Rock Chick Reawakening (Rock Chick #0.5) Read online

  Those kinds stayed around a lot longer than this one did.

  Too long.

  But never that long.

  They always left.

  Like Daddy did.

  And I never missed them.

  Yes, even Daddy.

  But I’d miss this one with his twinkly eyes and his soft voice and the way he called me sweetheart not like that was what I was, but that was what he had. A sweet heart.

  No, there were not a lot of those kinds. Not for Momma.

  Not for me.

  “Stretch!” she shrieked. “You get back here, Stretch! Get back here!”

  The front door slammed.

  “Fucking motherfucker!” Momma screamed.

  I closed my eyes.

  Let myself drift away.

  And I started again to build my castle.

  * * * *

  “A Southern woman always has her table laid.”

  Miss Annamae was talking to me in her pretty dining room with the big dining room table all laid with the finest china, sparkling crystal, shining silver, and its big bunch of light-purply-blue hydrangeas with cream roses set in the middle.

  She adjusted a napkin in its holder sitting on a plate that was sitting on a charger that was resting on a pressed linen tablecloth.

  “If she’s fortunate,” Miss Annamae went on, and standing opposite the table to her, the fingers of my hands wrapped over the back of a tall chair, all ears, like I always was when I was with Miss Annamae, I watched her move around the table with difficulty. She wasn’t a young woman. She also wasn’t a beaten one, even losing both her kids and her husband and having to carry on alone. “She can change it with the seasons. I have Christmas china.” Her faded blue eyes turned to me and a smile set the wrinkles in her face to shifting. “But you’ve seen that, haven’t you, Miss Daisy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And I had. Miss Annamae did her house up real pretty at Christmas. She always made sure I came over so she could show me all around and give me a tin of Christmas cookies she baked herself.

  Momma had been working for Miss Annamae now for over two years. It was the longest job she’d ever had. She usually got fired a lot sooner than that.

  I reckoned Miss Annamae kept her on as her daily girl not because she liked her or she did good work and kept a tidy house (which she did not, not Miss Annamae’s and definitely not ours). I also didn’t reckon she kept her on because she liked the fact Momma would be late a lot, show up hungover a lot, call off sick a lot, or one of her “men friends” would show at Miss Annamae’s big, graceful mansion and cause a ruckus.

  No, I didn’t reckon any of this was why Miss Annamae kept her on.

  I didn’t know why Miss Annamae kept Momma on.

  Except for the fact she was a good Southern woman.

  Miss Annamae turned to the big window that faced her back garden, calling, “Come here, child.”

  I moved directly to her.

  When I got there, she lifted her scrawny, veined hand to my shoulder and rested it there.

  It felt light and warm.

  “She works in her garden, a good Southern woman,” she shared, her eyes still aimed out the window. “She cuts her own flowers, arranges them for her own table.”

  We didn’t have any flowers at our house. It was actually good when the yard died during that drought last summer and became a big patch of dirt and scrub. It looked better not overgrown. Like someone lived there, they just didn’t care. Instead of looking like no one lived there, and no one would ever want to.

  The landlord didn’t agree. He got up in Momma’s face about it a lot. But she ignored him like she always ignored him when he got up in her face about things. Like the neighbors complaining about the fights or when she’d play her music too loud, which was also a lot, on all counts.

  “You have sweet tea in your fridge, sugar, always,” she said to me.

  I nodded, looking from her colorful garden to her and feeling some pressure from her hand on my shoulder as she rested into me, giving me her weight.

  I stood strong and took it. I’d take all her weight if she needed to give it to me. That’s how much I liked Miss Annamae. And she had all my like seeing as Momma was how she was, her men were how they were, the kids at school were how they were, the teachers, the lady behind the counter at the store.

  Everybody.

  Yes, Miss Annamae had all my like mostly because there was no one else who’d let me give it to them.

