CHAPTER TWELVE
Kacey
I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I’d come home for the July fourth weekend as promised, and my mom couldn’t stop smiling, she wanted to share her secret. She’d gotten engaged to her pulmonologist, a doctor at Newark Gen and was getting married tomorrow in the hospital chapel.
“But Ma,” I protested. “How long have you known this guy?” I asked. “Two months?”
“Baby, we just met, but when you’re my age, you see a good guy and grab him if he’s available. I’m not like you, a pretty young thing. It’s not like there are men lining up at my doorstep asking for dates.”
“But Ma, that’s not even it,” I said disbelieving. “I mean, you’re sick. Does he know just how ill you are?”
“Of course honey, he’s my doctor, and before you say anything, this is going to be good for both of us. I’ve been totally honest with him about my money situation, and I’ll be moving into his house in the burbs after this weekend.”
That was good. There wasn’t any way we could hide our poverty, so yeah, Doctor Phillips couldn’t be marrying her for some quick cash. And he had to know about her failing health, he was treating her after all. Come to think of it, she might not have that many years left so the shotgun aspect, morbid as it was, made a little bit of sense.
But I hadn’t been able to ask her many questions because she’d rushed me to the hospital after I changed into the pink gown I’d packed.
“Just bring something nice,” she’d requested. “Like something you might wear to a wedding.”
But I’d almost died when the double doors opened and I’d seen the men standing at the altar. Not the groom obviously, but the two masculine, domineering men flanking him, dark hair and green eyes flashing. It was the two men from the club … Logan and Lance.
Before you ask if I’d lost contact with them since that fateful night, the answer was yes, sort of. It wasn’t that I wanted to. It’s just that the other strippers cautioned me about seeing customers outside of work.
“Listen Kacey, you don’t know them,” warned Sheila, an older woman who still had a hot bod. “You know why strippers are always victims on TV? Because it’s true,” she emphasized. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“But … but I just had sex with them on stage!” I stuttered. “I feel like I know them already … sort of.”
“Yeah but that was here, with us here to protect you. Once you step outside, there are no guarantees honey, you’re just a corpse in the morgue.”
Okay, maybe that’d been going too far, but she freaked me out nonetheless. I’d met Logan and Lance outside after the show as promised, dressed in a trampy leopard print jacket, but the guys hadn’t cared. They’d gestured to a fancy car, indicating for me to get in, and that triggered an internal alarm. Never get in a car with attackers is the first rule of personal safety, right?
And so I’d shaken my head, done my best to give them a breezy smile, and taken a drag of my cigarette.
“Next time, okay?” I said, striding back into the club, adding some bounce to my walk. I could feel their eyes on my ass, watching every sway, but the twins made no effort to change my mind, to chase me.
Back in the darkened club, Sheila asked, “So what happened?”
“I told them next time,” I said. “They know where to find me.”
Suddenly Linda cut in, another peroxide blonde.
“Don’t listen to Sheila’s bullshit,” she snorted, her hair especially garish in the neon lights. “There’s no next time with guys like that.”
And unfortunately, it was true. Although I’d worked every night for the next week at the Donkey Club hoping to see them, the twins hadn’t come back. I’d consoled myself, telling myself that everything was in my head, they hadn’t looked at me as anything special. I was a dancer, after all, and had fucked them silly in public. I wasn’t exactly a good girl that you brought home to mom.
But now at the hospital, fate had brought us together again. Because Logan and Lance stood by their father’s side, astonishment in their eyes as I glided down the aisle. Holy shit, my mom was getting married to their dad? Oh my god, I’d accidentally had sex with my stepbrothers?
The same thoughts must have been going through their minds, although they managed to look calm during the ceremony, letting our parents enjoy their special time. But I could hardly meet their eyes over the table during lunch.
“Kacey,” said my mom. “You live in the city too. Is your apartment near Logan and Lance’s place?”
