Stephanie Rick
The Hook by the Door
When she was four or five, mornings went like this: her parents left for work, her grandma came over, made coffee, and settled into the living room with her soap operas. Before her grandma noticed she was awake, if she ever did, she’d slip into her parents’ bedroom.
She’d pull open the bottom drawer of her mother’s dresser: silky nightdresses pooled like water in her hands. Cool against her hands, smooth on her skin when she pulled one over her head. She’d add the strand of pearls she found in another drawer, stand in the mirror, and stare.
In the top drawer, her mother’s bras sat stacked like tiny rainbow teacups, never touched, only looked at, like they might be broken if she dropped one. She never saw her mom wear the nightdresses, nor the bras, and that made them more powerful. Private. Something no one else got to see. She didn’t have the words then, but she knew it meant something. Womanhood was something hidden, something you could put on and take off.
Years later, with less than a hundred in her checking account and rent three days away, she understood: you could take that secret out, wear it, and trade it.
She'd only been at the club a week when the couple came in. Beautiful in a way that made her feel both flattered and suspicious: the woman sharp-cheekboned, smile practiced, designer handbag resting against manicured nails; the man loose-limbed, like nothing had ever gone wrong, his watch catching the stage lights in expensive glints.
His posture reminded her of Charlie–same half-smile, though his had always been sharper, more private. This one’s looked practiced, meant for rooms like this. Her stomach tightened, like a bruise pressed too hard. For a second she almost turned away. She didn’t.
They watched her through her set with the concentration she’d once wanted across a living room. Afterward, they asked if she wanted to come home with them. She was good at reading people, assessing their needs, guessing: maybe the woman was sick of her man, maybe he collected girls like art pieces. She could play.
She said yes before she could think too much. Didn’t know them. Didn’t even remember their names. She told herself she’d stay an hour, that they’d hand her an envelope in the kitchen—enough for rent, maybe groceries. She also imagined the worst: doors locking, something in her drink, a headline with her name. The money felt heavier than the fear. But you couldn’t just leave with a customer, unless you paid the house fee and pretended you were going home. Tonight she didn’t have it.
She told the manager, Paul, same name as her father, same way of looking at her like she might disappoint him, that she felt sick. He gave her the warm, disappointed look, eyes soft at the edges but sharp at the center, the same look her father had when she’d stayed out too late. She locked herself in the bathroom, gagged until bile came, splashed cold water on her face until her eyes burned. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just going home.” He let her leave without charging the fee, not because he cared exactly, but sick girls were bad for business. Or maybe he did care. She couldn’t tell.
Her Uber only took her two blocks. The couple waited under a streetlight. The woman waved. The man smiled. She climbed into the back seat, knees together, reading them. Streetlights flashed across their faces, washing them in pale bursts.
Their house was dim, air faintly sweet, like something baked hours ago and forgotten. The living room glowed gold from a single lamp, lamps that cost more than her rent. Abstract paintings hung on cream walls, orchids drooped from a glass table like they were sick of their own elegance. Thick carpet swallowed her steps, thick enough that she could disappear completely if she wasn't careful.
The woman pulled a container from the fridge, pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and feta, and slid it into the microwave. "You should eat," she said, her voice carrying the slight authority of someone used to being listened to. "Need your energy for later."
She chewed the gummy noodles, thinking, but trying not to think about Charlie’s lasagna, then the woman was kissing her. Quick, almost clinical, like checking a box. She tried to kiss back the way she had with Charlie—slow, then deeper, the way love had felt possible once. The man watched, legs spread, hands loose in his lap. She wondered if this was routine, if she was just Tuesday night’s entertainment.
Halfway through, the woman’s dress undone, the hem bunched at her waist, she realized she didn’t even like women. Still, she lowered herself, mimicking Charlie’s motions, the slow circles, pauses to meet the face, gentle press of fingers. Maybe they’d give her more money if she made the woman feel something. Women use sex to get love. Men use love to get sex. Did men ever feel love? Had Charlie? Did anyone just love without needing something back?
