Chapter 23
S CARLETT
I check everything twice.
My oversized bag, my makeup case, my brush, and the extra sweater. My keys, my phone, and my wallet.
Everything is in place.
I send Sammy a text message confirming I am on my way so she knows where I am.
Given the nature of this gig, I need to take precautions.
I don’t want to think about anything bad happening, but testosterone, booze, and money have changed the course of history quite a few times.
I leave early per Sammy’s request and check the street several times to make sure no suspicious cars are rolling down the road and I’m not being watched.
When everything seems fine, I pull out my phone, open an app, and request a car. I’d rather take a cab than drive my own car in this weather.
It takes about ten minutes for my ride to arrive.
I welcome the warmth inside the car and unwrap my wool scarf before chatting with the driver all the way to my destination.
He drops me off in front of a nice building with dark walls, a massive door, and a discreet neon sign above the entrance. Rosy Nights. A bit creepy, but it’s all right.
It’s better than Bloody Nights.
A shiver goes through me as I look at the parking lot.
A dozen cars are parked there, without a soul in sight.
“Just my kind of place,” I mutter under my breath, promising myself that these might be my last two jobs of this type for a while.
And speaking of this type of job.
I’m not a natural when it comes to dancing in my bra and shorts. It’s an acquired skill. I was a cheerleader in high school, which wasn’t that far back.
It’s been more than a decade, but to me, it feels like it happened yesterday. I loved that time of my life. It was one of the best, even more so because I didn’t know what the future might bring.
I push the door open, fighting the cold, and the first impression is not that bad.
I look into a small waiting area with a sleek desk, fresh flowers, and a hostess dressed like me when I go to work. She wears a tailored dress that falls below the knee, her naturally curly hair framing her face.
She wears a smile, and I wish I could be her for a moment andhave her job this evening instead of mine.
“Yes?” she says as I run my eyes around the homey decor.
It’s nothing like I imagined––a loud, noisy place, alive but stinking of smoke and hard liquor.
“Hi. I’ll be working here tonight. Samantha sent me.”
Her face lights up.
“Oh. Sammy. Sure. You need to see Deacon first.”
“Yes. Deacon. I’ve heard about him. Should I wait here? Go in the back?”
She flashes a smile.
“Follow me, please.”
She starts talking as soon as she pivots and leads me inside. Not much registers with me as I politely nod at her words but mostly focus on the place.
The waiting area opens into a spacious room with twelve large tables, as well as several booths and private nooks.
Hopefully, I won’t dance in one of those.
It’s not my favorite part of this job.
Money is good––don’t get me wrong––but not all customers can suppress their urge to touch the dancers.
Some dancers let them do that for a fee. Not me, though. That’s where I draw the line.
I know these men pay handsomely to have their favorite dancers shake their hips for them and even more.
I know they have the expectation of privacy, and sometimes, they get their happy endings without a problem.
I will stay away from those nooks.
That much I can tell.
The bar is clean and tidy, and a couple of women wearing skimpy costumes sips colorful drinks.
“They work here,” the woman says.
As I look around, I notice a few male customers having drinks around the tables.
There’s nothing unusual about the establishment.
The servers wear dresses similar to the one the hostess is wearing, which appears to be some type of uniform.
Some of my apprehension wears off as she pulls a curtain to the side and invites me into a corridor that snakes around backstage and goes to the main office.
A door is slightly open, and light tumbles out when we stop in front of it.
The woman knocks before a male voice answers monotonously.
“Yeah.”
He has the voice of a smoker, although his office smells like old furniture and orange peel.
The woman sticks her head in.
“The new girl is here.”
“Send her in,” he says in the same bland voice, no excitement in his voice.
The hostess turns around and smiles at me before talking quietly.
“You can go now.”
“Sure. Thank you,” I say in a clipped voice.
Her heels click away before I turn around, push the door open, and meet the scrutinizing eyes of a man in his late forties.
His energy jolts me back.
I expected something different when Sammy said he’d be a little creepy.
He’s all right looking.
Hard features, piercing eyes, and the hard muscles of a guy lifting weights in the gym several times a week.
He wears a tight charcoal gray T-shirt that emphasizes his physique and has long bluish tattoos along his hairy forearms.
He must be the kind of guy who doesn’t believe in foreplay and mince words when it comes to sex.
His eyes seem to agree with my assessment.
They almost murmur, ‘I want to taste your cunt.’
Weird. Totally weird. Maybe he’s a happily married man with a nice family, a dog, and a cat.
Right.
