Ripped

By E. Ann

Jade is magnetic. The epitome of mens fantasies, she exudes power as she gyrates on stage every night. Surrounded by other strippers who have been seduced by drugs, sex, and the allure of escape, Jade never lets her guard down. Determined to always remain in control, Jade never allows anyone to get close enough to catch a breath of her reality. Yet one scar-faced stranger keeps trying.

Lilly White has resigned herself to a life without love. Her inability to grieve the death of her meth-addicted ex-husband has left her with no choice but to seek therapy in which she must confront her past abuse and face her demons. Meanwhile, night after night, Jade is becoming increasingly annoyed by the strangers leering stares. When she finally confronts him, things go very wrong. After Jades strip club boss is found murdered, suddenly everyone wants to ask her questions. Now, whether she likes it or not, Jades secrets are in jeopardy of being revealed.

But no one knows that Jade keeps secrets even from herself. Soon everyone will discover just how deeply hidden they are, for Lilly and Jades lives are about to intertwine in a strange twist of fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462037353

E. Ann

E. ANN is a licensed clinical psychologist. She received her PhD from the University of Kansas at Lawrence. She resides in the beautiful panhandle of Florida.

Book preview

Contents

prologue

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epilogue

I leave a gem of innocence

I take a rock of fortitude

I drove more miles on inner roads

To say farewell to demons past

E. A.

prologue

eddy can’t breathe.

He knows his crushed trachea is the reason.

He hears his own wheezing as he falls to his knees. For the first time in his life, he feels terror—he is dying.

His ears start to ring, and as the ringing gets louder, a strange sense of calm clears his head. He can’t quite believe he is going out this way, and he manages one last conscious thought:

How the hell did this happen…

1

she looks for him in crowded places, scanning backs of heads, studying faces, remembering brushy dark hair and a smile that once reflected her heart. She believes he is a secret federal agent, undercover and using the intellect and charisma that captured her innocence, that turned her into living lust and heat, to catch people running from the law.

She thinks of moist earth, of caskets and maggots, and she cries.

Jade wonders if she maybe shouldn’t have had that last shot of tequila. But Christy had wanted to do a body shot, and Jade couldn’t say no. Christy smells like Victoria’s Secret, some oriental floral scent that curiously makes Jade salivate, makes her hungry in some place other than her stomach. So Jade had licked the salt from Christy’s arched neck and kissed the lemon wedge from her sweet pout…twice.

The air is alive, fed by a DJ who shoots musical amphetamine into the room until it hums on an enigmatic high. Music lures her onto the stage, adrenaline offsetting the liquor, sobering her up, but not too much. She feels it, and she smiles. She is magnetic. She is power. She makes men part with their power—dirty green leaves lining the stage, never to be used for bills or anniversary presents, covetously tucked in next to her universe.

There is a man sitting alone, his table two back from the stage. His face stands out, and Jade doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to see who is watching her. But she can’t help but notice him because his face is deformed, as if he wears a mask of melted rubber. The hospital’s third floor flashes in her mind, snapshots of gauze and oozing and skin and lives that will never be the same. She wonders if women will sleep with him, and she is irritated at him and sorry for him all at the same time. Her irritation grows because his eyes are killing her power buzz.

She exits the stage before the end of her set, and Eddy shoots her a warning look, pretending to communicate he thinks she’s slacking but Jade knows he’s still pissed. He hasn’t forgotten that she wouldn’t let him Ed-ify her. When he had first tried the line—Hey, baby, let Eddy ed-ify you. Let Eddy satisfy your every need…—she had wanted to tell him he was a fucking moron, that he must not know the definition of edify, that his activities of choice would not enlighten her but would leave her feeling like the worst kind of whore. And she had no intention of becoming the recipient of any of his generous gifts. Paris, whose ed-ification had taken place against the dressing room wall, had complained for days about her pee feeling like fire, somehow not connecting the dots until Jade had suggested she take a trip down to Planned Parenthood. Paris had departed with not only a Z Pac but also with a medical explanation for why there was an unopened box of tampons in her bathroom drawer. Jade doesn’t know if Eddy has been edified about this matter, but perhaps it is just as well because Jade doubts Eddy has been the only Leaning Tower of Pisa in Paris.

