SERENA

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THE SOUND OF TALKING woke me. I sat up and massaged the crick in my neck. I wasn’t the only early bird. An old man with a walker was waiting outside the bank. I glanced at the time on the car dash. Five minutes until it opened.

I checked myself in the rear view mirror. I used spit to wipe off the smeared mascara under my eyes and combed my fingers through my hair. I frowned at my pale-faced reflection. There was no getting around it, I did not look like a woman taking care of routine banking business. I looked like a woman on the run. But, I reasoned, that scenario was certainly not uncommon. Women emptied their accounts to escape their man or to grab the money before he could, all the time. And in most of those cases, they were probably emptying out joint accounts. All the money I was taking was mine alone, I’d earned every penny from the shop. I had no intention of touching the big trust fund that my father had set up for me. That money was now tainted.

The morning air was chilly and I rubbed my arms to keep warm as I joined the old man at the door.

A woman in a beige pantsuit unlocked the door. I made a beeline for the complimentary instant coffee. I needed to wake up. A security guard looked up from dunking his tea bag to give me a smile.

I sipped the bitter brew as I waited in line. The old man in the walker was chatting it up with the lone teller.

When he finally walked away I hastened to the counter. “I’d like to close my account,” I said, handing the teller my checkbook for the account number. I braced myself for questions or a little pressure to keep my account open, but she merely smiled and pulled up my account information on the computer. Her placid expression changed as she stared at the screen.

Her smile became brittle. “One moment, please.” She walked off to speak to an older woman with short gray hair. I pretended nonchalance, but my pulse ratcheted up. I tried to tell myself I was worrying for nothing, that a teller probably always conferred with a manager when someone wanted to clear out their account.

The women started casting me furtive looks as they conversed. Dammit, had Mac managed to trigger some kind of warning to apprehend me? Tracking my whereabouts I’d anticipated, but shutting down all my options that I had not expected. Who the hell was he that he had the power to control my life from a distance?

I took a quick scan of the bank, the security guard was leisurely sipping his tea as he chatted with a loan officer. I set my cup down in a hurry, splashing coffee onto the marble counter. I grabbed my checkbook and hurried to the door. I could hear the women shouting a man’s name, presumably the security guard’s.

I jumped into the car, and jammed the key into the ignition. My tires squealed as I raced out of the parking lot. I glanced in the rear view mirror expecting to find a car in pursuit, but nobody was following me. My heart rate finally slowed as I drove aimlessly around trying to figure out my next move.

Deciding that since this was a new day, I could pull out the max from an ATM again. And if Mac had turned my card into useless plastic I might as well find out for certain.

As I stepped up to the ATM, I fought the urge to peek over my shoulder. The sensation of being followed crawled up my spine. I hurriedly stuck my card into the machine, and punched in my pin. The screen flashed an alert, telling me my pin was invalid. I tried to enter the pin twice more, knowing I was pushing it, and sure enough, the ATM ended up eating my card.

I was just beginning to comprehend Mac’s reach. If he could freeze my account, how difficult would it be for him to find this car. Surely he already had somebody hunting for this make and model. I thought of removing the license plates and opted to just ditch the car instead. I walked to a store that sold pay-as-you-go phones then called for a taxi. I figured if I used an app like Uber it might be traceable. I would have the taxi drop me at a local bus station.

***

TEN DAYS ON THE LAM and I’d already pawned my final piece of jewelry, a necklace with a small emerald pendant. Well, not exactly my final piece. I still had my wedding band. I’d gone as far as having it valued. It turned out to be platinum and the bezel-set diamonds were actually real. I wasn’t sure why Mac had gone to the expense. Wouldn’t a piece of costume jewelry sufficed?

The pawn shop clerk had been eager, upping his offer when I hesitated. Ridiculously, I’d actually snatched the ring out of his hand, afraid he might not give it back.

The clerk had been much less enthusiastic about the emerald necklace. I’d only come away with enough funds to pay for a week at a seedy pay-by-the-week motel. I never stayed in towns where I’d pawned items since pawnshops required identification. It was my way of staying off the radar.

But necessity had forced me out of my hole. Lately, I’d started every morning by putting quarters into the newspaper vending machines and taking the local paper to the small diner on the corner. I’d circle potential jobs while sipping steaming coffee. According to the waitress at the diner there was no library in town or internet cafe, and my pay-as-you-go phone had terrible internet connectivity, so I was stuck searching for a job the old-fashioned way.

Today I brought my stack of papers and ordered a donut to go with my coffee. I ran my finger down the column of ads and found two possible prospects. The dollar store was looking for a cashier and a bookkeeping company had a receptionist position open. I had to leave a voice mail for the dollar store. The gravelly-voiced woman who answered at the bookkeeping firm seemed putout by my call and said they’d opted not to fill the position after all. 