“Sit,” he orders me like I’m a dog.
“Do I need to?”
I remember what Sammy said to me about having conversations with this man in a public space with other people around.
This is not exactly that.
He tosses me a stern look.
Crashing back in his seat, he slams his arms over his chest.
“You’d rather stand? Fine by me. Have you done this before?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Not very often.”
“How many times?” he rephrases.
I teach for a living, so I know that he needs a precise answer.
“Five.”
I sound hesitant.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you hesitating?”
“I only got paid four times.”
“Why?”
“Someone wanted a private dance. He squeezed my bum, and I kicked him in the balls. I got fired and got no pay.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips.
“You can’t do that here.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that.”
He sucks in a long breath before pushing upright, sliding his elbows onto his desk, and speaking.
“Here’s the deal. The owner wants you to dance tonight and tomorrow night. Your friend convinced him to give you a try. I wouldn’t have done that if it were up to me,” he says bluntly. “I know your type. Very picky, hard to work with, and entitled.”
I gasp in resentment.
“You don’t know my type.”
“I surely do,” he says, bored, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re an amateur looking for some quick money.
Let me tell you something, sweetheart,” he rasps, setting his hand on the table and looking at me.
“Men don’t pay for your type. Men pay for submission.
Theyexpect women who don’t talk back and are nice to them.
Women who can use their body to give them pleasure. ”
“I thought I was hired to dance.”
“You said you’d done this before.”
I pull my mouth shut.
“Right,” he says, phlegmatic again. “Now go change. I want to see your body.”
I look at him like I’m about to call 911.
“That’s why you're here, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, my voice wrapped in wool.
“What are you waiting for then?”
“You said the owner wanted me to dance. You can see how I look.”
He sucks in a short breath and releases the air slowly as if struggling to keep his temper under control.
Calmly, he pushes his chair back, rises, and walks around his desk before stopping in front of me.
“What’s your name?”
“Stage name?”
“Whatever.”
“Xenia.”
“Look, Xenia. The owner said a lot of things, but he’s not here running this place.
He likes his money way more than he likes your requests.
He gave me a free hand to run his club as I see fit.
Occasionally he suggests someone like you, but he won’t despair if I toss your ass out.
So be a good girl, go backstage, pick up a costume, and come back.
Wear heels. And put on some makeup. You look like a mouse. ”
I bite my lips so hard I taste blood.
“Sure, Master,” I say, unable to push back my revolt.
“You need to stop doing that. If you can’t deal with me, how will you deal with someone who had three drinks too many? I thought you wanted to make some money tonight.”
“Obviously. I’m not here for the entertainment.”
“Good.”
“And I’m getting paid cash.”
He weights his answer for a second, my heart beating fast. He studies me as if pondering whether to make me fill out a 1099 form and get all my information––and why do I see blackmail in my future?
––or whether to let me remain anonymous, get a wad of cash, and buy myself a nice gift since Christmas is around the corner.
Do I look shabby to him?
“Yeah. Sure, cash. Make sure you’re not getting on anyone’s nerves.”
He wanted to say anyone else’s nerves.
I bet he did.
He tugs at the door and invites me out. Nice.
“You have five minutes. I don’t have the entire night. Besides, you need to get on the stage in like…”
He glances at a digital clock on his desk.
“Twenty minutes,” he says, and my face drops.
“Am I the first dancer to go up on the stage?”
“What do you think? You’re not the star of the evening, for sure. I have better––”
He stops when I shoot him a death glare.
“I mean more experienced dancers.”
“I was a cheerleader,” I protest.
“You sure were. And I was a priest. That doesn’t mean shit. Go. And make sure your shorts sit right and don’t cut into your pussy. It’s not a good look.”
My cheeks are aflame.
I wasn’t like that back when I was a cheerleader. I couldn’t be. ‘Unfazed' was my middle name.
But something fucking happened to me.
I’m more, I don’t know, sensitive? Getting easily outraged? I’m getting old?
That’s it.
Or am I blushing because this guy I don’t even like talks to me like this is making me think about sex?
And not having it, mainly?
And not having it with the man I had in my life up until yesterday?
“No worries. I’m so good at making it look smooth that the other girls will ask me to teach them that. I’ll go now.”
I do that and roll my eyes as I pull away.
“The third door on the right,” he barks.
“I knew that,” I retort, having no idea where I’m going.
I find the door and let out a sigh before I realize two other women sit in front of their vanities, wearing fake lashes, crimson lipstick, and feathers on their hair.
No way I’m doing that.