11. Juliet
11
JULIET
T he public bus system runs from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., and thankfully, one arrives in front of my apartment building not long after I get home from school on Friday. I manage to get into my apartment, change, and back outside just as the white and blue monstrosity pulls up to the curb.
I hurry on board and swipe my card in front of the bland-faced man sitting in his uniform before taking a seat towards the back. The smell of sweat and weed hit me square in the face and I wrinkle my nose as I pretend like none of this bothers me. As the bus makes its way towards the adjoining town, Tangier, where Roquel’s great aunt owns a club, I can only hope the scents don’t seep into my clothes and linger as I hop off an hour later.
Tangier has an almost urban feel amongst rural small towns. It’s the only town nearby that’s on the same level in terms of size and businesses. I stride down the main strip and take a right at the end, hiking up a hill and past a local cemetery until my surroundings change. I’ve arrived at my destination. I glance up and up some more at the red brick building with blacked- out windows and a sign hanging over the doorway that reads in non-illuminated neon script The Dionysus Lounge.
Nerves wear at the frayed edges of my mind. From the outside, it looks no different from a small town’s version of a strip club. Roquel had assured me it wasn’t. Still, I’m half-tempted to turn around and walk away before I even go inside, sure that I’d called it wrong and Roquel Lee is no different from any of the other bitches at Silverwood that had made it their mission to make my life even more miserable than it already was. It didn’t seem possible for anyone to have this amount of bad luck but … here I am.
My foot taps against the cracked pavement, and with a curse, I catch the door when it opens as a man exits and slip inside past him. Desperation fuels me as I stomp forward, but instead of poles and stages full of naked woman shaking their tits in old fucks’ faces, I’m greeted by a rather impressive interior. In the place of stages, there are large, rounded booths spread throughout the place with women in done-up makeup and rather scanty cocktail dresses—though completely covered—pouring drinks for men in suits as they chat amicably. There’s a sweet smell lingering in the air—something soothing like vanilla or lavender—and the music in the background is low and instrumental. It’s not at all like the strip club I’d expected.
“Hello, how can I help you?” A tall blonde woman in stiletto heels with a thick Russian accent approaches me.
“Uh … yeah, hi, I’m … erm … I’m here for an interview?” The statement I’m meant to make comes out more like a question and I feel my cheeks begin to heat. I smooth down the silk shirt I put on, hoping the ride on the bus didn’t wrinkle it too badly.
I glance over the girl’s attire—a black mini skirt and a twisted top that appears silver from the front but shifts into a multitude of rainbow colors when she turns away.
“Then you’re here for Ms. Ma-Ri,” she says. “Her office is this way. Please watch your step.”
My heart blasts against my chest in rapid succession as I follow behind the much taller woman as she leads me around the side of the room. As she walks, I peek at the men and women on the floor. Most of them are sitting close, and I watch as several of the women casually brush against their partners as they listen to them talk, laughing at intervals and then frowning and nodding in commiseration at others. Are they workers? Or are they just here to drink with their partners? It seems odd that there are so many men in here with so many beautiful women just practically hanging on their every word.
The sight is cut off as I enter a back hallway and am led past a locker room and changing room. There are bathrooms, a door labeled for storage and inventory, and then finally, an office. The tall blonde knocks twice and waits until the sound of a woman’s croaking voice comes from inside.
Instead of opening the door, however, she turns to me and gestures. “Go ahead in,” she says. “Ms. Ma-Ri will see you now.”
As I set my hand on the doorknob, the woman disappears back down the hallway towards the main floor and I let myself into the room. Smoke hovers in the air, so thick that I’m not two feet in before I start coughing.
“You’ll have a hard time adjusting if you can’t handle this, darling,” a small, petite-faced woman says from behind a wide black oak desk. She reclines against a plush red chair with a long stick pinched between two fingers. Is that … a cigarette holder? I didn’t think anyone used those outside of the 1920s. Then again, this woman looks almost old enough to have lived through that time period.
