Read Online Tempted by Trouble by Eric Jerome Dickey - Free Book Online Page A

took the split to the pole, had her body in a sideways Chinese split. She used her legs to hold the pole and came down inches at a time, flipped before she made it to the floor, then landed in a dramatic full split. She landed so hard it made men groan.
    This was the result of her mother struggling to send her to gymnastics and dance classes from when she was a child until she graduated from high school and joined the navy.
    My wife saw me lurking in the shadows and lost her painted-on smile for a moment.
    I wanted her to see me. I wanted to see how she would react when she saw me.
    There was a pause that lasted no more than half a second. I knew my wife. I knew her every expression, no matter how subtle. She wanted me to leave. She didn’t want me there. But I was there.
    She could have motioned to a fat bouncer, and the fat bouncer would have asked me to go, but she knew better. She knew me. She knew my every expression as well. She read the look on my face. If a bouncer touched me, we’d come to blows. I’d lose the fight, but there would be a fight.
    I backed up a step, but not in retreat. That step reassured her that I wasn’t going to cause a scene. Not that night, but I wanted to. The love inside me made it hard to not hate what I saw.
    Each dollar that was thrown her way felt like a flaming whip lashing across my ego.
    Women went over to her throwing dollars, ugly women who had girl crushes and let it be known they wanted girl kisses as they leaned over and whispered in my wife’s ear. My wife smiled and flirted. I wanted to hear what was being said. Liquored up, women were as aggressive as men. Some of the women dressed in oversize clothing, talked with their mouths twisted, had hair cut short, and looked like men.
    Desperation’s heated breath singed my neck, its jagged teeth prepared to devour my flesh. Poverty growled too, waiting its turn, famished yet patient, a beast that dined on the bones of men.
    My wife finished her routine and stopped to gather the dollars that had been thrown at her feet. She bent over and hurried to get her dollars. It looked sad. It looked disgusting, the desperate way my wife picked up the money that had been thrown at her like she was the slave of the moment. She grabbed stray dollars that had fallen off the stage, pulled what she had garnered into one vulgar pile. I saw no dignity in what she was doing. I saw lust but no respect for her as a woman as she left the stage. She held her smile and flirted with customers until she vanished into the dressing rooms. Ten minutes later she came back out and walked over to me. She took my hand and led me to the back, away from all the eyes.
    My wife lost the phoniness she had given the customers.
    She whispered, “Go home, Dmytryk.”
    “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”
    “Why are you here? You promised to never come here.”
    “We’ve both made promises, Cora.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I want this to end. I want you to leave with me.”
    “I can’t. We talked about this. We can’t afford . . . we’ll talk when I get home.”
    “Cora—”
    “This kills me too, Dmytryk. This is killing me too. And I know you don’t approve.”
    “This is supposed to be short-term. Only a few weeks, then we move on.”
    “It is. I’m not one of these girls. I don’t do the things they do for money.”
    My eyes went beyond my wife, watched dancers lead men into the private area.
    She said, “I have a few regulars out there and I have to . . . I have to . . . go talk to them.”
    “Regulars.”
    “Customers. They spend a lot of money to talk.”
    “To talk.”
    “They do all of the talking. All I have to do is smile and pretend I can’t smell their bad breath and act like I’m interested. Stop shaking your head, Dmytryk. This is why you’re not supposed to come here. I need you to leave. Baby, go home.”
    I reached inside my pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill. I slipped it inside her garter.
    “Dmytryk . .