimmed blue shorts. Her legs are pimpled with a late-October chill.
Who’s that? Dolly asks, excited.
I’m not sure, I say, wondering if she’s Cassie’s daughter, but then decide their age difference would make it unlikely.
Maybe she’s the daughter of one of the Electra Girls, Runner says.
Dolly shrugs.
I note the young girl is clutching one of the musical plush toys I’d seen downstairs in the club.
Can I go play with her? Dolly asks, still sucking on the straw.
Another time, Dolly, I argue. It’s late.
Dolly makes a face, throws her empty cup in the trash.
You always say that! Why can’t I stay up? I want to play and make some friends. You don’t even let me play with Grace.
Runner moves forward and takes Dolly’s arm, Come on, back inside now, she says. We’re your friends.
Dolly and I switch, the aftertaste of rose milk bubble tea in my mouth not entirely unpleasant.
“Hurry up,” Cassie snaps at the young girl, eyes fixed and ill tempered, “or no drink!”
It’s clear the girl doesn’t really care. Instead she stares vacantly until Amy turns back and pulls, a little too firmly, on her arm.
“Britney, nǐ zhè ge shǎ zi!” Cassie curses.
The young girl finally looks up, a gaze to try any heart. “I’m not a fool,” she whispers, “and don’t call me Britney. My name’s Poi-Poi.”
I wonder why Poi-Poi’s dressed in shorts on such a cold night. Why Cassie is being so impatient and cruel. Why isn’t the girl in bed, I think, and who is her mother?
I turn to Shaun and catch his eye. He looks away.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Don’t get involved, it’s none of your business.”
We step outside to the threat of imminent rain. A flickering streetlight overhead giving off a clement glow. I reach over to link Shaun’s arm, but irritated, he pulls away, and I wonder whether it’s Dolly’s dark look or my curiosity that’s annoyed him. His mood now cool and contemptuous, he begins to walk ahead.
“I’ll come in the club for a while,” I say, conscious of wanting to see Ella, “then I’ll head back home.”
He turns.
“Okay,” he says, “whatever.”
Jane and Ella are talking in reception.
Thrilled at seeing me, Ella steps from behind the black lacquered desk and flings her arms around my neck while Jane turns to hang two men’s suit jackets on padded hangers.
“Another new skirt,” I say playfully, pointing at Ella’s legs.
“One of the girls gave it to me,” she whispers, sliding both hands down the soft black leather. “It was too small for her.”
For a moment, I’m envious. I look down at my jeans, their color faded, their cut not as fashionable as I’d like. My hair still hasn’t been trimmed and styled for some time. And even though it’s fleeting, the poisonous green feeling unnerves me because rivalry has been mostly absent from our friendship. A feeling both unfamiliar and biting.
You look great, I don’t manage to say, and I’m jealous. Forgive me.
“How’s things with Grace?” I ask, hoping our connection outside Electra will somehow make me feel close to her.
“Fine,” she says. “A lot better. Thanks for talking to her.”
“No problem.”
I watch Jane leave through the glass double doors. A lick of red on the soles of her shoes like a siren. She pushes the door with both palms, gives her red hair a flick, determined strength in her upper arms. I cut a glance through to the club—Cassie and Amy talking beneath low-level lighting from the art deco lamps. Amy gesticulating, red faced and animated, while Cassie nods in acknowledgment.
“Fancy a movie tomorrow night?” Ella asks.
“Not sure. What about a game of pool instead?” I suggest.
Runner smiles, the suggestion taken in.
“Okay.”
The glass doors fling open again. Amy suddenly bursts through, her gaze somewhat unsettled. She hands Ella a drink and whispers in her ear—So rude! Oneiroi says, gesturing toward Cassie with a raised hand.
“What was that all about?” I ask as Amy leaves.
“Annabelle.”
“What about her?”
“She’s walked out. Gone to work for the competition. The Russian.”
“I know,” I say.
“You know?”
“She told me at Shaun’s party.”
Ella steps forward, leans in close, and grips my arm.
“Ow.”
“Don’t mention this to anyone,” she says, eyes flashing. Fear, anger—I’m not sure. “Or Navid will fuckin’ flip.”
“Let go of me,” I say.
She doesn’t. Not immediately. Her grip locked, fingers pinching. Gaze holding me accountable.
“You don’t know what he’s capable of, Alexa,” she says, “you don’t understand.”
Two men enter and approach, their coats wet from the drizzle outside. Ella’s hand finally falls to her side. A frenzied smile finds her lips.
“Hello,” she says, mood pinging to something sweet, “how was your holiday?”
“Great,” one of the men answers, his gray hair flat and dank. “How are you, Ella?”
“Good,” she purrs, “I’m happy to see you both.”
Pleased as cocks in a henhouse at the attention, they each slide Ella a crisp note.