  This made it sad that Momma didn’t let me come with her to Miss Annamae’s house often, even though Miss Annamae always acted like she was real happy when I came. And I knew down deep in my heart this wasn’t because I helped Momma and did all the gross stuff, like cleaning the toilets, so she could have a break from that kind of thing. But I did it a whole lot better than Momma did so Miss Annamae actually had the house kept the way she was paying to keep it.

  Still, Momma didn’t let me come often. Not even when I was in school and I had to walk home by myself and stay there by myself until she finished work (and then again stayed by myself when she went right back out).

  I didn’t know why this was either, except, even if it was mean to think, Momma didn’t like it that Miss Annamae liked me.

  I didn’t understand this. If Momma was quiet and respectful, like Miss Annamae had told me a lady should be, a lot more people would like her.

  I was beginning to think Momma didn’t care if anyone liked her. So much, she’d rather they didn’t like her so she didn’t have to bother with people at all.

  “No matter what you’re in the middle of, a caller comes, you open your door to them, you invite them into your home, and you make certain they don’t leave hungry,” Miss Annamae carried on, taking my attention again.

  Not easy to do in my house where Momma spent her money on smokes and booze and not so much on food for her kid.

  I was looking forward to the day when I could get a job and I could have money and I could use it for whatever I wanted. I wasn’t going to use it on smokes and booze, for certain. I wasn’t going to use it on fancy dresses or shoes or handbags either.

  I was going to keep my house like a good Southern woman would. My yard would be perfect. My house would be tidy. And there’d always be sweet tea and food in the fridge.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said to Miss Annamae.

  I felt her fingers curl on my shoulder and I was looking at her but I still felt sure as certain that her gaze grew sharper on me.

  “A good Southern girl pays attention in school.” She lifted her other hand to her temple then reached out and touched the middle of my forehead before she dropped it. “Ain’t no call for a Southern woman to rub your nose in the fact she’s smarter than you. But make no mistake, she’s gonna be smarter than you.”

  I nodded.

  She shifted closer and it felt like her eyes were burning into me.

  “You find that time when you get yourself a boy, child, he holds the door for you. You enter a room before him. He closes you safe in his car. If you’re at a restaurant, he gives you the seat with the best view. He stands when you stand. He offers you his hand when it’s needed. And if you’ve got a touch with a drill and a hankerin’ to use it, then you use it, girl. But if you don’t and you got hooks you need put up in your bathroom, he best be gettin’ on that for you and doin’ it without any backtalk or delay.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I whispered, the wonders of such a boy as I’d never known making my insides feel funny.

  “As for you, Miss Daisy, you take care of yourself,” she continued. “Don’t you leave the house without your hair set, your face done, and your earrings in.” She patted my shoulder but then gripped again tight. “You get older, you’ll find your style. And don’t you let anyone tell you what that is. You’re a good girl in a way I know you’ll always be a good girl. Be proud of that. Good posture. Chin up. Show your pride, sugar. Be who you are however that evolves and don’t let anyone cut you down.”


  Gosh, but it felt nice her saying I was a good girl.

  It was harder to think of not letting anyone cut me down. That was always happening. I’d decided just to get used to it.

  She let my shoulder go to put her hand in the pocket of the pretty, flowered dress.

  She pulled out a small, dark-blue box with a white bow.

  I took in a hard, quick breath.

  “And last, Miss Daisy, a good Southern woman always has her pearls,” she said softly.

  I looked from the box to Miss Annamae, but she was blurry seeing as I had tears in my eyes.

  “Miss Annamae.” My voice was croaky.

  She lifted the box to me.

  “Daisy, a gift is offered, you take it, you express your gratitude and later, you write a thank you note,” she instructed.

  I nodded, taking the box.

  I pulled the bow but held it in my fist as I flipped open the top.

  Inside, on a delicate gold chain, the prettiest, daintiest thing I’d ever seen, hung add-a-pearls. Their creamy gleam made me feel dazzled. The one in the middle was the biggest, getting a little bit smaller as they went down each side.

