Competition
> > "Three vodka martinis and a sex on the beach. Anything else?"
"That's all for now... Angela."
She was almost getting used to the way men's eyes wandered to her cleavage when they read her nametag. Funny how most of the women caught her name much more quickly... if they bothered at all.
But it was easier now. Now that she was clear.
When she'd first switched from Xanax to Perfectua, she'd thought they were similar -- the latter little purple pills were just *smoother* somehow. Now she realized they were more like opposites. Neither one erased her troubles, but the way they made her able to cope with them was like night and day. Xanax shielded and calmed, numbing but depressing. Perfectua exposed and excited, illuminating but inspiring.
Xanax left the ugliness of the world untouched, and simply made her care less about it.
Perfectua helped her see the necessity and beauty of everything, challenging her to take control and make the best of each moment.
Physical therapy medication? Energy pill? Not even close. Perfectua was Purpose in a pill.
Whoever made Perfectua had a gold mine on their hands, and they didn't even know it.
The only problem was that it wasn't lasting as long as she'd originally thought. Her 30-day supply would be lucky to last her two weeks at this pace. She was going to have to cut back. Eventually. Or find a way to make some more money.
Angela slipped a hand into her apron pocket, plucked another pill, and quickly tongued it. When she got to the bar she grabbed her water bottle -- Sasha insisted the girls drink a bottle of water every hour -- and swigged the pill down.
As she looked out over the crowd, she knew the hard edge she was beginning to sense was just her old anxiety peeking through between doses. It really wasn't so bad anymore, but she didn't want to take any chances, at least not at work, not after her attack the other night. Anyway, she knew it would fade soon.
Angela was waiting for drinks when she felt a cold chill run down her spine. She turned toward the entrance.
Shit! It was Car Thief!
Angela quickly looked around. Maybe somebody here knew who he was... The bartender was in the back getting another cucumber -- damn Screaming Vikings -- but she caught Monique on her way back from a table dance.
"Hey, Monique, hang on."
"What's up, Angie?"
"It's Angela." She'd only told the girl that three times. Monique couldn't remember anything. Maybe that's why she was a good dancer -- it was always a new and exciting experience for her.
"Sorry, Angela. What's up?"
"See the guy over by the entrance?"
"I just gave him a table dance. He's going to the little boy's room to clean up."
"No, not that guy. The other one, the one standing there like he's looking for somebody."
"The thin guy? Never seen him bef- Waaiitassec. I know him. Chris Cogan."
A male voice from behind them said, "Crisco?"
Angela whirled around. Dave, tonight's bartender, had returned from a trip to the kitchen to get more limes.
"Excuse me?" Monique said.
"His buddies call him Crisco."
"Why?" Angela blurted.
"Because nothing ever sticks to him."
"I thought that was Teflon," Monique objected.
"And if his name was Ted Flonders, they might call him that. But his name is Chris Cogan, so... Crisco."
Angela wondered what her coworkers knew about her car thief. "Like What doesn't stick to him?"
"Like the small-time stupid scams he used to pull. Or the cars he steals now."
So it wasn't a secret. So why wasn't he in jail?
"How do you know all this," Monique interrogated, apparently jealous of Dave's knowledge.
Dave shrugged. "Drunks can't shut up."
"It's not like anybody hangs out and talks at *this* bar." Not when there's naked flesh to stare at.
"This ain't the only bar I work."
"So," Angela asked, "how come nothing ever sticks?"
"Lucky, I guess."
Angela considered pressing Dave for more information, but she didn't want to seem too interested. Still... "Why don't you tell the police?" she asked.
Dave rolled his eyes. Monique had to explain. "First off, it's hearsay. Second, if Dave talked, nobody'd hire him anymore. Third, he could get killed."
"Oh." Duh.
Angela watched as Car Thief -- Chris Cogan, she thought, mentally filing away the name -- approached Dino Sinclair's usual corner booth, sat there for a moment, then apparently thought better of it and got up and left.
"That was weird."
"What?"
"He just came in, sat down for a minute, and then left again."
Monique chuckled. "Probably leaving a tribute for Dino and Moroshkin."