Are they that stupid? Runner asks.
Clearly, Oneiroi says, they hear what they want to hear.
In return, Ella gives them each a disc. The word Electra elegantly engraved on one side in a swirled font. On the reverse: a letter C for the short gray-haired guy, and D for his friend. It’s a slow night.
Another four men enter. Ella takes their jackets. Hands them discs up to H.
One of the men, with a full beard and sad eyes, places his disc in the breast pocket of his shirt. Like an excited, greedy school kid, he rubs his hands together. I imagine them to be clammy.
Runner takes the Light and reaches for Ella’s drink, knocks it back in one swig. The man looks at me and makes a face.
What? Not ladylike enough for you? Runner shouts in my head. Prefer her to sip her drink like a good girl? The gutter waits for girls like us, right? Well, the gutter only exists because of men like you!
I feel my mood dip watching Ella at work, one eye on the door, a rumble in my gut at the possibility of Jack walking in. I can’t imagine he’d get off being in a place like this, he even said so himself, but what do I know? I barely know anything about him—his work: yes; the man: no. And who doesn’t have kinks these days?
I touch the soft part of my arm, Ella’s earlier grip leaving a tinge of red, thinking about the men who get off on the bodies of the Electra Girls, slipping used notes in their stockings. Patting the bows on their short black skirts. Something of an acceptance that this is just what men do, because they can.
I turn to Ella.
“I miss you,” I say, my eyes cast down. Muscles knotted beneath my skin.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be back to the way it was soon,” she says, “promise. I just need to save a few grand so I can lay down a security deposit and have a couple months’ rent. I saw this amazing apartment advertised last week, just off Broadway Market, but the landlord wanted six months’ rent up front.”
Noticing her drink is finished, she reaches in her purse. Pops a pill.
“Right,” she says, “I’d better go. I’m on in five.”
A pause.
“What do you mean,” I say, “‘on in five’?”
“I just told you. Annabelle’s not here. But you knew that already, right?”
She drops a layer of clothing, exposing a sun-bed tan to rival the other two members in our girl band. The sound of tiny snaps on her blouse intimate in our moment of forced silence.
I take hold of her shoulders.
“You’re going to strip, aren’t you?”
“I have to,” she says, sliding me a look. “I want to fit in. The other girls won’t accept me if I don’t do it.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ella!” I shout.
She turns away.
“I thought we talked about this,” I continue. “You have to stop. Double-dealing, bribes. And now stripping? What about setting an example for Grace, what about—”
She mutes my mouth with her palm.
“Keep your voice down,” she whispers, anger shaping her jawline. “You’re becoming a complete drag, you know that? If you can’t chill out I don’t want you here.”
I stare her square in the eye.
“Stop with all the judgment,” she defends. “I have to do this. Grace doesn’t have bills to pay. I do. And how am I going to ever get out of my mum’s place?”
“But—”
“No. Back off, Alexa.”
I drop a kiss on her forehead, aware of her need to be heard. And accepted. The Electra Girls now a conduit through which Ella might claim a place in the world, albeit one that feasts on false selves and longings.
“Don’t do this,” I say quietly. “Please.”
The lights tone down and a ceaseless bass kicks in. Several girls, all in various stages of undress, are waiting small mirrored tables, placing drinks on paper napkins. Cassie watching them while seated at the bar. Shaun pours her a drink and catches me seated and alone, my fingers nervously picking at a zit on my chin. I beckon a waitress.
“Whiskey,” I order, “neat.”
More men have arrived. They gather like prowling tigers. Staring at the narrow, elongated stage, amber shots in their hands. On either side, lights resemble cat’s eyes on a darkened highway. A shiny pole planted at the end with two blazing spotlights awaiting something divine, something wicked.
I gaze up at the stage.
The bass kicking harder, dread rattling in my chest.
She wears just a black PVC bra and matching thong. I hardly recognize her: heavy makeup, a shake ’n’ go wig, and confidence so raw I divert my eyes. Ella parts her legs and licks her top lip, red and glossed. Teases the imposter hair, waist length and wavy. In her hand she harnesses a whip made of leather and light-catching crystal. It is delicate enough to hint at play yet hard enough to warn of domination. She cracks the whip before striding toward the men.
When she reaches the end she slut-drops. Her legs wide, both hands ordering the whip between clenched teeth. I feel my heart drop into a pit of despair.
I watch her eyes turn foggy and amiss, a lazy slant to the lids that has her looking like she’s about to fall asleep or pass out. Skin shining like honey, she grabs and spins, gyrating to the music in three-inch heels.
No chance of running in those, Runner says, their shaping of the line of her legs ceremonious, making her appear taller, slimmer. Enhancers to men’s celestial fantasies.
