Name
The ancient brown Corolla rattled its way out of mid-morning traffic and bounced its way up into the parking lot.
HOTTIES PARKING ONLY - ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED
Angela shut off the car, but didn't get out. Now that she was here, the idea didn't seem as good as it had a couple hours before. Her hand slipped into her purse, gently encircling the small bag of Glitter.
No, you don't need any more. You'll be fine. You've done this before.
But not at a place like this.
Like this? What's the difference? You take your clothes off, men give you money.
Angela was stuck. She needed money fast. And dancing was the only way she knew how to get it. The only legal way, anyway.
She'd been here before. Met the owner. He'd told her to come back if she ever wanted to try dancing. That seemed like a long time ago. Before she'd met Dino. Before she'd switched from Xanax to Glitter. Before she'd realized that she'd lost Ricky.
Weird that the place that had scared her before now seemed like a safe haven.
A skinny young kid suddenly appeared next to her car, startling her. He didn't seem to see her as he mechanically lifted her windshield wiper, stuffed a flyer underneath it, and moved on to the next car.
The blue sheet seemed to be staring back at her, yelling something about hot online action and wanting models. She thought about getting out of the car -- she doubted she'd make any money sitting here in the parking lot.
Then she heard yelling.
"I told you not to put that shit on my customers' cars!" A small blonde woman in a tight little dress and heels went tearing across the lot after the flyer kid. A dancer? Perpetrator dismissed, she began working her way to each of the half-dozen cars in the lot, stripping them of the offending offer. Angela froze, not wanting to call attention to herself. Then she saw the woman's face, and fear gripped her.
It was Kat.
Katerina Novak. The petite pistol of a dancer who'd ruled Dino's club Ten -- until Angela's second night as a dancer. The night that Kat's favorite customer and rumored future sugar daddy had decided to take a shine to the new girl. Angela remembered being pulled by the hair to Dino's table, where Kat laid down a "she goes or I go" demand -- a bluff that Dino called. By the end of the night Kat was fired, but not before attacking Angela on stage and then threatening to kill her -- a threat that had seemed remote in the shadow of Dino's explicit protection but now seemed very real.
"Well isn't this a surprise!" Kat waved.
Oh shit.
Angela fumbled with the keys.
"Woah, where you going?" Kat seemed almost... friendly. Of course, a predator who'd just stumbled on a revenge meal would smile to show its teeth...
"I... I just... I made a wrong turn."
"Angela. Angela! Relax. We're cool."
The car wasn't starting anyway. Sheepish, Angela rolled down the window. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, it's okay. I scare me too." She flashed another big smile -- god, she was gorgeous. "I know why you're here."
"You do?"
"Yeah. Open up, so we can talk." Kat gestured to the passenger door and started walking around.
The city noise blared as the door opened; the old car squeaked up a storm as Angela moved her purse to the back seat and Kat settled in. When the car quieted down, Kat spoke.
"I heard Kostya's looking for you. He thinks you tipped off the cops or something about a big deal that went bad."
"How did you-?"
"Not *everybody* at Dino's club hates me, you know."
"About that, I'm really sorry."
"I know, kid, it's not your fault. It was all a set-up. Kostya heard Dino was ga-ga over some new girl and he wanted to nip it in the bud. Howie's a friend of his and did him a favor. Turns out Howie was just stringing me along too. Fuckers, all of them. Once I cooled off I was actually happy to hear you'd hooked up with Dino. I hope you really fucked with his head."
The new spin on the past made Angela dizzy.
"So anyway," Kat said, her hand falling to Angela's leg, "what are you doing here?"
"I... I need to make a little money."
"Yeah. Well, you can't park here. You can see this lot from Moroshkin's penthouse up the street."
"Oh." Angela supposed Kat knew that from personal experience.
Kat looked out the window at the busy street. "You really are the little girl lost, aren't you?"
"I didn't do anything," Angela protested meekly.
"You messed with Dino's head, and that fucked him up, which fucked up Kostya's deal. At this point I don't know whether Kostya wants to kill you or endorse you as Dino's exclusive plaything, but whatever it is, you don't want any part of it -- trust me."
"I'm leaving town, just as soon as I can get a little money together."
"Yeah, the severance pay leaves something to be desired, doesn't it?"
Well, actually, Sasha had given her some money, but it didn't last...