Wrinkles line every open surface of her face, from the corners of her mouth to the edges of her eyes. Age spots are visible both on her hands and neck. Despite that, her makeup is perfectly done around her eyes and her lips are painted a bright red. Her pixie short black and white hair is styled with swooping bangs to one side.
Smoke drifts from the end as she puffs on her cigarette and then blows out a long train into the air. “So, I hear from my niece that you’re looking for a job and you’re over eighteen.”
I take a seat in the only place available—the rickety fold-out chair stationed in front of her desk. Despite the neatness of her office, it’s clear she doesn’t invite guests back here too often. The chair prepared for me looks like it doesn’t belong and the hard metal hurts my ass, but I don’t say anything.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her almond-shaped eyes narrow on where I sit. “You ain’t lying ‘bout being eighteen, are ya?” she demands.
“I brought my ID with me if you need to see it,” I reply. “But I’m … um, not sure exactly what kind of job you’re looking to fill.” It feels like a weakness to admit, but Roquel had been rather vague about her aunt’s business. She only told me it was a club of sorts, that her aunt is looking for more hosts, and she's willing to pay under the table. Under the table means I wouldn’t have taxes taken out, and I can use all of the extra funds I can get until college comes around.
Ma-Ri sniffs and crosses one leg over the other, making me realize she’s dressed much the same as the other women outside—her black dress is low cut, showing off the little hint of cleavage that she has and it rides up her stocking-covered thighs. I look away and fixate my attention on her face, waiting for an explanation.
A laugh bubbles out of the woman, surprising me. “That girl didn’t tell you anything, did she?” Ma-Ri guesses.
“Um … she told me you were looking for more hosts and owned a club,” I say. “I thought it was like a host at a restaurant or something.”
The older woman shakes her head. “I am looking for more hosts, but this ain’t no restaurant, sweetheart,” she states. “It’s a host club. You ever been to one before?” Before I can answer, she’s already continuing. “My guess is no, considering it ain’t all that popular in The States yet, but I’ve managed to build one up myself here that’s done pretty well.”
I bite my tongue, not wanting to ask and seem stupid, but I can’t help it. I need to know. “What’s a host club?”
“It’s a place where gentlemen—or women, if that's your preference—come to relax and have a few good drinks with a beautiful woman on their arm,” she answers.
My eyes bulge and something dark sprouts within me. What the fuck had Roquel sent me into?
“I’m sorry,” I say, abruptly standing, “but I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t judge anyone by what they choose to do, but I’m not going to sleep with customers for?—”
“Oh hush,” Ma-Ri huffs and waves her cigarette holder at me. “This ain’t no brothel. My girls don’t sleep with my customers and if I find out they do then they get axed—that’s precisely why I need help.”
Confusion pours through me. “Then what?—”
“The women here are simply hosts ,” she says, stressing the last word as if it means something to me. Even if it doesn’t, it seems to for her. “The club is open from six p.m. to two a.m. every night. The only service my girls supply within the club is companionship.”
“Companionship?” I repeat.
Ma-Ri nods. “Exactly. This ain’t an establishment of that sort, so get that head right out of the gutter, young lady. The women here are expected to present themselves as works of art to their customers. They’re simply something beautiful for our guests to look at as they drink their woes away. They pour drinks and listen to men complain about their lives.”
“So … there’s no stripping or … sleeping with them?” I clarify.
She scoffs. “Of course not. Don’t insult me. I run a respectable business.”
“So … what, then? The girls just come in, dress nice, and drink with men?”
Ma-Ri lifts her chin at me. “Sit down,” she commands. “Don’t make me crane my neck at ya.”
I sit automatically and blink back at the woman, waiting for further explanation.
