Patricia Rosemoor - Skin

Lilith knew the feeling of being lost on her own all too well. She’d given the cat a second chance at a full and happy life. Now if only she could do the same for herself. Everything had changed for her when Hannah ran.

During those first months when she was in college, determined to make a new life for them all, she’d called her little sister at least once a week. And every time, Hannah had cried and begged her to come get her. As if Lilith could have. Even if she quit school and got a job, no way would child services let her have custody. Mama had always protected the bastard she’d married, had never filed a complaint against him. Having to leave her little sister in that situation, even temporarily, had broken her heart. And when Hannah finally ran, she’d blamed herself.

Over the years, she’d done everything she could to find her sister. She’d checked shelters, called runaway hotlines, checked the Internet for some mention of a Hannah Mitchell. And ever since she’d gotten stable work, Lilith had spent thousands of dollars on private investigators. Finding her younger sister had been her private obsession for more than a decade.

None of that assuaged her guilt.

Going inside, Lilith tried to eat, but Valkyrie got the best part of the meal. She tried to watch television, but her mind kept wandering from the program. She tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, there was her sister, the last time she’d seen her, the chain and heart dangling from her neck.

She had to know for sure. Had to see this woman up close and personal. Had to look into her eyes and see for herself if she recognized anything in them.

Getting out of bed, Lilith dressed and set off for Broadway, where she waved down a taxi. Sick with excitement and dread, she wondered what she would say to a sister she hadn’t seen in more than a decade.

It was nearly midnight before she stood outside of Club Paradise with its neon sign and billboard of featured dancers. She quickly scanned the black and white glossies and found one of an overly made-up young woman who looked like Hannah, but who was billed as Anna Youngheart.

Who was she kidding by trying to deny it? Youngheart? Young was her mother’s maiden name. Heart could represent the heart-half each them had worn. And Anna? Hannah minus a whisper.

It took her a minute to work up the nerve to go inside.

“No tables left,” the guy behind the window told her, giving her a once-over and a surprised expression. “You’ll have to sit at the bar.”

Lilith paid and entered the noisy arena. At first glance, the place almost looked respectable. Tuxedoed bouncers, vests and trousers on the waitresses. Then Lilith became aware of the skimpily-clad black woman on stage and several sparsely-clothed dancers sitting at tables where they fawned over the customers. Lilith felt overdressed, no doubt the reason she was getting unwanted attention. From every direction, glassy-eyed men seemed to be staring at her .

Her basic instincts told her to get out now.

Hope that had never died made her stay.

“DRINK?” the bartender asked.

“The usual, Joe,” Michael Wyndham said as he glanced at the new dancer, Caresse, on stage. “And run a tab.”

“You got it.” The young bartender who was working his way through college with what he made here set a bottle of German beer in front of Michael. “How’s your documentary coming?”

Michael shrugged. “Not as quickly as I would like.”

“Yeah, these girls don’t trust no one.”

Sometimes Michael thought he’d been coming here too long and should just give up, but the place kept drawing him back. And the women. “A lot of interviews, but I still haven’t figured out what makes the dancers tick.”

Would he ever?

“Maybe you should stick to subjects closer to home like Fight.”

“What, you think I was part of a fight club? I didn’t even know anyone personally. It was just a subject that had a gut draw. I delved into why the hell guys would take up such a brutal hobby.”

Which gave it a similar thread to Skin.

He guessed that was his theme, figuring out why people did what they did when it didn’t make sense to him.

“Keep at it, then. You’ll get it.” Joe moved away, saying, “Got another customer.”

Michael knew he was going to keep at if he ever wanted to understand his birth mother.

His parents had never hidden the fact that they’d adopted him, and after high school, they’d given him an envelope with information about her. He hadn’t wanted to betray his real parents and so hadn’t opened the envelope. Not for years. But he hadn’t been able to forget about it, and eventually he’d had to look. And then he’d had to track her down.

Breezy Summers. By then, that was his birth mother’s stage name. He’d learned she’d never tried any other way to make a living. Had never wanted to. Nearing fifty and with three failed marriages behind her — none of those men his father — she was still stripping. He just didn’t get it. The thought of how she’d lived her life haunted him.

The idea of a documentary exploring her world, getting into the minds of the women who did what she did, had come to him slowly. He had enough production day work to keep him solvent. This particular documentary was his latest personal project, but he hadn’t yet found the narrative thread that would be the heart of Skin.

He took a swig of his beer, and when he lowered the bottle, it was to see a dark-haired woman at the fringe of the bar area. She was nervously looking around as if trying to orient herself, as if seeing Club Paradise for the first time. Dressed conservatively in loose gray trousers and a looser silk shirt that almost hid her curves, she had a natural beauty that she couldn’t hide.

Now why was she here?

What was her story?

Something he would like to find out.

REFUSING TO MEET any of their gazes, Lilith wandered over to the bar, wondering how any woman could thrive in such a lurid, sexist atmosphere.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“A sparkling water with lime.”

She paid for the high-priced water and sipped, her gaze constantly moving over the room until it rested on a dancer soliciting a customer for a lap dance.

The young man appeared to be about Lilith’s age. He was nice looking and nicely dressed, a boy-next-door type with sandy hair and pleasing features. He appeared embarrassed by the dancer’s direct approach. She laughed at him and turned her back, obviously scouting the crowd for a better bet. The young man glanced around furtively, and Lilith could swear he purposely tripped the dancer as she started off. Then he acted solicitous in helping the young woman up while his hands were all over her.

How could she let him touch her like that? A stranger? Were they all so careless of their bodies? Was Hannah?

Lilith shivered in disgust.

What she wanted to do was charge backstage and demand to see the dancer who called herself Anna Youngheart. How long was she going to have to wait before the woman showed? How long before she was finally reunited with her sister?

“Looking for company?” came a male voice from behind her.

She started and whipped around to stare at a beard-stubbled face, whose attractive owner seemed interested and, unless she was now imagining things, quietly amused at her expense. Her quick impression of him: lean strength; dark, slicked-back hair a shade too long; a beat away from fashionable; spooky gray eyes.

“I’d prefer my own company, thank you,” she said, picking up her drink and sipping.

His eyebrows lifted fractionally. “Strange place to pick if you want to be alone. Or do you really?”