Then the man was behind her. Hands on her waist, hips pushing. She didn’t look. Expensive cologne over something earthier made her stomach turn. Her body, a traitor, moved with his rhythm. And it felt good. Too good. Her mind split from her body, floating near the ceiling, watching this girl who looked like her, pretending the man was Charlie.
Later, all in bed, she sat on the edge, freezing while they slept warm and satisfied. Just like always, she was forgotten the moment she’d served her purpose. She slipped to the bathroom, locked the door. The phone lit her face: 2:47 AM. Four missed calls from an unknown number. Probably a bill collector.
She scrolled through contacts. Stopped on Grandma, the woman who’d sat three feet away every morning, talking passionately about people she didn’t know on a show. Stopped on Charlie, imagined his voice, imagined him angry, imagined him not picking up. Stopped on Paul. Typed Can you come get me? Deleted it. Typed again. Dropped a pin. Sent it. If he was like her father, maybe he’d come. Maybe he wouldn’t.
She tiptoed through the house, heels in hand. Grabbed an orange from the counter, slipped a lighter into her bag. She saw the man’s pants crumpled on the floor. Kneeling, she took the wallet, slid out thirty-five dollars—just enough for groceries, just enough for tomorrow, just enough to maybe call Charlie. Slipped her mini skirt up over her small ass. Phone buzzed. Paul, probably.
*
On the coat rack near the front door, a scarf had been left draped over a hook, its satin smooth under her fingers. She wrapped it in her fist as she left without sound. Paul's car idled in the driveway with its headlights turned off. She climbed in silently, shut the door, and adorned the fabric around her neck, letting it brush her skin, soft and flowing like water over stone. She watched as the house slowly shrank in the rearview.
She’d pull open the bottom drawer of her mother’s dresser: silky nightdresses pooled like water in her hands. Cool against her hands, smooth on her skin when she pulled one over her head. She’d add the strand of pearls she found in another drawer, stand in the mirror, and stare.
In the top drawer, her mother’s bras sat stacked like tiny rainbow teacups, never touched, only looked at, like they might be broken if she dropped one. She never saw her mom wear the nightdresses, nor the bras, and that made them more powerful. Private. Something no one else got to see. She didn’t have the words then, but she knew it meant something. Womanhood was something hidden, something you could put on and take off.
Years later, with less than a hundred in her checking account and rent three days away, she understood: you could take that secret out, wear it, and trade it.
She'd only been at the club a week when the couple came in. Beautiful in a way that made her feel both flattered and suspicious: the woman sharp-cheekboned, smile practiced, designer handbag resting against manicured nails; the man loose-limbed, like nothing had ever gone wrong, his watch catching the stage lights in expensive glints.
His posture reminded her of Charlie–same half-smile, though his had always been sharper, more private. This one’s looked practiced, meant for rooms like this. Her stomach tightened, like a bruise pressed too hard. For a second she almost turned away. She didn’t.
They watched her through her set with the concentration she’d once wanted across a living room. Afterward, they asked if she wanted to come home with them. She was good at reading people, assessing their needs, guessing: maybe the woman was sick of her man, maybe he collected girls like art pieces. She could play.
She said yes before she could think too much. Didn’t know them. Didn’t even remember their names. She told herself she’d stay an hour, that they’d hand her an envelope in the kitchen—enough for rent, maybe groceries. She also imagined the worst: doors locking, something in her drink, a headline with her name. The money felt heavier than the fear. But you couldn’t just leave with a customer, unless you paid the house fee and pretended you were going home. Tonight she didn’t have it.
She told the manager, Paul, same name as her father, same way of looking at her like she might disappoint him, that she felt sick. He gave her the warm, disappointed look, eyes soft at the edges but sharp at the center, the same look her father had when she’d stayed out too late. She locked herself in the bathroom, gagged until bile came, splashed cold water on her face until her eyes burned. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just going home.” He let her leave without charging the fee, not because he cared exactly, but sick girls were bad for business. Or maybe he did care. She couldn’t tell.