“Lots of powerful men—and some women—too often don’t have enough time to see a therapist to talk about their troubles. Their wives or husbands are too self-absorbed to listen or too busy handling the cleaning and child-rearing. This is a place for those powerful people to come to relax. It’s respectable .” She repeats the word. “Not as dirty as a strip club and certainly far more appropriate for businessmen to frequent. There ain’t no funny business going on, I assure you of that, but you won’t need to worry about such a thing.”
“I … won’t?” Had she not meant to hire me as one of those women?
“You don’t strike me as host material girl,” she replies tersely, eyeing me up and down as I sit in the hard metal chair across from her. “Don’t take no offense to this but you got some anger in ya. I dare say the first time a man puts his hand on your thigh when he’s chatting you up, you’d be liable to punch him in the face or am I wrong?”
I flush but nod. She’s not wrong after all. A sly smile stretches her lips. “I thought as much.” Her words are proud as if figuring me out has given her some semblance of intelligence. I can’t deny it, but then again, I don’t think it’s that hard to figure out. “You’ll probably do better as a waitress and ya need to be eighteen to serve alcoholic drinks. You can manage that, can’t you?”
I straighten my back. “Yes, I can. How much are you offering per hour? What kind of hours are you looking for?” The timeline of the club’s opening works perfectly to not disrupt my school schedule and if I can manage to get a couple of full shifts during the week then I’ll definitely be able to save up some extra cash.
Ma-Ri looks at me over the top of her cigarette holder as she puts the end to her lips and sucks in, igniting the red glow at the end. Another stream of smoke is blown out into the air around us and I wrinkle my nose once before forcing my face to even out.
“Waitresses make the minimum wage in my club,” she says, “but there’s tips in it for ya. Sometimes, even non-hosts go home with a couple hundred depending on who comes in and who they serve.” Her eyes pan down to my outfit and her face blanches. “You’ll have to wear something else though. Hosts dress up but since ya won’t be sitting with the clients, all black will do. If you’re showing a bit of cleavage, you’ll gain more tips, but it’s up to you.”
Minimum wage isn’t shit, but considering most waitresses are paid far below it because of the ‘tips’ it’s a better offer than anything I’ve gotten so far which is a big fat nothing. I have a feeling if I don’t take Ma-Ri up on her offer there’ll be nothing else for me and at least The Dionysus Lounge is far enough away from school that I doubt I’ll run into anyone from there. With tips, this could be a turning point for me.
“When do I start?” I ask, making the decision.
Ma-Ri’s lips stretch into a smile. “You can come in tomorrow,” she says. “Saturdays are busy, but the best way to learn is to throw ya in the deep end and see if ya can swim.” Ma-Ri leans forward and presses a button on the landline phone sitting half-hidden behind a stack of papers and folders at the corner of her desk. She sits back again and returns to her examination of me. “We need a waitress that can handle her weight sooner rather than later, so I suggest ya get used to it quick. I understand ya go to school with my niece, but don’t think that means you’ll get preferential treatment.”
“I don’t expect anything else,” I tell her. “Just a job.”
She nods, clearly pleased. “Roquel tells me ya need the cash under the table. I can do that. So long as you show up to your shifts and don’t cause no issues.”
“I will, thank you.”
Ma-Ri waves her cigarette holder at me. “Six p.m. tomorrow night,” she says. “Now go, I’ve got more business to do.”
I stand as the door behind me opens and I turn, expecting the blonde woman from earlier. The giddiness of finally getting a job disintegrates almost immediately as I come face to face with none other than the asshole from school—the leader of the Scorpion Kings himself.
Nolan Pierce fills the doorway, backed only by the shadow of a second man behind him. When I damn near smack into his chest, he puts a hand out to steady me, but the second I realize who it is, I rip myself from his grasp and take a step back. Red-brown eyes carefully observe me. Full, masculine lips twitch in amusement. Why? What’s so fucking funny?
Before I can ask, Nolan casts his attention over my shoulder to Ma-Ri. “Didn’t know you had a guest, Auntie,” he says.