"Look, Oak Valley's a big city, but a girl like you... you stick out. Here or anywhere else, he'll find you. You need to learn how to blend in, how to take care of yourself. And I'm just the crazy bitch to help you." Kat took Angela's hand and squeezed.
Angela looked into the woman's eyes. What was that look? Pity? Remorse? Concern?
"I had a cousin like you once. She didn't make it. But you will. Big Sister Kat's gonna take care of you."
Angela didn't know what to say. So she just said "Okay."
"Come on, get this heap started. We've got a lotta work to do." Angela turned the key; the car stumbled but then wailed to life. "First we've gotta do something about that hair. And you need a new ID if you're gonna get work -- nothing fancy; I know a guy. Start thinking about a new name."
"New name?"
"Yep. And don't worry about a job -- you're hired."
"You...? But I thought..."
"Owner's away on his honeymoon. He left the bartender in charge, but he's completely stupid when it comes to handling the talent. Lucky for him I came along. He does pretty much whatever I tell him."
Angela saw herself quickly falling under the same spell...
"No, make her a blonde. Like this." Kat showed the stylist a page she'd found in one of the waiting area magazines -- a pretty Filipina with almost orange-yellow blonde waves. Angela thought it looked a little brash. But if she got a hairstyle she was comfortable with, it would probably look too much like her, and the whole point of this exercise was to make sure nobody recognized her.
So she nodded her assent.
The stylist shrugged. "Lemme get the bleach."
Becky shook her head in exasperation as she waited for the hairdresser's violent Vietnamese verbalizations to slow to subsonic speed. "No, No -- black and straight." Becky raised her voice now that she had the woman's attention, as if volume alone could overcome tha language barrier. "Black and Straight." She pointed to the poster of an anonymous J-Pop starlet on the wall next to her. "This. THIS!"
Becky caught her reflection in the window. Nobody would mistake her for anything but a little white girl, but at least now she wasn't a little *blonde* white girl.
But a trip to the salon was nothing. This next stop was the real commitment.
Becky's fist tightened around the roll of cash in her purse. Most of it would be gone in an hour. More than she'd ever spent on anything -- at least, of her own money. She'd cleared out her bank accounts for this. But it wasn't the money that was so significant -- Becky knew she'd be making it back in no time.
This next step crossed the line.
She'd be breaking the law.
So? It wasn't like she was going to get caught. This guy was the best.
"I want to buy some rare stamps."
"I only trade."
Becky had run the pass-phrase through her mind so many times it was clawing at the back of her teeth to get out of her mouth. "I have a Scott Number Two, Very Fine, four full margins."
The door buzzed; Becky pulled it open.
Up the stairs and down the hall. "Number Eight," in upright-but-ornate gold-over-black lettering on frosted glass. Her heels on the hardwood hall floor had announced her presence, and the door buzzed her through.
An empty room, bright white walls, ceiling, and floor. Short rows of light bulbs high up in the two left corners lit the room. A black glass window halfway up the wall between them concealed the man she was here to see. Becky faced it.
The intercom voice was scratchy and sharp -- clear enough to understand, but not to identify. "Put the stamp in the envelope. Slip it through the slot."
"I don't see it." Becky looked around the room.
"In front of you."
It took her a moment to see the white envelope taped to the white wall; a narrow slot was concealed behind it. Her bills had been rolled for so long they curled the envelope around them; she had to shove it through the slot.
"Stand back. Be still. Don't smile."
Becky expected a flash, but none came.
"You a friend of Vinnie's?"
"I went to school with his son."
"I bet."
The room was silent for what seemed like several minutes. Becky refused to be impatient.
"I got one for you. I'm gonna have to change the hair though."
"I just had it done."
"Digitally. You were in your redhead phase when you got your license."
"Okay, gotcha."
More minutes. "Can I sit down?"
"Take off your top."
There was being cool, and then there was letting yourself be taken advantage of. Not that she wasn't willing to flash the guy to get her stuff -- she'd given Vincent Junior a handjob just to get in here -- but she didn't want him to think she was some naive kid. "Do I get a discount?" she asked dryly.
"Passport photo, different top."
"I don't need a passport," she answered quickly, before thinking to ask whether it affected the cost.
"Never mind then."
"Wait -- might as well." She yanked her babytee over her head, and without prompting shucked her bra as well.
"Stand still." She did. "Nice rack." The compliment sounded like a technician appraising an associate's choice of equipment.
