Chapter twelve
Farringdon, London
Violet
My room certainly is the definition of cozy.
It’s the smallest room in a four-bedroom apartment located only a few minutes’ on the tube from Guilty Pleasures, my new place of work.
The girls who live here are welcoming but standoffish.
Samantha is the social butterfly of the group.
Two of the girls are sisters and share a room—identical twins.
The other is more my age, in her thirties, with a craze of red hair.
All of them have incredible figures and bouncy tits.
Samantha introduced them all so quickly, I didn’t catch their names. I’ll ask her later.
I’ve packed away what I can in the chest of drawers pushed into the corner of my private space.
I tidy the roughly straightened bed in an attempt to make the worn sheets more appealing.
Thankfully, the room is warm and has a small window that looks out onto the city below.
People rush around carrying shopping bags and talking on their phones.
On the opposite side of the street, black bags of trash are piled high.
A rat nibbles at the edge of one, and my stomach somersaults.
It seems there is a strike in the local council this week and nothing is being collected.
A soft knock at the door distracts me from the chaos below. “Come in,” I call. Samantha walks in with a steaming mug of tea, passing it to me with a smile.
“Welcome to your new home,” she says. “The girls will let their guard down once they get to know you. You’re our fourth roommate since April.” She rolls her eyes deliberately. “Let’s just say we’ve met some interesting individuals.”
“What are the girls' names again?” I ask, embarrassed. My cheeks heat violently, but she squeezes my arm in reassurance.
“Mia, Diane, and Steph.”
“Thank you. They went in one ear and out the other.”
“No problem,” she says. “We need to be ready to leave in twenty minutes. We change at the club. All your outfits are kept there. We have access to a dressing room with every conceivable hair product and lipstick.”
She beams at me. “You’ll be at the bar tonight. Have you worked in a bar before?” I shake my head.
“Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up in no time at all. I’m working there this evening, so I’ll keep you right. Meet you in the living room in twenty.” She turns and leaves, closing my door softly behind her. I look back to the darkening sky outside.
Today is day one of my new life. A new home.
A new career. In the coming weeks, I need to get myself sorted and in a position to not only look after me, but the dependent growing in my belly.
This solution will be short-lived but may provide a few weeks of income and a safe place to stay until I find an alternative.
***
Samantha skips into the preparation room at Guilty Pleasures.
An expanse of mirrors runs along the back wall, floor to ceiling.
On the opposite side is a row of six dressing tables, each with individual Hollywood mirrors.
Shelves hold rows of hairstyling products and makeup.
She grabs my hand and drags me through another open door.
My jaw drops as I take in the surroundings.
Rack after rack of costumes and wigs are crammed into the room.
“Welcome to the closet,” she sings. “In here, you can turn into anyone.”
She struts over to a rack on the far wall and picks up a bright-pink outfit.
It’s barely a scrap of material, only enough to cover your necessities.
“Try it on,” she says, waving it in my face.
“You’d look fucking awesome.” I grimace at the thought of wearing the garment but accept it from her.
No one will know me here; I can be whoever I want.
After struggling with the miniscule outfit, I stand, looking at myself in the wall of mirrors. The Lycra starts at my shoulders and runs south in a deep V-shape, covering my nipples then between my legs. “My tits will fall out,” I mumble. Samantha laughs and winks.
“You will get extra tips if that happens.”
She walks over to a drawer, pulls it open, and extracts a roll of tape.
“Don’t worry, once I’ve stuck the bastard down, it won’t be moving.”
Her face breaks into a beaming smile and she waggles her eyebrows, then pulls some tape from the roll.
“Arms up,” she orders. “Stand there and don’t bloody move.”
Her hand moves fast, lifting each strip of fabric and applying tape to my skin.
She lays the clothing down then presses firmly.
“This stuff is like concrete when it sets. Take a shower with your outfit on after you’re finished work, that will lift the tape safely from your skin.”
She stands back and surveys her handiwork, then nods to herself. “Fucking hot,” she says.
Now, standing behind the bar, dozens of clients approach, one after the other, with dark eyes and appreciative smiles. “Who is this, Sam?” one man says. He’s tall and slim with wide green eyes and close-cropped gray hair. It’s hard to judge what age he is, but I would guess in his fifties.
“This is Violet. Isn’t she gorgeous?” she replies, strutting over to stand beside me and placing her hand on my shoulder.
She walks effortlessly in the eight-inch heels on her feet.
I nearly broke my neck leaving the changing room in mine.
Luckily, Samantha caught me under the arm and I managed to grab the wall in support.
For the past hour, I’ve been shuffling around attempting to stay upright. I’m not sure how long I will last.
“Hello, Violet,” the man says. He brushes an invisible hair from his insanely expensive blue-checked suit.
As he focuses on me, I drop my eyes away, uncomfortable.
He chuckles softly in response. “I love it when a new girl starts. You’re all so fresh in the beginning. Ripe for the picking.”
My eyes return to his as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip.