Dave laughed. "More likely leaving another demo tape. He thinks he's a badass DJ because he spun at a few parties. He's been trying to get a gig here since the place opened."
"Is he any good?"
Dave put his finger in his mouth in a "gag me" gesture.
Monique sighed, suddenly reflective. "Yeah, well, everybody's doing what they do until they can do what they want."
"True dat," Dave nodded.
"What do you mean?" Angela asked.
Monique suppressed a look of exasperation. "Well, you don't think these are our dream jobs, do you? Dave wants to own a restaurant, I wanna be a choreographer, 'Crisco' wants to be a DJ. What do *you* wanna be, Angela?"
Angela smiled inwardly. When she was very small, she'd wanted to be a waitress like her mom. Now she was one. Sort of.
But that was a very old dream. She'd just kind of stopped thinking about having a dream as she got older, until a few months ago when the sapphires found her.
Now... she was already doing what she wanted, wasn't she?
Not that she could tell these two what that was. "I wanna be just like Wonder Woman!" might be cute coming from a six-year-old, but there was no way an adult could articulate such a dream. Or reality, in her case.
So if she was doing what she wanted, why wasn't she happier about it?
The answer walked in. With a bimbo in tow.
Dino Sinclair.
Damn. Angela knew Dino had to make appearances to check on things, but did he have to enjoy checking out the strip club so much? And did he have to wear a slut on his arm?
Down, girl. That could be his cousin.
Not with that much tongue it can't. And does his hand have to be on her ass like that?
"Jesus, would you look at those two? Get a room!" Monique, on her way to freshen up from an extra-long private dance.
"Monique, lay off!" Mike the bartender scolded, nodding his head toward Angela.
"What? Oh, right. Sorry." With that, the dancer retreated.
Angela steeled herself and headed off to Dino's table to see what he and Miss Hickey wanted to drink.
A little later, Zora caught Angela staring death daggers at Dino from the hallway.
"Hey, Angela."
Angela just kept staring. "Hey."
"Angela, cut it out."
Her response was monotone. "Cut what out."
"Staring at Mr. Sinclair like that."
Angela turned to look up at the tall dancer. "I'm not staring."
"Come on, Angela. Whenever Dino Sinclair's around, you get this look."
"What look?"
"You always look like you wanna kill him."
"I do not."
"Uh -- *yeah*! Some of the girls call you The Assassin."
Angela looked away. Was she that obvious?
"Seriously," Zora chided. "I've seen parades that were more subtle."
Angela just sighed.
"I don't get it. He got you this job. Why are you pissed at him?"
"It's... complicated."
"Oh, God, you're not jealous, are you? Of the girls he's with?"
"No, it's not that." Not exactly. Well, actually, that's what it used to be.
Now it was anger. She was mad at Dino because he'd made a fool of her. She was doubly mad because Miguel was making her swallow her pride and seduce him. And she was even madder because suddenly Dino was acting like she didn't exist.
Or worse, he was going out of his way to rub her nose in it.
But maybe she was maddest because thoughts of Dino broke through her Perfectua high. His cavalier presence reminded her of the absence in her heart. Of the one thing in her life that attitude alone couldn't fix.
She thought of her time with Ricky earlier in the day. Her meds had fallen short of putting a positive light on that too. Ricky had been there for her, and yet not.
She felt adrift... and Dino was a hole in the boat.
Zora woke her from her thoughts. "If it's not jealousy, what is it?"
"I said it's complicated. Look, I'll be fine."
"Not if Sasha keeps catching you shooting death-ray eyes at his boss."
Zora had a point.
"Listen, guys like Dino Sinclair break a lot of hearts. Best thing for you to do is just let it go."
"I can't."
Zora sighed in frustration and concern for her friend. "What do you think you can do to him?"
"Maybe I could break *his* heart."
"Angela!" Zora had to laugh. Angela's furious glare focused on her friend. "Woah, relax. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. It's just... well, you're not exactly his type."
Funny... she seemed to have his number before. At least, until she'd slept with him... was that his plan all along, or was she just that bad in bed?
Angela started to shake. She needed her medication.