"Thanks." Becky was nonchalant about putting her top back on. Modesty could catch up later.
"I need an hour. Don't hang around outside. There's a coffee shop two blocks up."
"Can I wait here?"
"Suit yourself."
Becky collapsed gracefully to the floor into an Indian-style sit. She pulled her backpack into her lap; she wondered if the guy behind the glass appreciated the brief panty-flash. Probably not.
It wasn't meditation, exactly. Becky's mind raced around a small system of thoughts, each one touched and tossed to reconsider the next. Ricky. Parents. Plan. Postcards. Papers. Pictures. Profit. Promise. Ricky.
Perfect.
"All done. Go downstairs. Mailbox nine."
Becky bolted. Breathless. Beaming.
Goodbye, Becky Robinson.
Hello, Erin Jones.
Angela remembered the last time she was here. There'd been no negotiation then, and no one waiting for her outside. She expected the voice to mention seeing her before, but it didn't.
"Mailbox nine."
The door buzzed, and she left.
Kat was already pulling open the mailbox when Angela got to the foot of the stairs. "Damn, he's good. But you're worth it." Angela felt a playful slap on the ass; she was too stunned to say anything more than a squeaky "thanks."
"Anything to give that Russian fuckbag the shaft, sweetie. So whaddya think?"
Angela took the new driver's license from Kat's outstretched hand and held it up close. The girl in the photo wasn't her. Of course it was, but at the same time it wasn't. Angela had seen herself only one way for so long. Sure, she had a second identity as Sapphire, but as different as she thought she'd made her superheroine persona, there was still a connection. This person staring back at her from a small piece of plastic was someone else.
"Gimme your old one," Kat said smartly, snapping her fingers. "I'll put it in a safe place. You don't want to be carrying it around in case you get stopped." Angela fished her wallet out of her purse, just a slim leather pocket she'd gotten for her sixteenth birthday.
She suddenly remembered that moment with dizzying clarity -- the Sunday Comics wrapping, the slim white cardboard box croaking like a frog as the bottom half slowly dropped into her hand, the then-unscratched blood-red leather with a clear plastic window, her student ID card smiling back at her -- when did her mom slip it out of her old Hello Kitty wallet? -- and her mom's proud smile. Sliding her brand-new driver's license, ornate and official and overloaded with information, in front of the incredibly lame student body card. The wallet as much as the license symbolizing a little girl grown up. Her mom's beaming explanation of the gift, as if such a thing was necessary. "Now that you have an ID that means something, you should protect it."
The vivid presence of her mom took Angela by surprise. Too painful to feel for more than a moment, she released the memory with a sigh.
Kat snapped her fingers again.
Angela slid her real driver's license out -- the student body card long gone, no doubt melted to the inside of her senior yearbook, itself a blackened ruin buried deep in the city landfill -- and Kat slipped it from her fingers. The new license, the one with someone else in the picture, her but not her, slid into place. Angela silently read the name -- her name, now.
Kat was more enthusiastic. "Goodbye, Angela Barrett. Hello, Gabrielle Hayden."
Angela felt the woman take her hand. "Come on, Gabby -- do you mind if I call you Gabby? -- it's time we got you a job."
"So you've never worked before."
"Every girl's gotta start somewhere."
"Where'd you say you were from again?"
"I didn't, but Seattle."
Erin Jones smiled. The man with the camera in his hand and the predatory look in his eye was Artie Hooks. A little on the short side -- maybe 5'7", not much taller than she was in her four-inch heels -- and already balding, but still kinda cute for an older guy. Older -- he was maybe twenty-five, twenty-six. Hardly old! Erin had to stop thinking like a high-school kid.
Artie Hooks. Less hair, but better dressed. He'd once stopped Becky in the mall and given her his business card. "You should be a model -- call me," he'd said.
He probably said that to hundreds of girls, maybe thousands. But she had his card, and she'd checked him out online. He ran a small studio that did fashion photography for catalogs and clothing stores. She knew if he liked her he could get her hooked up with an agency and get her some fashion work, even if she was busty for a petite. But Erin wasn't here to start small. It was his other work that interested her.
Artie Hooks was a porntrepreneur.