  “One for every year of your life, child,” Miss Annamae told me and I counted them.

  She was right.

  There were thirteen.

  And I was thirteen.

  That day.

  It was my birthday.

  “Now, to keep that set the way it should be, you come to me when you’re fifteen and I’ll add the next two pearls, balance it out,” she shared.

  My gaze drifted up to hers. “Miss Annamae,” I repeated, my voice still sounding all choked.

  And suddenly, with a swiftness I’d never seen her move, she was leaned into my face.

  “You hide that from your momma. You hear Miss Annamae?”

  I nodded, doing it fast.

  I heard her.

  Oh yes, I did.

  “You wear those when the time’s right. They’re yours, Daisy. So you wear them when the time is right.” She drew in a breath so big, I saw her draw it, before her voice got softer but no less strong. “They’re yours, child. However you need them when the time comes, they’re yours.”

  I didn’t understand what she meant by that but she was being so serious I felt it best to nod, and again do it fast.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  The fierce went out of her face and she cocked her head to the side. Her soft, white hair swept back in the bun filtering with the sunlight coming in her window like she was an angel, she smiled as she lifted a hand and brushed my bangs sideways on my forehead.

  “Every girl needs pretty things, every girl needs a little bit of sparkle however she can get it, but every Southern girl needs her pearls,” she whispered back.

  “Daisy!” Momma yelled from somewhere in the house.

  I jumped.

  Miss Annamae closed her eyes. Her wrinkles shifted again with her frown before she opened them, looked at me and said, talking quietly, “I’m sure your momma’s got good in her, girl, but just to say, a Southern woman does not yell.”

  I nodded again.

  She nodded back. “Go find your momma, child.”

  I stepped away, took another step, and started to turn.

  But I stopped and turned back.

  “Miss Annamae?”

  “I’m right here, Daisy.”

  What did I say?

  No.

  How did I say all I wanted to say?

  The words got caught, twisting, filling my throat.

  “Daisy! Where are you?” Momma shouted.

  “I know,” Miss Annamae said, and from the look on her face I saw by some miracle she did know exactly what I needed to say without me having to say it. “Now go to your momma, child.”

  I nodded yet again, the feeling in my throat making wet pop out in my eyes.

  I swallowed, took in a big breath, dashed my hand on my eyes and shoved the box into the pocket of my jeans.

  Then I turned and walked slowly out of the dining room.

  Like a lady.

  * * * *

  “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ some cake and ice cream or somethin’,” Momma muttered when we were in her car on the way back home from Miss Annamae’s house.

  “No, Momma. It’s okay.”

  “Now she’s bein’ that passive-aggressive bullshit,” Momma kept muttering, now to herself, sort of. It was also to me.

  I closed my mouth.

  Momma didn’t stop at the store.

  In the end, I made myself bologna sandwiches for my birthday dinner while Momma got ready to go out to DuLane’s Roadhouse.

  But after she was gone, I ate my sandwiches sitting in front of the TV and I did it wearing pearls.

  And three days later, Momma lost her job with Miss Annamae seeing as she went to work (late) and found Miss Annamae had passed quietly in the night while she was sleeping.

  * * * *

  I walked away from Quick Swap with the cash in my pocket.

  I went right to the bus station.

  I bought a ticket and sat outside on the bench, my two suitcases on the sidewalk by my boots.

  The bus came.

  The driver tossed my beat-up, second-hand suitcases under the bus and I climbed in.

  There weren’t a lot of folks there, which was good. I didn’t feel in a friendly mood and Miss Annamae had taught me that a lady can make a stranger a friend in no time flat…and she should.

  I picked a seat at the back by the window.

  I rested my head against it and stared out, unseeing.

  I heard the bus start up and felt it pull away from the curb.

  When it did, I also felt the wet drip from my eye, rolling down my cheek. Then some more from the other eye.