Discouraged, I headed back to the motel, my keys at the ready, sticking out between my fingers for self-defense. Even in broad daylight the motel seemed unsafe. I glanced at the girl in the short, sequined halter top and black ultra-miniskirt, leaning against the wall in the hallway near my door. She used her lit cigarette to point in the direction of the newspaper I held.

"There’s a hostess position open at the club down the street."

She’d obviously noticed the telltale pen circles I’d drawn on the classified page. She tapped her ashes, letting them fall onto the filthy brown carpeting. "A few of the employees are legit, the rest, particularly the talent, work under the table. But the pay is decent."

"I'm interested."

"Just a warning. The boss can be a dick and a half. He makes us wear these cheap ass shoes and they kill." A pair of strappy sandals dangled from her hand. She brought her other hand up to her mouth and took a long pull on the cigarette and then exhaled a billow of smoke.

"You hiding from someone?" she asked. "Don't look so surprised. We’re all hiding from someone in this backwater. Who else would live here?"

"I married my enemy," I found myself voicing out loud what I’d only been thinking.

"Don’t we all," she said with a dry laugh. "I'm Sheri Starr. That's Starr with two Rs."

It had occurred to me I would need to use my real name if I wanted to get a job. Unfortunately, using my real name would make me easy to find. But if Sheri's boss paid his employees under the table I had the opportunity to be someone else.

"Ginny McAllister," I finally blurted out, knowing I'd taken far too long to offer up my name. I'd plucked the first name out of the air but decided on using Mac’s real surname, figuring it would be the last name he would ever expect me to use.

"Yeah, Sheri Starr isn't my real name either."

I smiled. "Should I go apply now?"

"Sure. But put on something a little dressier." She ground out her cigarette on the wall, then dropped it on the carpet. "I'll introduce you to the dick and a half himself."

I stuck the key into the knob and jiggled it to get the lock to turn.

"You're probably wondering why I'm so eager."

"Maybe a little," I said.

"Because Angela already thinks she's princess material. I won't be able to deal if Lou gives her the hostessing gig."

Sheri followed me into the room. I wondered if all the rooms had ugly, sagging furniture complete with stains and cigarette burns.

She took a quick stroll around obviously taking inventory. "Wow, you must have left in a hurry." I knew what she was referring to. There was not one personal token in the whole room. No books, no magazines, no knick-knacks. I was living a facade of a life just like my deceitful husband.

"There are some sodas in the fridge," I said as I pushed the curtain aside that served for a closet door and picked out an outfit for the interview. I chose a simple dress with cap sleeves.

Sheri popped open a can of cola and took a seat on the lone barstool. "Perfect," she said with a smirk. "If you’re trying to get a job as a teller." She got up and sent the hangers whooshing along the metal pole until she came to a silky, nearly sheer blouse I’d bought on a whim from a goodwill shop. “And this,” she said, plucking out a short black skirt.

I opened my eyes wide.

"You might as well get used to it.” She gestured toward her own outfit. “As you can see, Lou makes us wear skirts that barely cover our pussies."

I changed in the bathroom and came out a few minutes later.

"Take your hair down. And don’t wear the ring."

I pulled the pins from my chignon then stared down at my band.

Sheri's lips curled into a knowing smile. "I’ve been there. Can’t live with the bastard, yet life ain’t shit without him." She’d homed in on the truth. But I missed a man who was a mirage; who’d lied to me, who’d probably gotten my father killed. If the passion and longing my mother had felt was even half what I was feeling I could understand her desperation. Being in love with the wrong man was unbearable.

I kept tugging on my hem as we walked the few blocks to the club. I hesitated for a moment in front of the club. The marquee had a top hat with a scantily clad girl who popped out like a magician's rabbit.

"Hope you weren't expecting Vegas," Sheri said.

I followed her around the back and down a hallway with red and gold flocked wallpaper which put me in mind of a brothel. Sheri knocked on a door that was slightly ajar and then, without waiting for a response, opened it wide. The man behind the desk lifted his head and gave her an annoyed look.

I had not expected him to be handsome. I'd pictured a cigar-chomping, mobster-looking guy.

"You said you were looking for a new hostess. So I brought you one," Sheri said. "This is Ginny McAllister." She threw me a discreet wink as she said my fake name then gave me a nudge forward before shutting the door, leaving me alone with her intimidating boss.

I discreetly wiped my palm on my skirt before stepping forward. But he didn’t extend his hand to me, instead he leaned back in his chair and checked me out thoroughly, so thoroughly that I found myself blushing. His dark eyes raked over me not once, but three times. When he asked me to turn around I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I turned for him.