Lots of people were in the online porn business. Artie Hooks actually made money at it. His ex-wife's name was the administrative contact for some sixty domain names which led to a half-dozen distinct fetish porn websites, including one for "barely 18" girls and one for cheerleaders. But the real sites of interest were the ones dedicated to a specific girl. Becky had actually gotten subscriptions to check them out. (Vincent Junior was even more gullible than he was horny.) He had three of them, all with the same "high class" semi-softcore format -- one or two new photo shoots a week, good sets and lighting, always starting with a provocative outfit and ending with an apparent climax, usually solo but sometimes with a partner.
Erin Jones was determined to be his next girl, and his most popular. Almost two years earlier than her original plan, but her youth was no doubt to her advantage anyway.
Of course there was no evidence of such naughty things in the reception area of his studio -- just fashion and portrait photography.
"I could swear I've seen you before," Artie said, eyes appraising her -- all professional.
A moment of panic quickly faded; no doubt he said that to all the girls. But she was running this show. "Maybe in your dreams, Artie."
The man broke a smile. "No doubt. So, you want to be a fashion model? You're going to need a portfolio."
No, she wanted to be the next Bianca Bristow -- but she'd break the good news to him after he'd seen her in front of a camera. "That's why I'm here."
"Did an agency send you?"
"No, I just got your card from a friend."
"Really? Who?"
"It doesn't really matter now that I'm here."
"Good point. So it's no charge for the shoot, but I keep rights and I charge for prints."
"Yeah, whatever. You think you could recommend an agent?"
"I might be able to come up with a name." He was licking his lips now...
"Cool. You busy now?"
Artie was floored. "Nothing that can't be done later. You have makeup and something to wear?"
"Just this -- and what's on underneath it." Erin did her best to affect a shy blush. It worked -- Artie's eyes shot out like zoom lenses.
"I'm going to need to see some ID."
"Not a problem. Spent all day yesterday at the DMV. You know you have to get a California license within ten days of moving here?" The little plastic card jittered to a stop on the smooth counter. Artie picked it up and gave it, and then her, the evil eye. "This your address?"
"My aunt lives up in Sacramento. She doesn't know I'm gone -- not that she'll mind. We didn't exactly get along. I've got my birth certificate if you wanna make a copy."
Artie handed the license back. "Copy machine's in the back. Let's get started." Artie motioned for her to follow him through the velvet curtain.
Cool -- a girl's bedroom in the middle of a warehouse.
Artie busied himself powering up the set lights. "Check your makeup over there," he pointed. "Add more foundation; skin like yours turns translucent."
She heard him talking to someone. Oh, phone. "Hey, Jimmy, I need you in Two. I got a walk-in for a portfolio." He turned to her. "Jimmy's my assistant, helps me with the lights."
Erin was blase. "I figured."
They started in front of a neutral background; after a few head shots Artie pulled out the stool and took some full-body shots. Erin just did what she'd seen models do on TV, twisting, pouting, giggling, looking surprised...
"You're a natural," Jimmy said, unprompted.
"Thanks. So are you," she smirked.
"That's good, like that." Artie kept snapping.
Then Erin reached for the hem of her top.
"Woah, hold on. Let's get you over there first." He gestured to the bedroom set.
"I thought you'd never ask."
They ran through a few series of shots -- in the doorway, sitting at the dresser, laying on the floor -- with Artie stopping her every time she looked ready to shed a piece of clothing. "We'll get to that."
So instead Erin made her poses more and more suggestive. Toes pointed. Hanging off the bed. Back arched. Hand between her legs. Finger in her mouth. Pouty look. Legs spread. "Woah," Artie said, pulling back. His assistant gave him a "what, are you nuts?" look.
"What's wrong, Artie?" Erin asked, sitting up and leaning forward, spreading her legs even wider. "I'm a big girl."
"I know what Carla's looking for, and what'll sell you to companies like Perfect Petites."
"Artie," Erin scolded, clicking her tongue, "if all I wanted was some clothing catalog, I wouldn't be here on your bed."
She pulled off her top and threw it at him. "So let's quit fooling around and take some pictures."
Artie didn't say another word -- the only sound was the click-pop-whine of the equipment, and Erin's none-too-subtle mewling noises.
The shutter clicked continuously as she slowly, slowly dropped her skirt.
Jimmy dropped something heavy when she smacked her own ass; Artie didn't stop shooting to see what it was.
On the bed. Knees together in mock chastity. She'd lost her bra. "Get in closer, I won't bite."
Artie paused. "This is my last memory card. Twenty more shots." Like he wanted to make sure if she was headed for something specific that she'd get there before he ran out.
