Fallon and Flint: The Stripper and the Schoolteacher

Atlantis Gentlemen's Club

Fallon

It’s been three days since I last saw Lacey, and I’m starting to feel severely depressed.

It’s not a foreign feeling to me, by any means; I accepted depression as a close friend long ago. It comes with the territory of making the life decisions I’ve made. But the constant chatter about whether my boyfriend is getting away with the murder and rape of the Velasquez couple, coupled with the lack of Lacey in my life and the lingering hurt of the accusations Flint Cooper made against me, are taking my depression a step further.

I need to see Lacey.

Normally, it’s not a huge problem for me to see her. I’m not exactly close with my sister Mel, but we are sisters, and we tolerate each other as sisters do. Mel knows the things I do for Lacey’s sake, and I know that, for all her problems, Mel does her best to be a mother. So usually, when I come over, there’s no trouble.

It hurt Mel’s pride, though, that Lacey ran away to my place that night. It hurt her pride that I didn’t send Lacey straight back home, and that I had a conversation with Lacey’s teacher the next morning. So, the day Lacey returned to her, she called me and told me I was no longer welcome in her home.

I choose to forget the conversation ever happened as I catch the city bus to her house.

It’s even smaller than my house, which, technically, is Hugh’s house—two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a sort of parlor. But it doesn’t need to be big. It only houses the two of them, mother and daughter—and, I suppose, Mel’s guests, when she chooses to have them.

I don’t like how she is with men; I never did. But money is the only leverage I have over her, and I can’t use it to influence her dating habits. She uses the money I give her to help cover the rent, and without it, she and Lacey would be back in the Dodger trailer park, or worse.

Mel opens the door when I knock, then slams it in my face when she sees it’s me.

I sigh and resume knocking, not discouraged in the slightest.

“Get lost, b***h,” my sister shouts through the door. “No one wants you here.”

“Not going anywhere, Mel. I miss my niece.”

Silence, then the reluctant reopening of the door. “It’s been three days. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s not like she’s been away at war.”

“She’s my family, Mel, and I love her.”

Mel continues glaring at me. It’s not a very flattering look on her. When she smiles, Mel is actually very pretty. She has the same gray eyes that I do; the only reason they don’t seem as bright is because they don’t stand out as much on her paler, more freckly complexion. Her hair is just as lovely as Lacey’s, thick and platinum blond, but she keeps it pulled back tightly, never letting it frame her face or body the way I do.

Then again, I still have people to impress, for better or for worse. Mel doesn’t really care anymore; she takes whoever comes and doesn’t look back in the rear view at the rest. I envy her for that. There are few things I envy her for, but it’s one of them.

“Fal?” Lacey shouts from a few rooms down. Even muffled and distant, I’d know that angelic little voice anywhere. She shows up a few seconds later, eyes as bright and eager as a child’s.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Lacey exclaims when she reaches us, shoving past Mel to hug me.

I return her hug with pleasure. Lacey is the one person in my life who ever shows any signs of gratitude for the things I do, and I appreciate it—probably more than she knows. “Me, too, sweetie. How are you?”

Mel gives up at that point. “I’m going out,” she mutters, shoving past me. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I grin at Lacey as Mel slams the door closed behind me. “Clearly she’s forgiven me.”

“I’m sorry.” Lacey frowns. “It’s my fault she’s mad at you.”

“No, it’s her fault she’s mad at me. If she hadn’t been treating you the way she had, you never would have left in the first place.”

Lacey smiles, seeming touched by my empathy. Still, I feel a pang of guilt for putting so much of the blame on Mel. It’s not her fault things are so bad for her—at least, not entirely.

“Listen, Lace,” I say, taking my niece’s hand and leading her to the couch, where we both sit. “I know it’s hard to forgive your mom right now, but I want to tell you something, and I don’t want you to ever forget it. Okay?”

Lacey nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Mel loves you more than she has ever loved anything or anyone else. All she wants is for you to be happy. And the only reason she makes the bad decisions that she does is because you aren’t, and she feels guilty about it.”

Lacey looks down at her hands. “But I am happy.” 

She’s barely bothering to hide the falsity in her voice, and it makes my heart hurt. “It’s okay to not be happy,” I tell her gently. “I’m not happy, either. The important thing is to try. And to appreciate the little things that make it all worth it.”

Like Lacey. For me, Lacey is that thing.

She’s everything.

Lacey glances up at me thoughtfully, as if I’ve just reminded her of something. “Speaking of which—I have a request for you. A request that I also think would be really good for you.”

I laugh. How very Lacey of her. “I’m in the business of making your life better, missy, not the other way around.”

“Well, maybe I want to get in that business for you.”

I can’t help but grin. “What’ve you got?”

“Well, as you know, I don’t do a lot of school activities. Nobody does more than one, and most of them get picked on just for doing any. So I always avoided it. But there’s this one thing I came up with, and a lot of the kids are interested, so I don’t think I’ll get a hard time about it or anything.”

I think of Flint Cooper then, and of the peer pressure he tried to warn me about. It’s not the first time Lacey’s described it to me, but it still saddens me. Still, I’m glad to hear that she seems to be overcoming that pressure and discovering a new passion. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s… a musical. A dance musical. I sort of... came up with the idea, and now I get to direct it.”

