Chapter Twenty-Four
The Cowboy
That night, Madam Karina writes a black number 8 on my left hand. Poppet gets marked with a 9. These numbers won’t last long.
My sketchpad and pencils are set up in the corner of the room, and music beats through my veins. The songs are faster tonight, more tumultuous. Maybe because it’s a Thursday night, and we have to remind guests to relax even though the weekend is one workday away.
Mercy says a few words, staring at me the entire time she talks. Then the curtain is pulled back and seven guests file in.
It’s showtime.
I lock eyes with Poppet, and she nods. Pulling her skirts a touch higher than necessary, she bounds in front of the other girls and reaches a guest first. The boy is no older than fifteen, and has angry red acne rolling across his skin. His white sneakers are scuffed and his jeans are torn, and not in a fashionable way. This boy spent what little money he had to come here tonight. He’s the exact person I would have approached, which means Poppet and I are on the same page.
Don’t approach the guests who have money, I had told her.
Why? she’d asked. They’re the ones who can return over and over again.
We don’t need repeats. We need the most coins, every night. To do that, we need to make a scene. Start with the easy ones, then slowly draw the others in.
Working in this house for only four nights has taught me that the town of Pox isn’t a wealthy one. But they say there’s a larger city an hour and a half away where townspeople commute. Close enough to earn a payday, too far to face a long drive home after having a beer.
Poppet touches the boy on his arms, his shoulders, comments on his striking smile. The other girls watch Poppet from the corner of their eye, surprised by her aggressiveness, but unconcerned because the boy isn’t worth bothering with.
We can’t compete with Mercy and Raquel and the others who have built up a clientele. And though they want new guests, they want them only if they’re easy, or if they have potential to be added to their repertoire.
But the boy with the red hair and fiery skin?
He’s up for grabs.
A part of me feels guilty, like I’m using him. But then I remember he came here to be entertained, to feel special for a little while, and I know the other girls will laugh behind his back and tell stories about his acne after he’s gone. I won’t do that. Neither will Poppet.
She brings him over to the bar, and I inspect the other six guests. Not many tonight, but that doesn’t matter. We only need to secure the most coins. My eyes fall on a young guy and my breath catches. He’s stunning. Mid-twenties, blond hair, blue eyes. He has a deep dimple in his chin, and a lean body. I could imagine a cowboy hat on his head and a stallion between his legs.
He sees me looking and smiles. It’s warm, but guarded, as if he knows he shouldn’t be here. I glance at his ring finger. Sure enough, there’s an outline of a wedding band that the sun hasn’t touched in years. He probably got married young, and the love has died out. Now he’s here, looking to feel wanted again.
I detest him.
I turn away. It’s not like we have a chance at him, anyway. I’ve seen one other young, attractive man come in here, and the girls practically drew blood trying to garner his attention. They’ll want to make a repeat out of this guy if only to see that dimpled chin.
Our redheaded boy now has a drink in his hand, and I’ve taken a seat in front of my sketchpad. Poppet motions toward me, and he nods enthusiastically. He’ll go wherever she goes, but it’s my job to keep him occupied.
“This is Domino,” Poppet says when the two get close. “She’s an artist. She can draw you anything you want.”
“That’s not entirely true.” I offer the boy my hand, and he brings it to his lips. It takes everything I have not to recoil. Nothing personal. It’s just another level of touching, and I’m not even comfortable with the preliminaries. I jerk my hand back to my side. “I take requests, or I can draw you a surprise.”
“Ooh, let her draw a surprise,” Poppet squeals.
The boy sucks a syrupy brown drink through a striped straw. “Whatever you think,” he says after he’s swallowed.
Poppet sits him down on a beanbag and snuggles in close. “Tell me everything there is to know about you.”
For the next two hours, I draw and Poppet laughs with such zeal that other customers begin to wander over. When I see girls giving us dirty looks, I warn them with a scowl that says I’ll do to them what I did to Mercy. They don’t call my bluff, and soon we have two customers lounging on the beanbags instead of one.
Cain watches from the bar. For a second, my attention to my sketchpad wavers, and I think about how he looked at me this morning. When he saw Mercy’s face, he eyed me like he somehow knew I was to blame. I wonder if he’s repulsed by my behavior. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who likes dainty girls who don’t mark their own skin and attack people.
To each his own.
“May I join you?”
I glance up and see the blond guy with the dangerous dimple. He’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room. My eyes return to his ring finger, but I smile as best I can and nod toward the beanbags.
He plops down in a red leather one and Styrofoam pebbles shoot out the side.
“I’m not married anymore,” he says, causing my face to flush.
I return my gaze to my sketch. “I didn’t ask.”
Poppet gasps and slaps me on the arm. “I’m sorry. She’s not feeling well tonight.”
“You saw where I wore my ring,” he pushes playfully. “Thought I was a dirtbag, right?”
I’m drawing a picture of the two dudes sitting on either side of Poppet. Now I try to work the new guy in. He’s all hard lines, except for his face, which is velvet soft. “I wasn’t looking.”
“She passed away seven months ago,” he announces.
I stop drawing, and Poppet practically crawls into his lap. “Oh, my gosh. How terrible. Tell us about her,” she insists.
I would never have thought to ask the man about his wife. It seems like a touchy topic, but Poppet is brazen. The man smiles as he speaks about how they met, and even the other guys listen in on the story. Poppet ensures everyone is involved in the conversation.
Once, as the guy is speaking, a Carnation storms over, her lips pursed in frustration. I shoot to my feet and stare her down until she loses her nerve and returns to the other side of the room. I motion for Poppet to keep the guys talking, and when the night is all but over, we retain their attention.
I show them my finished illustration—three guys who look like the best of friends being adored by a beautiful girl—and the guests praise my work. Poppet asks them to pick a number to see who keeps it, and makes them promise to return this weekend.
Bronze coins fall into slots, and we start to clean up. Before long, Mercy will call for us to get ready for bed, and a new day will dawn. But for now, there’s something I want to do. It’s been too long since I tasted the night air, and I’m craving a real conversation, one without borders or false pretenses. So when backs are turned, I slip out of the entertainment room and from there the front door.
I count to thirty before the door opens a second time, and Cain appears. I nod toward the back of the house.
He follows without a sound.