As usual, the bathroom smells of stale cigarettes and a whiff of something not available in vending machines. She barely looks at herself in the mirror, a blur of mahogany hair and minx skin bending over to find a stall with feet. Christy’s Cinderella shoes face the wrong way, as if she might be leaning over the toilet vomiting, but Jade knows better.

From behind the stall door she hears a strong sniff, and, suddenly, red droplets fall on the white tile.

"Oh, shit…shit, shit, shit…" and Christy does not sound angry but anxious. The exclamation is followed by the sound of someone trying to coax toilet paper from a cheap roll.

Christy, here… and Jade reaches down and under the door to hand her a wad of brown paper towels. Lean forward and pinch the top of your nose, on the bridge…

"Why are you checking up on me? Go away…" but Jade knows Christy doesn’t mean it, knows she is ashamed and embarrassed because she made a promise she couldn’t keep.

Are you still here? at the same time the door swings open, and Christy is standing there, one hand holding the edge of the metal door, the other full of paper towels cradled to her nose. And then she is crying.

J, I wasn’t planning on it…but Eddy had an extra bump…

Jade is angry. She knows an extra bump isn’t really an extra bump, and she doubts an extra bump is all that went up Christy’s nose. Eddy has been grooming Christy for months, and he will expect his return soon, is, in fact, getting impatient for it. Jade suspects this is not the first, or last, time Christy will break her promise.

I keep getting these damned nose bleeds, Christy says, her voice slightly muffled from behind the paper towels.

Well, the happy dust you vacuum up your nose is eating holes in your nasal septum, she wants to say, but instead, Has it stopped?

In reply Christy lowers the towels, and blood drips onto breasts men want to hold and women want to have. Her voice is panicked.

Jade—oh Jesus. I can’t go out there like this. Eddy can’t see me like this…

I’ll cover for you, she interrupts, and she now can feel Christy’s worry about Eddy—worry about the power she has given him. Jade doesn’t think Christy’s judgment is always bad, but the highs of drugs and seduction and fast money cloud Christy’s mind at times, force her to do things. Jade wishes Christy would go back to college—would use her brain cells rather than use them up.

She leaves Christy propped over the bathroom sink. There is little risk of someone walking in on her. Female patrons are few and far between, save for those rare occasions when a ladies’ night is arranged. Then, this building without windows conceals a different sort of crowd—one that would like to believe it is fundamentally different from the other but really only differs because of what is on stage. Indeed, it has been Jade’s experience that the women get rowdier than the men, perhaps because there are fewer opportunities for them to do so. Certainly, there are fewer opportunities in general in this small southern town, a place that finds itself in a section of country belonging to both the Bible belt and the black belt, a place where religion marries poverty.

Jade has heard Christy was born here. The rumor mill said Christy had gone away but had moved back when her high school sweetheart had become more demanding than her college courses. Unfortunately, the demands were not the kind that could ever be satisfied; Jade knew because of the bruises Christy tried to cover.

Eddy leans against the DJ booth, chin raised as his eyes take in what his consumers have come to see. His place doesn’t valet, and his bouncers wear yellow t-shirts with the word Security imprinted in bold black letters, but he is proud of his joint because of his girls. He’s had his car valet-parked by dudes in monkey costumes and been eye-balled by hotshot security guys with suits and earpieces, but the girls are what make or break a place. Doctors, lawyers, blue-collar guys, teachers—they all give up their dough when their fantasy appears, and his place has no shortage of fantasies. Eddy mentally tracks his stock on a regular basis and makes sure he keeps at least the standard variety: blonde, brunette, at least one exotic, the almost underage, the professional, the nasty whore…

Right now, he watches one of his favorites: Paris is on stage, her widely-spaced double Ds mesmerizing a young cowboy out on the town for his birthday. The cowboy’s friends catcall and laugh as sloppy hands are playfully slapped away when they grab at body parts supposedly off limits. They were not off limits for Eddy. His arousal is instant when he remembers the look of surprise on her face when he did exactly what he wanted to, switching channels, so to speak, mid program.