I gasp out loud, smile spreading from ear to ear. “Lace, that’s amazing! I’m so excited for you! You have to tell me when it is—I’ll put the date on my calendar right now—”

“We need help,” she interrupts. “Between myself and the teacher advisor, neither of us knows anything about dancing. We need you to help us choreograph it and teach our actors.”

I bite my lip hesitantly. I love the thought of working with Lacey and getting to know her peers better, but I’m by no means qualified to do what Lacey’s asking of me. I’m not a ballerina, and I’m not a jazz dancer. I’m an exotic dancer. And the last thing I would ever do is teach those kids to dance like me. “I don’t know, Lace. I’m not really that kind of dancer. I don’t know the names of the steps, or even—”

“You don’t need to know the names. None of our cast will know the names, either, I'm sure. You just have to help me come up with the routines, and together we'll show them to the cast. Once we have a cast."

I'm still not sure about this. "This teacher advisor," I say. "Does he know what I do for a living?"

"Yeah, and he doesn't care. Mr. Cooper just wants--"

“Hold on. Mr. Cooper? Flint Cooper?”

“Yeah!” She’s so eager, it hurts. “Don’t bother thanking me. I know, he’s like the cutest thing since—”

“No,” I interrupt sharply. “I’m sorry, Lace, but it’s not a good idea. You’re going to have to find someone else.”

Flint

Atlantis Gentlemen’s Club. Everyone Welcome.

I stare at the sign above the club with a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s a bit ironic, in my opinion; that a “gentlemen’s club” welcomes anyone seems contradictory.

What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. I’ve never been to a strip club in my life. I’ve barely even been to a regular club in my life.

Lacey was just so sad when she told me about Fallon declining to help her with the musical. I’ll admit, when she first told me that she wanted Fallon’s help, and I asked what dance experience the woman had, and Lacey responded that she was an exotic dancer, I was mortified. I don’t think it’s a remotely good idea to have a stripper choreograph a high school musical. But Lacey’s melancholy has been worsening as of late, and I’m determined to help put an end to it. If convincing Fallon Mercury to help is what it takes to make Lacey happy, so be it. I have quite a few things to say to her, anyway. Everything I do is for her, my ass.

It’s about what I expected, this gentlemen’s club. I fork over the $30 cover charge—a bit steep, I reckon, but I don’t argue—and head for the first empty table I can find. Most of the patrons are standing on the floor by the stage, reaching up to throw dollar bills at the dancers and attempt to fondle them, but I have no interest in any such thing, and merely sit and cross my arms.

There is something escapist about it all, I have to admit—almost surreal. The fog diffuses the red, purple, and blue stage spotlights into a colorful haze that reminds me of my hallucinogenic days in college, and the light drops off at the edge of the stage, keeping the sweaty, overeager patrons in near-darkness—something I appreciate.

It’s interesting to watch the dancers. I can admit that there’s something captivating about the way their sweaty bodies spin and gyrate—something guilt-inducing, like getting caught watching pornography on a work computer—and yet there’s nothing particularly beautiful or alluring about any of them, and their routines aren’t particularly impressive. There’s too much desperation in the way they twist and roll their bodies, like they’re begging every man in front of them to take them then and there. There’s nothing graceful, poetic, or majestic about the way dance, the way they look, or even their costumes. Other than a momentary escape from the mundane, I don’t see the appeal of this place—not that I expected to.

Where is she? It’s ten thirty, and her shift was supposed to start at ten, according to their website. I was surprised to see that she uses her real name, though I suppose it’s striking enough to double as a stripper name, and less surprised to see that she’s their headliner; say what I will about her lack of guardianship skills, I can’t deny she’s a total f*****g knockout.

My plan was to catch her at her first break, tell her off, convince her to change her mind about the musical, and leave. None of that will be possible if she’s not here. I scan the faces of the five dancers on the stage again to be sure, but my assumptions are confirmed: she’s not there.

Just as I rise to my feet to leave, the music stops, the dancers stop dancing, and the lights dim to an almost pitch black. All I notice is the sound of soft, padding footsteps as the girls on the stage make their way off and into the crowd. Once they do, a new song starts—a slower, deeper, more passionate one—and one spotlight appears. Beneath it is her.

The instant she begins to dance, every conclusion I just came to about exotic dancers is nullified. The instant she begins to dance, I can’t move—can’t look away—can’t even breathe.

Every contour of her tanned, toned body begs to be stared at; every inch of her soft skin pleads to be touched; every wave of her dark, glossy hair screams to be tugged at. Her blood-red bra and panties, lined with silver beads, taunt with the tease of the perfection beneath them. Every step she takes in her bright, silver heels flexes the sharpened muscles of her long legs. Watching her cling to the pole with nothing but her tight, toned thighs as her body spins around it in a flash of red and black forces me to imagine her clinging to me the same way as I make hard, fast, passionate love to her—

I shake my head, trying to push these rabid thoughts away. I’m not this man. I’m not the man who imagines plowing the strippers on the dance floor—especially not ones whose selfish actions have upset my students.

And yet…

She’s just so different from the rest of them. Her moves don’t beg every man in the room for s*x; they have every man begging her for it. And her eyes… The sadness in them is beyond anything I’ve ever known. It’s what I see in Lacey’s eyes, but magnified a thousand times over. It’s the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing of all.

One of the strippers comes over to me and asks me if I want a lap dance, but I can’t even bring myself to answer her. I just watch and watch until, finally, she leaves the stage.

And then I rise to follow her.