Braver

(A Runaway Novel)

By: Lexie Ray

Copyright © 2013 RascalHearts.com

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Even the thickest walls couldn’t keep New York City out.

I woke up, as I usually did, to the sounds of traffic, both human and vehicular, outside of my wall. The small window of my room looked out onto the dingy alleyway behind the nightclub. It wasn’t the best view. The nightclub wasn’t located in the best neighborhood, but I could still envision the throb of the city just by looking out of it.

Stretching, I worked out the kinks in my neck and considered the dull throb between my legs.

That ache meant I was making money.

I looked at the small alarm clock on my desk. Eleven in the morning. I’d only gotten about five hours of sleep, but I never needed much — not even as a little girl.

I yawned widely as I climbed out of bed, my long legs popping. Did that mean I was getting old? Twenty-seven couldn’t possibly be that old, could it? I was beginning to suspect that it was, in my profession.

I flipped on the light, squinting in its bright, fluorescent glow, and looked at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door. Whenever I didn’t share my room with anyone, I slept naked. I found it to be my most comfortable and natural state. Plus, I never woke up with weird marks on my skin from a tank top that got bunched up.

And I’d be damned if I was going to be picking wedgies in my sleep.

I smoothed my fuzzy hair and wiped the sleep from my eyes. My latest braids had lasted two days, but I was going to have to redo them today before work. These were getting downright nappy.

Running my hands down my torso and belly, I eyed myself critically. My breasts remained high and firm on my chest. When I was younger, I’d wished for them to be bigger. Now, I thought they were just right. Men had all kinds of tastes, I’d learned. Plus, if they were much bigger, they’d already be sagging. With the magic of bras these days, I could look any size I wanted to without the added weight on my chest.

I turned to the side and examined my silhouette, standing in a slant of sunlight that somehow found its way into my window each morning. My belly remained flat, my butt, high. I’d been blessed with good genes, that much was certain. I could eat whatever I wanted without gaining weight and busting ass at the nightclub was as good a workout as any.

I knew girls who scraped time together to work out for two hours every day and didn’t have as good a figure as I did. I pitied them. Sometimes, you just had to be lucky.

I slipped on my silky, slinky kimono and did my thing in the bathroom. It was silent, everyone still asleep but me.

It was my favorite time of day. It was like I had the whole place to myself.

The shuffling of my slippers were the only sound as I padded down the carpeted hallway. Even though the carpeting was thin, industrial quality, it helped muffle footsteps up and down the corridor. I tried to walk lightly even though I knew I didn’t have to bother. It would probably be hours before anyone else woke up.

I looked fondly at each door I passed. The girls loved to decorate them, many unaware of how truly revealing it was. Nearly all of them had their names posted — the names Mama had given them, of course. Cream and Shimmy, Daisy and Pumpkin, all presented proudly in varying forms of cursive or glitter or huge block letters. They identified with their names, wore them like a badge of honor.

Then the decorations began. Those were almost like a diary. Most of the images were posters or clippings from magazines. Cream and Shimmy, who were roommates, painstakingly cut out petal and leaf and stem shapes from regular magazine pages and formed them into celebrity-dotted flowers. I could pick out Ryan Gosling’s gorgeous mug from part of a swirling rose.

Daisy and Pumpkin, on the other hand, cut out photos of puppies and kittens. You had to smile at their sweet door every time you passed it. They added several new ones practically every other day, making it seem like the animals were constantly cavorting over the surface of the door.

Blue’s door was probably the most creative. In her free time, she sketched. She had pieces of paper taped up to her door with caricatures of all the girls in Mama’s employ. She’d emphasized all of the features that had earned them their nicknames — Pumpkin’s round bottom, Shimmy’s constant dancing, and so on. The drawing of me was legs all the way up, munching on a chocolate bar.

Eating too much chocolate wasn’t how I got the name Cocoa, but nobody had to know that.

My door was free from any decorations except for a poster board with my name on it. I always kept another fresh poster board inside my room to write names of my new roommates. I didn’t post any magazines or pictures on purpose. I wanted my roommates not to feel intimidated by me taking up too much ownership of our shared space. I’d been here the longest out of anyone, and Mama liked to use me to help girls get used to life at the nightclub.