"Just put those books on the floor." There were ledger books piled high on the only other chair in the room.

“You ever hostess before?”

“No. But I waited tables at a diner while I attended college.”

His eyes narrowed a little at the reference to college. “You have the look of a girl running from a rich prick. I don’t want some angry husband busting up the place.”

“He won’t. It ended amicably.” Survival had turned me into a liar.

“Bullshit,” he said. “No man lets a woman like you go.”

Was that meant to be flattering? Instead it was rather unsettling. Lou was a harsh, intimidating man.

“Hostessing is only a part of the job. I need someone who will do double-duty as a dancer.”

“You mean a stripper?”

“This is an upscale joint. My girls are burlesque dancers.” He said it with a sleazy smile. “You don’t need to bare your tits completely. Unless you want to. Pasties or a strip of lace will do.”

I stood up. “I don’t think it’s for me, but thanks.”

“There aren’t a lot of opportunities out here. This place is a desert in more ways than one.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers. “I’ll give you four nights hosting. On Friday though, I want you shaking your ass on stage. Been a little dead around here. Could use some fresh blood. If you pull in the clients I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll give you a percentage of the action.”

I realized up close that he was handsome in a smarmy way. His hair was combed back and oiled and he sported a precision-trimmed goatee which he darkened with dye. He wore his shirt with the first few buttons undone. He had a pinky ring on each hand and I could smell his cologne from across the desk.

"Give me Friday and the job's yours." His teeth flashed bright white in his tanned face. He was tanned dark probably from the desert sun although it wouldn’t be hard to imagine him going to a tanning parlor considering how slickly groomed he was.

I wavered. I could just return to my old life and look for help from my friends. Mac didn’t own me, even if he acted like he did.

Seconds later, I was thinking the opposite. It just seemed smart to stay out of his reach for a little while at least. I'd considered calling the police but what would I tell them? I had no real evidence he’d committed a crime. And being tricked into a fake marriage—what proof did I have? I’d stupidly left the only evidence I had, the shredded license, in his possession.

“Lose the ring. My customers want to at least fantasize that my girls are available,” he said, taking my hesitation for acceptance.

He pushed away from the desk and stood up. "Follow me."

He walked with an exaggerated swagger and kept combing his fingers through his pomaded hair as he led me through the back of the club.

He rapped his knuckles on a door with a handwritten sign which read, "Dressing Room."

Without waiting for a response to his knock, he opened the door.

"Tracey, doll, got a new one for you."

"Okay," she said, without enthusiasm.

"She'll be the Friday centerpiece. I want to see her in something red," he said then turned to me and smiled that wolfish grin again.

I breathed a silent sigh of relief when he left me alone with Tracey.

There were pictures clipped to the large vanity mirror of burlesque performers from the past in sepia tones, modern shots of performers were tacked to the walls, and a string of boas tied together was draped along the wall like a garland. Someone had a history textbook open on the vanity table.

Tracey slid open a closet door. The closet was filled with corsets and costumes. There seemed to be a lot of sets of wings; butterfly wings, white-feathered ones, and wings that were made of wire and gauze that looked almost angelic.

She eyed me critically. "You’re shorter than most of the girls." Tracey was a tall blonde with obviously enhanced breasts.

"This is what Marly was using before she got married." She pulled out a black and red corset and then found some fingerless gloves and a derby to go with it. She rummaged in a cardboard box and pulled out two black hearts covered in black crystals with actual tassels hanging from them.

"Mr. Vinson mentioned that I could wear a lace bandeau."

"He’s full of shit. He’ll go through the roof if you're wearing anything more than pasties and a thong when your set's over."

I took the skimpy costume from her. One thing for certain, Mac would not be the kind of man who would appreciate his wife, fake wife, I mentally corrected, stripping in front of other men. That was an understatement. Talk about going through the roof. Mac would be apoplectic with rage.

I handed the outfit back. "I’ve changed my mind."

Tracey shrugged and stuffed the corset back into the closet.

I hurried back the way I'd come. Lou was standing with his arms folded across his chest in conversation with an older man. I kept walking hoping ridiculously to go unnoticed in the narrow passageway.

He put an arm out to block my way. "How come you're not rehearsing?"

"I'm not comfortable doing that."

"Say no next time when you fucking mean no. Don't fucking lead me on."

Lead me on? What a strange phrase to use about turning down a job.

"Lou, man, if you don't want her I'll take her. Stacey's quitting."

Lou made a scoffing sound. "You'll take her?" He thumped his chest. "She's working for me."

He glared down at me. "Fine. Fuck. I’m hiring you as a hostess, but anytime I’m short a waitress you’ll need to fill in." And so began my next phase of being on the run.