"Okay. This is probably far enough for now anyway. Gotta save something for next time." Artie got a close-up of her most wicked smile.
She kept count. Back turned, sixteen. Look over the shoulder, seventeen. Turn around, hand snaking down her tummy, eighteen. Fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her little panties, nineteen. Look of forbidden bliss, twenty.
"That's it," Artie said, breathless.
Perfect. Erin let out a big sigh -- if he'd had another card, she wouldn't have stopped with just touching. As it was she was going to take a while to cool down.
Artie took a sympathetic deep breath and wiped his brow. Jimmy flipped off the lights and, with a nod of approval from his boss, hustled off to another part of the building. Erin pictured him locking himself in the bathroom...
"Is he new?" she asked.
"Naw -- he was supposed to pick up his girlfriend fifteen minutes ago."
"Oh. Tell him I'm sorry I got carried away."
"He'll live."
Erin flopped around on the bed, gathering up her discarded clothes from the headboard, the bedspread, and either side on the floor. She smiled when she realized she'd never taken off her heels.
"All right. So I'll let you know when I've got the contact sheets done; meantime I'll email a couple over to Carla and we'll see what she thinks."
"Cool." Erin pulled on her T-shirt and skirt, making sure Artie noticed that her bra and panties went in her bag, not on her body.
"Is there a number where I can reach you?"
"Actually, that brings up something else I wanted to ask you. You think I could crash at your place for a couple days?"
Artie's casual smile quickly faded. But Erin noticed a reflective hesitation before he answered, and she knew she had him.
"I don't think that's a very good idea," he said, doing his best to be cold.
"Look, Artie," Erin said, stepping right up to him, her unrestrained breasts jiggling enticingly. "I didn't do all that *just* for fun, ya know. I'm gonna make you a lot of money. More than Miss Bristow. So you might want to think about making me happy."
Artie nearly coughed up a lung.
"Welcome home, Gabby. --Set your stuff down over there next to the couch. I'll make some space on the bathroom counter."
The young woman calling herself Gabrielle looked around Kat's apartment. The small walled-in feeling was emphasized by the high ceiling. The building was old -- the cornerstone outside had "1927" carved in very gothic numerals -- but well-appointed. Kat wouldn't tell her how much the rent was. "There's a building down the street that hasn't been yuppied up yet, it's probably more your speed. I'll point it out on the way to work tomorrow."
The one-bedroom unit had a tiny kitchen/dining area off to the left, and a large living area off to the right. Bed and bath were behind twin doors opposite the front door.
The walls were crammed with cheap art -- posters Angela had thumbed through countless times at the Perfect Prints shop in the mall, each expensively framed. Rose On Piano Keyboard, Ballet Slippers Untied, Marilyn Monroe Blown Skirt, Little Girl With Rose, Naked Woman In Bed.
"Check out the bedroom," Kat beckoned.
The king-size bed barely fit in the room, a white four-post frame with gaudy brass trim. The comforter was cream-colored with a pattern of tangled green vines, a motif echoed by the green scarves hanging from the bedposts and the matching window scarf. Mirrors on the closet doors and the opposite wall squared off -- somehow the look through to infinite copies of the room made it seem smaller, not bigger.
The only art hung over the headboard. Angela recognized this poster too: two young women in undershirts and panties laying on a bed and locked in a passionate kiss. It occurred to the girl that there were no images of men anywhere in the apartment. Was Kat...?
"I have the one of the shower kiss on the back of the bathroom door," Kat said proudly.
"Nice," Angela managed.
"Well, you can sleep with me or you can sleep on the couch, whatever's more comfortable."
"I don't want to intrude any more than I already have," Angela begged off. "The couch will be fine. It's just for a couple of days."
"It's for as long as you need, honey. Now let's get the rest of the stuff out of your car and ditch it before anybody sees it."
"Do I really have to?"
"Gabrielle, that thing is like an anchor around your neck. Everybody's gonna be lookin' for it -- you want them to find you in it? Shit, it barely runs anyway."
Gabrielle. She supposed she'd have to get used to that name. At least for a while.
It was hard to believe that the woman who'd helped her get a new identity, a new job, and a place to crash was the same Katerina Novak who'd once threatened to kill her. But that seemed like a long time ago. She was a different person now. They both were.
"Yeah. Shit, it barely runs anyway." Gabrielle mimicked, smiling.