Markie walked back in the bathroom and pulled the towel from her hair, letting the wet mass fall on her shoulders and against her back, water droplets wetting her skin and forming tiny rivulets as they traced the rises and contours of her body. Reaching for her brush, she began to work it through.
“So what happened after I left? Did I miss anything good?” she asked while Brandi pulled a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and lit it. “Hey, smoke your own damn cigarettes,” she added, half-joking.
“I’ll get you back. And no, I fucked around a little longer with those assholes, then I went home. Where you headed tomorrow? I think I’m going home for a week. I made pretty good cash the last few nights and my mom keeps wanting me to visit. It’s my sister’s birthday so I thought it’d be a good time to make an appearance.”
Markie had no doubt that Brandi was flush at the moment. When she’d pulled in late Monday morning, Brandi was already in the bar, working over the owner and bartender. That was the one thing Markie disliked most about the young dancer. She unapologetically used her body and sexuality not just on the stage, as they all did, but also to further her ambitions, which amounted to having money to buy coke and clothes. Markie looked at her while she dried her hair and half-listened to the girl’s monologue.
Brandi was beautiful. With long long legs and long blonde hair, she was the stereotypical all-American beauty. Perfect white teeth evidenced her parents’ orthodontist bills, and large, firm breasts a past boyfriend’s obsession with “perfect tits.” She also had a long scar just under her flawless left breast where this same boyfriend cut her when she broke up with him. This day, Brandi was wearing short orange shorts and a cut off Hooters shirt that showed her flat stomach and bejeweled navel. Lying on the bed, the lower globes of her breasts and the long ugly scar caught the sunlight coming in. As much as Markie resisted, she couldn’t help but feel a stirring between her legs looking at the girl on her bed.
“Do you have to do that right now?” Brandi asked as if reading her thoughts. She rolled on her side, sliding one hand over her scar and following the raised and knotted skin gently and pushing the other down inside the waistband of her shorts. “Come play with me. Please?”
“Brandi, I got to get ready. It’s already after one and I have to run to Target before we go on tonight. You want to ride along?” Markie walked through the room to her suitcase and pulled a pair of shorts and t-shirt quickly on. “I’m out of clean undies and I have to pick up a couple pair. God, I hate doing laundry.”
On her way back to the bathroom, she noticed a big bruise on Brandi’s thigh. “What the fuck happened there?” she asked. She bent to grab a cigarette and pushed the hair from Brandi’s face where it had fallen forward. “You know you’ll have to cover that somehow.”
“Oh nothing. I fell off the bar last night after you left. Should have known better than to wear those fucking heels that drunk. Just lucky I didn’t sprain my ankle or anything – I actually fell on that big fat guy that was at the end of the bar all night. Made his night, I tell you. Tits and ass all over his ugly self. Good thing, though. It’d suck if I couldn’t dance tonight.”
Markie half-listened while she finished getting ready. She wondered how much longer she could do this. Would she be 40 years old and lying about her age, dancing naked in front of horny guys? The thought made her head ache even more, and she threw four ibuprofen down her throat, chasing them down with the beer Brandi had brought her. She finished by applying a little mascara and pulling her hair back in a low ponytail. She couldn’t think about all that right now, she decided, and swallowed the rest of her beer in one long drink.
“So you coming with me or not, sweet cheeks?” Markie grabbed her keys off the table and turned for the door. Brandi jumped off the bed, grabbed her friend around the waist, and kissed the back of her neck.
“You know it, bee-yotch!” She pulled away, slapped Markie’s ass, and rushed past her through the door. “Last one to the car is a rotten egg!”
More fun and games, Markie thought. More fun and games.
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2 comments:
I liked the last part. The first part had more 'color' than I think it needed. It's hard in short stories because the details like "water droplets wetting her skin and forming tiny rivulets as they traced the rises and contours of her body" take up a lot of the story and I'd rather get to the relationships. Your dialog is very good. Seems real.
Tell me more about Markie. I'm a man, is this really what goes through her head?
"Would she be 40 years old and lying about her age, dancing naked in front of horny guys?"
Would she use those words in her own head to describe them?
I don't know again, I'm a guy not a stripper, but I get the sense that they don't call them "horny guys" in their own head.
Did you see the movie Croupier with Clive Owen. He called them punters and really despised them. Partly because he was like them and partly because they were such suckers.
The good news about my comments is that I've seen these women in my head. The scar comment was especially effective for me. I actually jumped when I read it.
Remember, I'm a guy and I don't presume to know how this character would talk to herself in her head. Only you know that. Go deeper.
Spocko, thanks. You know, I added the water image when I went back and reread it. This will be part of my novel, so I'm not too concerned about the space issue. But funny that you noticed it.
The other thing - I agree. She would think this (I remember thinking something similar but about drug usage), but I think you're right about the language. I'll play with it and revise.
Nice comments - I really appreciate the close look you are taking at this.
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