“New waitress,” Ma-Ri replies casually. I stiffen, wishing she’d kept that bit of information to herself. I should’ve known better. Even if Tangier is further outside of Silverwood, if Roquel’s attached to this place, then that means others would be as well. Why did it have to be them? I contemplate retracting my acceptance of work right then and there, but I can’t. I’m stuck and I fucking know it.
Nolan’s gaze lands back on me and I feel my body tense. He grins as if he can see the guard that immediately slams up at his presence. Still, he doesn’t move away from the doorway, blocking my only means of leaving. I bite down on my lower lip and debate my options. Shoving him out of the way is preferred but not in front of my new boss. Politely asking him to move would be the choice except … from the glint of knowing in his eyes, I have a feeling he’d simply refuse. That leaves only one more option. Waiting him out.
I cross my arms and shuffle sideways, the silent gesture for him to enter the room. His lips curve up further, but he doesn’t come inside. Instead, he chooses to speak over me to Ma-Ri.
“I’m here for the monthly expenses,” he says.
Ma-Ri sighs and the creak of her chair sounds as she gets up. “You running errands for that boy again?” She doesn’t wait for Nolan to answer as she strides out from behind her desk and now that she’s standing at her full height, I realize she’s even shorter than I expected. She barely reaches my shoulder.
Nolan shrugs at her words. “Gio’s busy right now,” he says. “Besides, who would pass up a chance to see your beautiful face, Ma-Ri?”
Ma-Ri scoffs and waves her hand, cigarette smoke burning my eyes. “Pah!” Her movements stop and despite the obvious scowl of her lips, there’s a sparkle of amusement in her eyes, as if she’s used to Nolan’s words. “Don’t try to butter me up when yer takin’ my money.”
Nolan grins. “I’m not buttering you up for nothing, Ma-Ri.” He slides a glance my way and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I grit my teeth as he bumps his shoulder against the doorframe. “Seems like I might be coming back here a little more often if you’re planning on hiring pretty girls to deliver drinks too.”
Something vile blooms inside me. Vomit, maybe. I don’t know, but it’s sour and acidic and it makes me want to draw blood. I curl my hands into fists, stabbing my shortened nails into my palms until I can feel the sharp pain there more than my own irritation. I force my gaze past Nolan to the man still standing behind him in the hallway.
I recognize him too. Alexio Medicci. He doesn’t say anything, and his presence does seem rather dull compared to Nolan’s. Despite that, though, he’s a monster in proportions. Taller and wider than his friend, his head grazing the top of the doorway. When he moves, shifting forward, he doesn’t make a sound. That’s more disturbing than anything else, the way he moves with utter quiet grace.
“Well, I should let you get on with your business,” I push the words from my lips, unwilling to wait this out any longer. “I should get going.”
“Oh, am I in your way?” Nolan asks as if he didn’t already know he is most definitely in my way. His grin spreads into a full-blown smile and instead of stepping completely out of the way, he turns to the side and gestures to the hall. Clenching my teeth, I take the opportunity to slide past him, hating that his chest brushes mine as I go. The heat that pours off him in waves sinks past his cheap cotton shirt and into me. Unlike Nolan, however, Alexio steps back against the far wall.
Now that I’m out of the room, I look up and get my first glimpse of his actual features. For all of two seconds, I’m stunned completely stupid. Not only is he tall and wide, his face looks as though it could’ve been carved to mimic an ancient Greek statue. A proud nose, distinct jawline, and coal-dark lashes so exaggerated that any girl would kill him to possess them. He’s beyond handsome, and he’s watching me.
Curiosity, maybe? is my first assumption, but no, the intensity of his stare has to mean something else. His eyes linger on me, not bothering to dip down to my body the way Playboy’s or Nolan’s had. Instead, they stay fixated on my face as if he’s committing each feature to memory. There’s something familiar about his face ... or maybe his eyes. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Then he steps in front of me and blocks my exit.