"Angela, sweetie, I'm sorry." Angela found herself in the tall dancer's embrace; what was this about?
She felt the girl's fingertip gently brush the outer edge of her eye. "Hey," Angela protested, "you'll smudge my makeup."
"Well, crying's not gonna do it any good either."
Huh? Angela dabbed her eye; her finger came away wet. Dammit, why was she crying?
"Shoot. I must have gotten something in my eye."
"Shh. It's okay, Angela. Sometimes the hurt sneaks up on you."
"It's not that..." It was exactly that. Dino had used her. And then he got her this job... why? Because he felt guilty? No, probably so he could humiliate her even more. So he could show her just what a silly little child she was. So he could show her the kind of women he was *really* attracted to. So he could laugh at the lost little girl.
She felt trapped. She knew what she had to do. She had to put the hurt on Dino. She even knew how she was supposed to do it. Miguel had come right out and told her. Get his attention by dancing. (He'd said "stripping.") Seduce him with the womanly charms he hadn't yet seen in her. Get proof that he was involved with the chop shop. Then watch with satisfaction as Dino Sinclair was hauled off to prison.
Sure. Simple.
But there was a desperation to dancing. She saw a line of degradation she couldn't cross. No, not a line. An edge. Thinking about the spot she was in brought back the dark edge to the world around her.
She knocked back the little purple pill with a defiant dry gulp.
Zora raised an eyebrow. "Well. If you wanna talk later, we can get coffee after work."
"I'll be fine," Angela reiterated, almost sternly.
At that, Zora retreated.
Angela returned to fetching drinks and getting pawed, counting the breaths until she felt the anxious edge on life soften again. But she knew even Perfectua wasn't going to clear the stormcloud named Dino Sinclair.
The stage lights changed. The DJ's disembodied voice announced the next dancer.
"Next up on stage at Ten, she's sweet and smooth, put your hands together for Coco!"
The stirrings of a funky old tune came up as all eyes swiveled toward the curtain at the front of the room. Long dark chocolate legs scissored their way downstage. The dancer's arms came up, hands to the back of her neck, spreading out and dropping her beautiful platinum-blonde hair like holiday tinsel.
Angela had to stop and stare -- she'd bumped into Coco in back a couple of times, but she'd never seen the dancer take the stage before. In the confines of the employee hallway the African-American woman had seemed too, well, *big* to be an exotic dancer. Not fat, but tall and thick, with muscular legs and a healthy round butt. She dwarfed all but Zora in height, and her sturdy curves made everybody else look malnourished. Angela had always thought Coco better suited to professional wrestling than professional dancing.
But up on stage, Angela couldn't deny it: Coco was a goddess. Her big-hipped strut oozed confidence; her curves practically knocked men out of their chairs as she moved past them. And when she reached the pole and spun a quick 360, Angela saw the ebony beauty look right at her and flash the world's biggest smile.
Get up offa that thing!
Dance and you'll feel better!
Get up offa that thing!
Try to release the pressure!
The funky groove reached right into Angela's soul and goosed it. Angela felt her chest swell. Dark thoughts of Dino and Miguel and Ricky withered under the onslaught of sensual royalty Coco exuded. *That* woman was enjoying herself. She was strong. She was in control.
I need it!
Feels good!
Huh!
Good gawd!
I like it I like it I like it!
Coco pulled a string on the front of her bustier, and Bam! her glorious mammaries exploded into view.
Angela could practically feel the awed hush as an entire room gasped.
Something in her mind clicked into place. The fog of naivete blown clear by the rush of Perfectua, Angela could finally see the world as it was, not as she'd been made to fear it.
She knew the power Coco wielded on that stage. She'd felt it herself -- as Sapphire. Women wanted to be her, men wanted to be with her. There was nothing she couldn't have, nothing she couldn't do.
What was Angela afraid of? Dino and Miguel and Ricky had nothing on her. *She* had all the control. All she had to do was take it.
Angela snuck a look over to the corner of the room, to Dino's booth. The man's eyes were glued to the feminine spectacle on stage.
No one heard Angela's next words. No one saw her crafty grin. But they would take notice of her soon enough.
"I've got you now."