  I let myself have that. Just for a spell. Doing it, lifting my hand and touching my fingers to my neck where the pearls I’d worn every day for the last two years no longer were.

  They were at Quick Swap.

  The time had come when I needed them.

  I knew Miss Annamae wouldn’t mind. I understood her now. I understood a lot of things. Most of it I wished I didn’t.

  They were gone, all I had of her. She gave them to me on my thirteenth birthday and I’d pawned them on my nineteenth.

  I’d miss them.

  But not as much as I missed her.

  When it was time to be done crying, I made myself be done. I opened my purse with its cracked fake leather and fished out my hankie (because Southern women carried hankies). I also pulled out my compact. I dabbed my eyes and carefully, swaying with the bus’s movements in order not to make a mess of it (but I’d been doing it now for some time and I was good at it), I fixed my makeup.

  I returned everything to my purse, kept it tucked in my lap, and looked down the long bus out the front window.

  We were headed west.

  It was going to be a long journey.

  I rested my head back on the seat and closed my eyes.

  Passing the time as the bus rolled over the miles, I built castles.

  Chapter One

  And Everything

  Marcus

  Marcus Sloan stood at the window in Smithie’s office, staring down at the floor of the strip club, a quarter share of which he owned, but even so, he rarely came and he never did so when the business was in operation.

  He didn’t need to.

  Smithie, who started the club, owned the rest of it and ran it, knew his business. He was serious about it. He was also honest. And he had the right reputation for the job—a man you didn’t fuck with, but a man that took care of his business by taking care of his customers as well as his staff, from cleaning ladies to bouncers to bartenders to talent.

  That was the first time Marcus had been there in over a year.

  It was morning. Early. They didn’t open until one. There were no windows to the building so the lights inside were on. Three women were moving through the space, one wiping down t
ables, the other two mopping the floor.

  And two women were on the stage.

  It appeared one was training the other.

  The door behind him opened but Marcus didn’t look from the window even as he heard Smithie walk in.

  He kept his eyes on the stage.

  “I hear you have a headliner,” Marcus noted to the window, his attention aimed through it but locked on the blonde on that stage.

  “Velvet rope, brother,” Smithie replied and Marcus felt him move through the office.

  He also felt him stop at Marcus’s side.

  “She danced with the other girls for about a week,” Smithie told him. “Before I put her out there, saw it during her audition. Still had no idea how much of a stir she was gonna cause due to her talent. Don’t need the bullshit it was gonna bring, all the boys shovin’ their cash in Daisy’s strings, the other girls get screwed since she’s outshinin’ ’em by a mile. If I clear the stage for her, she works the boys on her own, got no bitches workin’ my nerves, whinin’ about their tips. Four sets, three songs each, she gets her take and then some. The other girls get a good break to re-oil or whatever and the boys are primed and motivated to keep the goodness flowin’ after she leaves the stage.”

  “Three sets, two songs, and no lap dances,” Marcus stated.

  “Say what?” Smithie asked.

  Marcus turned to the man.

  He was black. Big. In his day he’d been fit, never lean, a powerhouse. His body had gone somewhat soft with age, but Smithie hadn’t gone soft. He was sharp, shrewd, educated, and street smart. His life had been bumpy, not as bumpy as some, but bumpier than most. He’d stood strong through it making smart decisions, wise alliances, and not many enemies.

  “Three sets, two songs, and no lap dances,” Marcus repeated.

  Smithie’s brows shot together as understanding came to him. “Thought we had an agreement.”

  They did.

  Over a year ago, Smithie had hit some hard times with his family, one of his four women’s brother finding trouble. He needed money to help him out. He’d taken it out of his business and to keep that business functioning, he needed a partner but would only take one who was silent, left the running of the club to Smithie, was open to a buyout when Smithie was back on his feet, kept his nose out of it, and simply took his cut every month.