Her Uber only took her two blocks. The couple waited under a streetlight. The woman waved. The man smiled. She climbed into the back seat, knees together, reading them. Streetlights flashed across their faces, washing them in pale bursts.
Their house was dim, air faintly sweet, like something baked hours ago and forgotten. The living room glowed gold from a single lamp, lamps that cost more than her rent. Abstract paintings hung on cream walls, orchids drooped from a glass table like they were sick of their own elegance. Thick carpet swallowed her steps, thick enough that she could disappear completely if she wasn't careful.
The woman pulled a container from the fridge, pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and feta, and slid it into the microwave. "You should eat," she said, her voice carrying the slight authority of someone used to being listened to. "Need your energy for later."
She chewed the gummy noodles, thinking, but trying not to think about Charlie’s lasagna, then the woman was kissing her. Quick, almost clinical, like checking a box. She tried to kiss back the way she had with Charlie—slow, then deeper, the way love had felt possible once. The man watched, legs spread, hands loose in his lap. She wondered if this was routine, if she was just Tuesday night’s entertainment.
Halfway through, the woman’s dress undone, the hem bunched at her waist, she realized she didn’t even like women. Still, she lowered herself, mimicking Charlie’s motions, the slow circles, pauses to meet the face, gentle press of fingers. Maybe they’d give her more money if she made the woman feel something. Women use sex to get love. Men use love to get sex. Did men ever feel love? Had Charlie? Did anyone just love without needing something back?
Then the man was behind her. Hands on her waist, hips pushing. She didn’t look. Expensive cologne over something earthier made her stomach turn. Her body, a traitor, moved with his rhythm. And it felt good. Too good. Her mind split from her body, floating near the ceiling, watching this girl who looked like her, pretending the man was Charlie.
Later, all in bed, she sat on the edge, freezing while they slept warm and satisfied. Just like always, she was forgotten the moment she’d served her purpose. She slipped to the bathroom, locked the door. The phone lit her face: 2:47 AM. Four missed calls from an unknown number. Probably a bill collector.
She scrolled through contacts. Stopped on Grandma, the woman who’d sat three feet away every morning, talking passionately about people she didn’t know on a show. Stopped on Charlie, imagined his voice, imagined him angry, imagined him not picking up. Stopped on Paul. Typed Can you come get me? Deleted it. Typed again. Dropped a pin. Sent it. If he was like her father, maybe he’d come. Maybe he wouldn’t.
She tiptoed through the house, heels in hand. Grabbed an orange from the counter, slipped a lighter into her bag. She saw the man’s pants crumpled on the floor. Kneeling, she took the wallet, slid out thirty-five dollars—just enough for groceries, just enough for tomorrow, just enough to maybe call Charlie. Slipped her mini skirt up over her small ass. Phone buzzed. Paul, probably.
*
On the coat rack near the front door, a scarf had been left draped over a hook, its satin smooth under her fingers. She wrapped it in her fist as she left without sound. Paul's car idled in the driveway with its headlights turned off. She climbed in silently, shut the door, and adorned the fabric around her neck, letting it brush her skin, soft and flowing like water over stone. She watched as the house slowly shrank in the rearview.
--
Stephanie Rick is a writer and educator based in Los Angeles, where she teaches English, Ancient Civilizations, and Theatre to a rotating cast of eleven-year-olds. She’s also in grad school, parenting two human children and thirty-seven indoor plants. Her work has appeared in Ghost Parachute, Two Hawks Quarterly, and The Blood Pudding.
Stephanie Rick is a writer and educator based in Los Angeles, where she teaches English, Ancient Civilizations, and Theatre to a rotating cast of eleven-year-olds. She’s also in grad school, parenting two human children and thirty-seven indoor plants. Her work has appeared in Ghost Parachute, Two Hawks Quarterly, and The Blood Pudding.