The Song of David (4 page)

When they came up again, the new girl was at the center of the octagon, hands on the pole, head down. As the music began to swell, she immediately swung into her routine, and I scowled in consternation. The girl was slim and lithe, smooth muscles moving beneath taut skin. Her straight, dark brown hair was silky under the lights, her oiled limbs glistening, and her barely-there shorts and bikini top no different from the girl who danced before her. I watched her for a moment, waiting for the punch line. There had to be one.

She was beautiful—delicate-featured with a small nose, a rosebud mouth, and a heart-shaped face, and I felt a sudden flash of fear that she was only fifteen or something equally alarming. I dismissed the thought immediately. Morgan was a prankster, not an idiot. Something like that would ruin the bar. Something like that would cost Morgan his job. And Morgan loved his job, even if he didn’t always love me, even if I didn’t always appreciate his sense of humor.

Nah. She was at least twenty-one. That was my rule. I pursed my lips and tipped my head, studying her. She worked the pole as well as any of the other girls, maybe even better, but her dancing was more acrobatic, more athletic, than it was overtly sexy. Her eyes were closed and she had a soft smile on her lips, which could be interpreted as sultry, especially considering that she was dancing for an audience of mostly men. Scratch that. An audience of all men. But her smile wasn’t sultry. It was . . . dreamy, like she was imagining she was somewhere else, a tiny ballerina spinning in place inside a child’s snow globe, endlessly dancing alone. Her small smile didn’t change, and her eyes stayed closed, the heavy sweep of dark lashes creating half circles of shadow on her porcelain cheeks.

The lighting was strategic, hiding the viewers and displaying the dancer. Maybe the lights hurt her eyes. Or maybe she was a little shy. I chuckled. Um . . . no. The shy pole dancer was as big an oxymoron as the timid fighter. But someone should probably say something. The men in the audience loved to believe that the dancers were looking right at them, and though the dancers never mingled with the men, at least not in the bar, eye contact and subtle flirting were part of the job. I wondered if that was Morgan’s joke. If so, Morgan was losing his touch.

I turned away as the song ended and the cage lights went black, indicating the end of the set. Three girls danced a fifteen minute set each hour, with another fifteen minutes between sets from nine to midnight. It was Utah, after all, not Vegas. The dancers were off two, sometimes three, nights a week for fight nights and club nights, when the octagon was needed for bouts or disassembled to create a dance floor. With four dancers, now five, on my payroll, it wasn’t a full-time job by any means. Most of the girls had day jobs and grabbed extra hours and good pay announcing the rounds and bouts on fight nights.

“So whaddaya think, Boss?” Morgan grinned and slid a glass to a waiting patron as I rounded the bar and sat back on the same stool, my eyes shooting up to check the score, not giving Morgan the attention he wanted.

“‘Bout what?”

“About the new girl.”

“Pretty.” He didn’t need all the other adjectives that had run through my mind as I watched her dance.

“Yeah?” Morgan raised his eyebrows as if my one-word assessment was surprising.

“Yeah, Morg,” I sighed. “You got something you wanna tell me? ‘Cause I’m not gettin’ it.”

“No. No siree. Not a thing.”

I shook my head and groaned. Morgan was definitely up to something.

“So how many weeks, Boss?”

“Eight.” Eight weeks until I fought Bruno Santos. The fight that would give me a shot at a Vegas title fight. The fight that would catapult the Tag Team brand into living rooms across the US. Eight weeks of perfect focus—no distractions, and no decisions beyond one fight. After I won the fight, I would face what came next. After I won that fight the world could end, for all I cared. After I won.

“Hey, Boss. Lou called in sick tonight. He usually makes sure the girls get to their cars. You wanna fill in? Since you’re here?”

All the women on my staff are escorted to their vehicles at the end of their shifts. Always. This part of town is changing, but it isn’t there yet. Tag’s is situated close to the old Grand Central train station in a refurbished district that is still caught somewhere between restoration and dilapidation. Two blocks north there is a row of mansions built in the early 1900s, two blocks south there’s a strip mall complete with bars on all the windows. A high-end day spa takes up the corner of the block to the left and a homeless shelter is two blocks down on the right. The area is a conglomeration of everything, and there are some elements that aren’t safe. I feel responsible for my employees, especially the girls. So I imposed some rules, even if it means I am sometimes accused of being overprotective, sexist, and old-fashioned.