“Um no,” I said, my face flushing. “I live in Hell’s Kitchen and they live downtown,” I muttered. I didn’t want to add that I lived in a crumbling fourth floor walk-up easily accessible to the Donkey Club, whereas my new brothers lived in Tribeca, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city.
“Well, you guys should get together sometime,” encouraged my mom, “especially now that you’re siblings.”
I felt myself grow beet red at the word “siblings” and shot a quick look at my new brothers. Infuriatingly, they looked amused rather than embarrassed.
“Yes sister,” said Lance, ever the tease. “Let’s get together sometime. I live right around the corner from Logan, we’re happy to host.”
Even the word “host” made me flush. It made me think of hosting some kind of depraved sex party, where I’d be servicing the guests.
But Logan stepped in, smoothly and calmly, rescuing me from my obvious discomfort.
“Kacey, the least we can do is give you a ride back to the City. How about it?” he asked.
“Oh thank you, we appreciate it,” gushed my mom. “Kacey you’re always saying how the train is late, how it takes forever. Why don’t you ride back with them? It’s Sunday night, traffic shouldn’t be bad.”
“No Ma, it’s okay,” I said quickly. “I have a lot of stuff, I don’t want to burden Logan and Lance.”
“No burden,” said Lance.
“No trouble at all,” said Logan.
And so it was settled. My tattered suitcase was packed into the back of the Tesla, and I waved goodbye to my mom and new stepdad as we zoomed off.
“So Kacey,” said Lance. “This is interesting, given the circumstances. Your mom thinks you work at a non-profit?” He smiled wickedly, throwing me a glance from the front seat.
Oh god. I squirmed in the back. I was in such a small space with these men, their massive forms so close in the compact car. I flushed again, my breasts enlarging, my bottom moistening in the tight confines.
“Um … yeah,” I confessed. We’d talked about our jobs at lunch, and I’d hastily spoken before the twins could say anything. “I work in immigration reform at the Urban Justice Project,” I’d said quickly, giving them a swift glance, pleading with them to keep their mouths shut.
And my brothers had taken the cue.
“I’m sure you’re an excellent advocate,” said Lance.
“Your dedication to eradicating poverty is impressive,” added Logan, with a wry grin my way.
I was silently appreciative, shooting them a grateful look of thanks. But now the moment had arrived, and my brothers and I had a lot of ground to cover.
“My mom and I … I don’t want her to worry about me,” I said slowly from the back seat. “She’s sick and was worried enough when I headed off to the city on my own.”
“That’s true,” nodded Logan thoughtfully, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “Our dad mentioned that he was treating her as a patient, and usually he only sees fairly complicated cases,” he said.
“Yes, so … I didn’t want to tell her that things didn’t exactly go smoothly when I moved to New York. I was supposed to have a scholarship to attend the New School, but somehow that got all messed up, and there was no money for tuition. So I figured I’d work for a semester, save up, and then re-enroll. But it didn’t exactly work that way,” I said shamefacedly. “I couldn’t find a job. Not even Starbucks. I guess since they offer health benefits and tuition reimbursement, everyone wants to work for them these days.”
My brothers exchanged a look. Okay, as high-flying real estate brokers, hearing me pine for a job at Starbucks was below their usual strata. But this wasn’t the time to mince words. They’d already seen me dance and knew what I did for a living.
“But baby,” said Logan softly. “Surely there was a place for you somewhere. Maybe as a nanny or paralegal?”
I smiled bitterly.
“Believe me, I tried,” I said. “To work childcare in NYC, you need a license, and most law firms want their paralegals to have college degrees,” I said. “Which I don’t have,” I added pointedly.
My brothers exchanged another glance. I could tell something was brewing and it wasn’t good. But before I could say anything, we pulled into the driveway of an expensive-looking building, a doorman running out to greet the twins.
“Mr. Phillips,” he said courteously, nodding at them both. “Welcome back.”