I wonder if the pill she popped earlier is alive. It being the very thing, along with the other girls’ goading, that got her up there onstage.
She arches her back, turns and falls to her knees, and spreads her legs wide open. Longing to be fed.
With love.
Validation.
Acceptance.
A bedtime story.
But instead takes the money.
A man inches forward in his chair and wipes his hands down his thighs. I allow a single tear down my cheek.
You don’t have to do this, I voice in my head.
Maybe she wants to, Oneiroi says, maybe she likes it.
Shut the fuck up! Runner yells. No girl wants men lusting over her like dogs—it’s not the fucking attention she wants. It’s something else . . .
I glance over at Shaun and Cassie, now joined by Amy—all three lost in Ella’s striptease—feeling the encore of jealousy once again. Imagining Shaun masturbating alone in bed, picturing Ella, I drop the thought into a pit of self-punishment. The thrashing not kind but most likely true.
A group of men have edged nearer to the stage. Tiger paws waving notes like submission flags.
I surrender, Runner mimics, a tarred snarl to her lip. Take me for the asshole I am.
Ella drops on all fours and prowls closer to the men, guiding the cash to her slippery bra and thong. Two of the men stuff their bills rather aggressively while another appears a little more reserved. Woozy almost.
Why are you doing this? I scream.
I look around, suddenly noticing Navid leaning against one of the mirrored pillars next to the small, intimate stage. I watch him watching her, a glow in his eyes. Ella’s intimacy with the pole seemingly pleasing him. Her performance revs up. Dropping her shoulders, she lets the straps of her bra fall like sin until she is free of it completely. The first man stands and with a doglike lusting reaches for the bra. With a turn on her spiked heel, Ella kicks it out of reach. She wags her finger, shakes her head, mouthing: Naughty boy.
Eyes fixed on her naked breasts, he hollers and whoops, checking behind him to see he has the leering support of the other men. A sheen of sweat glazed across his upper lip.
Ella stares out now, all at once childish. Lost. And with a half-teasing smile, her moves gradually slowing down.
I notice she is wearing a gold necklace. A dainty key hanging off its loose chain just like the one I’ve seen the other girls wearing. A gift from Navid?
Navid locks eyes with her, his paw raised, toasts her with a squat glass filled with dark liquid. She gyrates closer to him and fingers the necklace before cupping her breasts, then slides both hands between her thighs. And I know immediately the gift is from him.
A key to his heart? Runner mocks.
I close my eyes and try not to see any more.
I want to go home, Dolly says, awakened and rubbing her eyes. I don’t like it in here, Alexa. Not one bit.
I look away. The churn in my gut too real, my throat tightening as I make my way through the glass double doors. My best friend: a stripper.
You knew this was coming, Runner says, stepping into the night. I warned you.
Not concerned with scoldings or told you so’s, I grab my coat and wait for Ella outside the club, knowing she’ll come look for me. The night turning dark like my mood, and sure enough, Ella appears as Runner lights a second cigarette.
“Hey,” she says, “can I have one?”
I nod, not trusting my voice enough to use it while Runner offers her a light.
Her eyes slip across my face to the ground.
Coward, I want to scream, but don’t.
Hypocrite, the Fouls scold.
“I’m tired,” she says. “I don’t wanna get into anything right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I say, my nerves jangled, frustration forced down.
My Reason turns away and hails a cab, lifting her collar with both hands to shield her neck.
“For what it’s worth, the girls thought I was pretty good tonight,” she says, a look of green pride in her stride as she walks away, the night promising to accept what she’s done.
I walk up the shoulder of the street, my wool coat smelling of wet dog. I blow on my fingers. The night has turned damp and icy. On the opposite side of the road I notice two figures, animated, bent over, then realize it’s Amy and Annabelle. Confused, I make my way over to them.
I thought Annabelle wasn’t working here anymore, Runner says. She isn’t, I say. She works at another club now, in Soho.
Nearing the sisters, I notice both are crying. They are holding hands with an intensity that looks fraught and wild. When they see me, they startle. Annabelle is breathless, her makeup smudged. Hanging off her shoulders is an oversize black double-breasted coat—probably a man’s—covering a tiny dress.
“It’s our brother. He’s been rushed to the hospital,” Annabelle wails, edging closer. “Hit-and-run. It’s all my fault.”
Fear clangs at my gut. “So what are you doing here?” I ask.
“I came to get Amy. We’re waiting for a cab.”
I place my hand on her shoulder, trying to lock eyes. My fingers brushing away her wet, limp hair.
“Do you think—?” I dare.
All three of us are rooted to the spot. Amy takes my arm, her voice shaking at the edge:
“Yes,” she says, “it’s gotta be Navid.”
Annabelle lets out a scream like a murder of crows. The streetlight ablaze and shining on her embossed temples, veins turning turquoise. A madness arisen.