For her own reasons, Jade’s eyes also study the stage. Paris has a stomach that is impossibly flat. Jade wonders how long it will conceal its secret, or if perhaps Paris will erase the known unknown; maybe she already has. Paris feeds her body poison. When Jade looks at Paris, she thinks of sharpness—of elbows and knees, of needles. Paris trades one unbearable reality for another. The long French maid gloves she wears are part of her façade, but Jade knows what they really cover. She blocks this from her mind because sadness is not something she allows herself to feel in this place.

Jade positions herself directly in front of Eddy.

Christy’s sick—food poisoning or something. She leans in close to repeat the diagnosis because Eddy’s expression tells her he either didn’t hear her or, more likely, simply doesn’t care. It’s coming out both ends real bad, she adds, hoping this will discourage him from investigating the matter.

His face is indifferent. Tell her to wipe her ass and get it out here. I’ve got guys asking for her.

Jade swallows what she would like to say. She licks her lips, leans in even closer. Seductively, in his ear, I’ll make them forget her.

She sashays off before he can reply, knowing the only thing he cares about is an empty stage.

2

she gazes out French doors, sunshine dappled and colors surreal. Pine trees stand tall, proud of their height but spindly and thin next to muscled live oaks draped in robes of Spanish moss. She expects him to appear among the tree trunks, to walk into the clearing in her backyard, a slightly bemused expression on his face because he knew she would suspect he wasn’t really gone.

She waits for him. She wonders if she will ever stop waiting.

Lilly White’s house is filled with the calm colors of earth, a palette of browns and greens and honey. She sits in her living room, a half-empty mug of now cold coffee in her hands. She wants to top it off but can’t; if she does, she will be late.

The drive downtown takes twenty-five minutes because of stoplights that turn red more often going east than going west. Dr. Johann S. Bach’s office is tucked inside a building twelve stories high, a modern piece of architecture that shimmers like a black and silver Harley. She parks in a lot intentionally designed with too few spaces, the investor having preplanned the parking garage going up next door.

When she pushes through heavy glass doors, her shoes tap-tap sharply against grey speckled tile aptly labeled bird’s egg, if one really wanted to know. Lilly hadn’t, but the receptionist on the first floor had apparently assumed that she had.

Lilly no longer feels an imaginary audience, no longer hears stage whispers when she pushes the elevator button for the fourth floor where Dr. Bach’s private practice pays eighteen hundred in monthly rent. She is not ashamed of visiting this place, but she does not consider it a status symbol as some trendy circles do. She has told no one about her patronage here, and her visits will never be considered by a claims agent. Lilly pays cash for these strange hours in her life because she does not plan on anyone or any entity ever knowing.

The waiting room looks like an Ikea floor display of black leather furniture. She sometimes wonders if this is the real reason the building reminds her of a Harley.

Per her routine, she settles into the armchair nearest the seventy-five gallon salt water aquarium. She always sits in the same seat, likes to stare back at the striped emperor angels and bright clownfish. But rarely does she sit long enough to get comfortable; her psychologist is prompt.

As usual, Dr. Bach is on time. He collects his client from the waiting room, this client who never speaks first, who doesn’t engage in light waiting room chatter with other clients or with him when he walks out to greet her.

In his office, she sits across from him. She had once told him she had selected him from the yellow pages because he shares the name of her favorite composer. He wonders if it was fate; he wonders if she ever thinks about fate.

Today, her smooth black hair is down rather than pulled back as it sometimes is. The ends curl across slightly slumped shoulders, reaching down to brush the front of her orange sweater. The color contrast makes him think of Halloween and pumpkins, or maybe it is the roundness of her breasts that make him think of pumpkins. It is against his beliefs about office furniture psychology, but he sits behind his desk. His body responded like a fifteen-year-old boy during their last session together, and though he doesn’t think she noticed, he can’t be certain. He knows he should discuss his attraction to this client—this glorious creature—with his office partner or at least a colleague, but he fears ethics will force him to refer her away. And he