“Yep. I can do that.”

“Good. That was their last set. I’d do it, but the drinks won’t fill themselves, ya know. Kelli’s boyfriend came in and picked her up ten minutes ago, and Marci and Stormy are closing with me, so I’ll walk them out. You’ve just got Justine and Lori and Amelie.”

“Ah–muh–lee?” I parroted, eyebrows quirked.

“Yeah. The new dancer. Amelie. Didn’t I say?”

“Nah. You didn’t. What is she, French?”

“Something like that,” Morg said, and I could see that he was trying not to laugh. “She lives close by and she walks, though. Lou complains about it, but it really is just around the block. I tell him it’ll do his fat ass some good.”

“Huh.” So that was the funny part. I would be walking the new girl home, and it was starting to snow. The French girl. Fine with me. I was too antsy to sleep anyway. I was considering hitting the speed bag until I could wear myself out enough to shut down for a few hours.

On cue, Justine and Lori appeared in the entryway between the lounge and the bar, winter coats belted, duffle bags in hand.

“Where’s Amelie?” Morgan asked, looking beyond them.

“She said she’d meet Lou out front,” Justine answered.

“Lou’s not in tonight. Tag is walking you out. Right, Boss?”

“Right, Morg.” I tamped down my irritation as Morgan laughed again and winked at the girls.

I escorted Justine and Lori to their vehicles in the back parking lot, watched as they pulled away, and then walked around to the front the building, opting not to go through the bar, eager to avoid Morg for the rest of the night. As I rounded the building, I could see the new girl waiting on the sidewalk, face tilted up, letting the fat flakes land on her cheeks as if she enjoyed the sensation. She waited for me, as if she weren’t in any hurry to get out of the cold, her hands wrapped around a long stick that, in the soft light spilling from the bar and the snow falling around her, made her look like a shepherdess in a Christmas pageant.

“Hello?” There was a question in her voice as I approached, and she slid her staff forward just a bit and nudged my foot as I halted. “Lou?”

“Lou’s sick, so I’ll be walking you home.” I answered slowly, flooded with shocked realization as she turned her face toward me. Her eyes were wide and fixed, and I felt a surprising pang from somewhere behind my heart. She had beautiful eyes. They were large and luminous, fringed by black lashes that swept her cheeks when she closed her eyes. But they were vacant, and looking in them made me inexplicably sad. So I looked away, studying her mouth and the straight dark hair that framed her face and spilled over her shoulders. Then she smiled, and the pang in my heart sliced through my chest once more and took my breath.

“Ah, the long pause. I always get those. My mom always said I was beautiful,” she said drily, “but just in case I’m not, will you promise to lie to me? I demand detailed lies regarding my appearance.” She said all this good-naturedly. No bitterness. Just acceptance. “So you pulled blind girl duty, huh? You don’t have to walk me home. I got here all by myself. But Morgan told me it’s the rule with all the girls. He said the boss insists.”

“He’s right. It’s a great neighborhood, but you and I both know it’s still pretty rough around the edges,” I responded, refusing to feel sheepish, refusing to apologize for staring.

She stuck out her hand and waited for me to grasp it.

“Well then, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Amelie. And I’m blind.” Her lips quirked, letting me know she was laughing as much at herself as at me. I reached out and wrapped her ungloved hand in my own. Her fingers were icy, and I didn’t release them immediately. So she wasn’t French, she was blind, and somehow Morg thought that was hysterically funny.

“Hello, Amelie. I’m David. And I’m not.”

She smiled again, and I found myself smiling too, the pang of sympathy I’d felt for her easing considerably. I didn’t know why I told her my name was David. No one called me David anymore. The name David always made me feel like I’d failed without even trying. It was my father’s name. And
his
father’s name. And
his
father before him. David Taggert was a name that carried weight. And I had felt that weight from an early age. Then my friends had started calling me Tag. Tag set me free. It allowed me to be young, free-spirited. Just the word itself brought to mind images of running away.
“I’m Tag . . . you can’t catch me.”

