Page 44 of Thirst

With a sigh, I swallow my annoyance and make my way over to booth three. As soon as I enter, I smell the alcohol, even though there isn't a drink nearby. I knew it.

“Hey,” I say politely, hoping he matches my energy.

“Hey there, baby,” he says. “Whoo, you lookin’ good in that lime green. I could just squeeze your juices right into a frosty Corona bottle right now. Damn, girl. Come and sit right here until the next song comes on, then let me see what you're workin’ with.”

I try to make my frustration as subtle as possible as I inch my way forward until I'm seated next to the man. Up close, I can see how yellow his teeth are and the tear at the bottom of his red Dragon Ball Z shirt. His jeans look like he's been rolling around in the dirt, and his hands are ashy as hell like he's been rubbing chalk all over his dark skin.

“What’s your name?” I ask anxiously.

“I'm Pretty Ricky,” he says, smiling wide.

“Pretty Ricky,” I repeat, nodding slowly. There isn't anything pretty about this man.

“Pretty Ricky what they call me!” he yells before bursting into laughter. He slaps his thigh, his glossy eyes locked onto me. “Have you seen Martin?”

“Yeah, I've seen it,” I say, understanding the reference but hating how it sounds coming from him.

“Boy, that Martin is somethin’ else, ain't he? Whoo. Damn you got some pretty feet! Look at those toenails! What is that? A pedicure?”

As he yells again, a waft of liquor-breath smacks me right in the face. I try not to cover my nose, but I can't help it. I turn away from him and cup my hand over my nostrils, my eyes watering as I try to pull myself together.

“Well what the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, a few of his words slurring.

“Nothing. I thought I was gonna sneeze,” I say, just as a new song comes on. The second I hear the music, I stand up and start dancing, planning to exit the moment the music starts to fade.

“Ah, yeah that’s it right there,” Pretty Ricky says. “Yeah, come on and sit down on Pretty Ricky. Bring that chocolate over here. The good Lord took his time with you. I wanna take my time, too.”

After dancing for Amari, it’s a real struggle forcing myself to dance with someone like Pretty Ricky. I realize how spoiled I've been, because the second I straddle him, I have to fight the urge to hurl. Suddenly, I'm struggling to stay in place because my body wants to get up and run to wherever Amari is. I would much rather be doing this with him than anybody else, which is exactly why we’re not supposed to get in the mix with customers. Now, Amari is all I want.

“Come on now. Shake that ass for Pretty Ricky,” the drunk man says, each word bringing a foul stench with it. “Let me see somethin’. I know your fine ass can move better than that.”

“The more you pay, the more I’ll move,” I respond. “Come on, Pretty Ricky. Motivate me.”

“Motivate you?” he growls. “Bitch, you shake that ass and I’ll provide the cash. It’s that simple. If you wanna get paid, I need to get laid. If you want the dough, you better move some mo’.”

“Stop rhyming and just pay for the lap dance,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You got forty dollars?”

“Forty dollars?” he shrieks in a purposely flamboyant voice.

“Come on, man. This isn’t Baby Boy. If you can't pay, I can't stay.”

“Oh, now look who’s rhymin’.”

“Jesus Christ,” I snip as I get off Pretty Ricky and stand in front of him. I scan the room for Von, but he's nowhere to be found. He spends all of his time staring at me from afar, but when I need him he’s a ghost. “Ricky, do you have any money?”

“First of all, bitch, it’s Pretty Ricky,” he says. “Second of all, don't worry your gold diggin’ ass about how much money I got. Just come do your job. Show me them titties.”

“Man, to hell with this. I'm out.”

I turn to walk out of the booth, but I quickly feel a sharp pain in my wrist as Ricky grabs me.

“Hey, where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he snaps, pulling me back to him. He wraps his arms around me, squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe. “The song ain’t over. You owe Pretty Ricky a goddamn dance. That’s what’s wrong with you. You think somebody owes you somethin’, when it’s really you who owes Pretty Ricky. Let’s go upstairs so you can bend over for me. I wanna see your bootyhole. You've been in here sweatin’. I bet it stinks so good.”

“Get the fuck off me!” I say, struggling to scream due to his tight grip. “Security! Somebody help. Somebody get him off …”

My words trail off as the last of my oxygen is used up. It feels like I'm holding my breath on purpose, but it’s really just Ricky’s bear hug crushing my diaphragm. I try to look around, hoping someone notices what’s happening, but the customers closest to us don't even bother to turn around. The girl on the main stage stops dancing and points in our direction, but I can't hear anything anymore. I think I'm about to pass out when the pressure suddenly stops and I drop to the floor.

As I gasp for air, I hear a loud crash that sounds like a small bomb going off right next to me, and when I manage to focus my vision, I see Pretty Ricky being held from behind in a death grip by a man in a black suit. The man slams Pretty Ricky’s face against the table in the booth, knocking it over and splattering the floor with blood before throwing Ricky over the couch and out of the booth altogether. His body goes flying in the air before crashing into multiple people near the bar, knocking them down and bending a barstool in half. Everyone around is in complete shock at the sheer strength of the man, but then security comes rushing over, stealing the attention. They kick Pretty Ricky a few times before lifting him up and dragging him out, leaving me in the booth with the man in the suit. When he turns around, I'm startled to the point of gasping.