My roommates were always coming and going. If they didn’t work out at the nightclub, they moved on. If they did, they usually moved out and into another room to make way for the next new girl in mine.

I didn’t much mind. It was a great way to get to know everyone even though I wasn’t particularly close with anyone.

I smiled at the last door before the stairwell — Yo-Yo and Fantasy had attached an enormous poster of Charlie Hunnam along with a marker on a string. Girls who passed by had been adding saucy commentary to his sultry gaze.

“Look at Blue like that anytime, baby,” one of them read.

“PANTY DROPPER,” scrawled another.

I smirked and uncapped the marker. “Wish they all looked like this,” I added, drawing a smiley face.

All the girls were so different, as the decorations revealed, but we still came together in something resembling a sisterhood. It was difficult to understand, given the unique backgrounds everyone hailed from.

In fact, the only thing the door decorations had in common were that there were few — if any — photos of friends and family.

We were a family here. We were all the family we needed.

At the foot of the stairs, I paused for a moment. The nightclub was always so foreign in the morning, the light trying to get in, the chairs empty. I sometimes imagined I could still hear the music and chatter from the night before, ghostly echoes in the empty room.

Sometimes, it gave me chills.

Dust motes swirled in the light as I made my way to the kitchen, my mind still thinking about the night before and the customers I’d served. I had my regular customers, of course, the ones who couldn’t get enough of Cocoa, but every night was something new. I met new people, did new things, and never got bored.

I was good at what I did. The money I earned reflected that. Maybe the Cocoa I presented at the nightclub wasn’t the real me, but she did make me some cold, hard cash.

I pushed my way into the kitchen and jumped.

“What are you doing up so early, Mama?” I asked. Since Mama owned the nightclub, she was usually awake until well after the sunrise, looking at the books, counting up how well we’d done the night before, planning for future musical acts and dinner specials — running the joint.

She turned and smiled at me. All wrapped up in a terrycloth robe, her hair in curlers, and without the formidable amount of makeup she usually sported, Mama looked like anyone’s idea of a comforting mother figure. She could be that, when she wanted to be.

But I wasn’t the only one who knew Mama could be downright ruthless if she had to be. I’d seen her act as a bouncer, angrily evicting customers who tried to get away with things like not paying or abusing the girls.

Ruthless? During those times, Mama was terrifying.

“Hey girl,” she said, turning back to the grill. “Couldn’t sleep. Can I cook you up some breakfast?”

“Mama, if you’re cooking, I’m eating,” I said, holding my hands up and laughing. Mama was as good a cook as she was a businesswoman. It was a real treat if you got to eat her cooking. It felt like home.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said, grabbing a couple of plates. “I always make too much for just me.”

We sat right at the counter in the kitchen, where just the night before, chefs and assistants had dashed around, preparing and plating dinners for our customers. The room was empty and sterile. Soon, though, girls would start waking up and wandering down here for their own meals. And after that, the chefs would dash in to begin preparing for the customers again.

It was a never-ending cycle.

I hardly ate breakfast myself, preferring a cup of tea in the morning and something more substantial later in the day. However, I’d never refuse Mama’s food. She had to use some kind of kitchen magic to get her pancakes so fluffy, the bacon so crispy. The yolks never dared to break in her eggs over easy.

“You already do the books for last night?” I asked, popping in a forkful with a bit of everything on my plate, dipped in syrup. The flavors — buttery, creamy, salty, savory, sweet — melted in my mouth.

“Sure did,” Mama said, her mouth full. “We don’t know how to do a bad night, it looks like.”

“That’s great,” I said. When the nightclub did well, it meant all the girls did a good job.

“I wonder what we could be doing to get new customers in,” Mama said, taking a sip from a steaming mug of black coffee. “I know I can’t rightly advertise the place. Word of mouth is good — return customers bringing new customers — but I can’t help thinking we could be doing better.”

I looked at Mama askance. Her usually warm, brown eyes were in a faraway place I’d learned was where she was hunting money. I saw her this way a lot.

“Mama, you try to cram any more customers in this nightclub and we’re going to have to add extra tables and chairs,” I joked, even though it was true. There was a line outside every single night, and I knew that there were some times when not everyone got a chance to taste the wares of Mama’s nightclub.