“Your hands are calloused, David.”

It was an odd thing to comment on when shaking hands with someone for the first time, but Amelie curled her fingers against my palm, feeling the rough ridges that lined the base of my fingers like she was reading braille.

“Exercise?” she guessed.

“Uh, yeah. I’m a fighter.”

A slim eyebrow rose in question, but her fingers continued to trace my hand intimately. It felt good. And weird. The roof of my mouth started to tingle and my toes curled in my boots.

“The callouses are from the weights. Pull-ups. That sort of thing.” I sounded like an idiot. Like a dumb, Rocky wannabe. I might as well yell, “Yo, Adrian!”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Fighting?” I asked, trying to keep up. She didn’t converse like the girls I knew. She was so direct. So blunt. But maybe she had to be. She didn’t have the luxury of learning through observance.

“Yes. Fighting. Do you enjoy it?” she clarified.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m big, strong, and angry,” I said honestly, smirking.

She laughed, and I expelled all the air I’d been holding since she’d held out her hand in greeting. Her laughter wasn’t girlish and high, tinkling and sweet. It was robust, healthy, the kind of laugh that came from her belly and had nothing to hide.

“You smell good, David.”

I half-gasped, half-chuckled, surprised once more. But she kept right on talking.

“So I know you are big, strong, angry, and you smell nice. You’re tall too, because your voice is coming from way over my head. You’re also from Texas and you’re still young.”

“How do you know I’m young?”

“Old men don’t fight. And your voice. You were singing Blake Shelton under your breath when you approached. If you were older you might sing Conway Twitty or Waylon Jennings.”

“I sing them too.”

“Excellent. You can sing while we walk.” She flicked her stick with a practiced hand and it collapsed neatly into thirds. Then she tucked it under her left arm while reaching toward me with her right. Then she wrapped her hand around my bicep as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And we were off, walking slowly but steadily through the silent streets, the snow falling, the wet seeping into our shoes. I am a guy who can make conversation with the best of them, but I found myself at a complete loss.

Amelie seemed completely comfortable and didn’t offer up conversation as we walked, arm and arm, like two lovers in an old movie. Men and women don’t walk that way anymore. Not unless a father is walking his daughter down the aisle or a boy scout is helping an old lady across the road. But I discovered I liked it. I felt like a man of a bygone era, a time when men would escort women, not because women couldn’t walk alone, but because men respected them more, because a woman is something to be cared for, to be careful with.

“There was a time when everything in the world was more beautiful.” The words fell from my mouth, surprising me. I hadn’t meant to think out loud.

“What do you mean?” She seemed pleased at my statement. So I went with it.

“Well, if you look at old pictures . . .” My voice drifted off awkwardly, realizing she couldn’t actually look at old pictures.

She saved me, gracefully. “If I could look at old pictures, what would I see?”

“They had less. But they had more. It seems like people took more care with their possessions and their appearances. The women dressed up and the men wore suits. People wore hats and gloves and were well-groomed. The way they talked was different, more careful, more cultured. Same language, but totally different. Even the buildings and the furniture were beautiful—well-crafted with attention to detail. I don’t know . . . The world had more class. Maybe that was it.”

“Ah, the days when men didn’t fight for a living and women didn’t dance on poles,” she said, a smile in her voice.

“Men have always fought. Women have always danced. We’re as old-fashioned as it gets,” I shot back. “We’re timeless.”

“Nice save,” she giggled, and I laughed quietly.

We walked in companionable silence for several minutes when it occurred to me that I had no idea where we were going.

“Where do you live?”

“Don’t worry, big guy. I know where we are. Turn right on the next corner. I’m the old house thirty paces in.”

“You live in one of the old mansions?”

“Yes. I do. My great-great-grandfather built it, speaking of a time when the world was more beautiful. I’m guessing my house isn’t quite as lovely as it once was. But everything looks amazing in my head. Perks of being a blind girl.”

“You said thirty paces. What? Do you count steps?” I could hear the amazement in my voice and wondered if she could too.

“Usually. But I’m less observant when someone is walking with me. I know where the sidewalk ends, where the trees are, the potholes too.”