“Can I get you something?” I ask him.
“Perhaps,” he replies. “It depends on what is on the menu.”
“Drinks only.”
“Shame,” he says with a smirk. “Hopefully in a few weeks, you’ll loosen up and be willing to offer me some entertainment.” His eyes fire. “I’d love to see what’s under that poor excuse of an outfit. You might even enjoy the process.”
My skin crawls—this guy is a creep. Briefly, I consider walking out of the bar, going back to my brother’s apartment block, dropping to my knees, and begging for help.
The image of them loving my pathetic situation stops me. There is no fucking way I’m going crawling back. Violet Chase needs to toughen up and take control for once.
“Apologies, sir,” I reply, placing my hands on the bar and leaning toward him.
His focus drops to my breasts but immediately returns to my eyes.
“I am most certainly off the menu. If you want a beverage, I’d be delighted to help. Otherwise, please move to the side and allow me to serve someone else.”
I glance at the girl I don’t know, swinging around the pole in the center of the club.
“Perhaps you should take a seat and enjoy the entertainment that is on offer.”
“Feisty too,” he says with a nod. He places an elbow on the bar, locking his gaze with mine. “I bet you’re a screamer, Violet. You and I could make some sweet noise together.”
“In your dreams.”
“You most definitely will be.”
Samantha passes him a scotch on the rocks.
“Behave,” she scolds him. He takes the drink, nods to her, then turns and walks toward the stage.
“Jeez,” she says, “I’m surprised he didn’t beat his chest and jump the bar. That man has his sights firmly set on you. You do know who he is?”
I shake my head. “Marshall Blake. One of the wealthiest men in the city. He owns a football club or something. And girl, you are on his radar.”
She lifts her hand to high-five me. I laugh, waving it away.
“That creep will be getting nowhere near me,” I tell her. “He made my skin crawl.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” she advises. “That creep there could be your ticket to a new life. And in all honesty, he isn’t awful compared to some.”
***
In the four weeks I’ve worked at the club, Marshall Blake has become my biggest fan.
It turns out, he isn’t so bad as first impressions appear.
Every night I work, he’s here, sitting at the bar, chatting while I pour drinks and serve the never-ending stream of patrons.
He asked me out, and I said no. He’s a good-looking man, but my heart doesn’t beat the way it should when I see him.
Only two men have ever made that happen in my life, and neither of them are here.
But Marshall has sort of become a friend to me—he’s lonely, that much is obvious.
Him coming to the club is for company, not sex.
I’ve never seen him take a girl to the private rooms; he barely watches the dancers.
For all his alpha-man talk, he’s a sweetheart who is looking for love.
I wish he would realize that Guilty Pleasures isn’t where he will find it.
On my first night on stage, he’d been unimpressed. “Why do you feel the need to do it?” I shrugged. “Violet, if you need money, I’ll give you it. You don’t need to shake what God gave you in front of these assholes.”
“May I remind you, you are one of these assholes?” I retorted.
“No, I have standards and the ability to have a conversation with the woman I’m looking at without constantly looking at her breasts. Most of these apes.”
He signaled to the men sitting surrounding the stage.
“Are barely capable of drooling and swigging whiskey. The expensive suits they wear only cover up what they really are. Neanderthals.”
“Marshall, most men who come here have high-level jobs or run businesses that would make your eyes water with the money they earn. I’m not sure neanderthal is an accurate description.”
He flashed me a smile, which from another man would be endearing.
From him, it feels like my uncle is trying to flirt with me.
“You can dress an ape in Armani, and it’s still a fucking monkey,” he said, pushing his glass from hand to hand on the bar top.
“Promise me you won’t sell yourself to them.”
He looked at me, his expression pleading.
“Please don’t sleep with them for money. You’re a bright woman, Violet. You don’t need to lie on your back to earn a living.”
“Of course I won’t,” I snapped, furious he even thought I would.
“This is how it begins,” he continued firmly, never losing focus on my face.
“Girls arrive here, work the bar, then progress to the pole. When enough men have waved fifty-pound notes in their faces for more, one blowjob becomes full-time prostitution. Very few leave the cycle. Once they’re in, they tend to be in for life. I’ve seen it happen so many times over the years.”
“Why do you come here?” I asked him bluntly. “It’s obvious you don’t agree with the trade, though you gave a good impression that you did the first time we met. If you don’t like it, why come?”
“To keep an eye on things,” he replied evasively. “The girls in this establishment are some of the best-treated in the industry, but issues still arise. Joel Parker and I have an understanding.
“Understanding? Care to elaborate on what that is exactly?”
“I get free membership, unlimited food, drink, and conversation. He has eyes on the ground. None of the staff know, except you, that my presence here is a business arrangement. Most think I’m a lonely businessman, desperate for female company. I’ve never been with any of the girls.”
“You’re telling me that you come here for free food? I wasn’t born yesterday.” My sarcasm bounced between us, and he snickered. “There’s something else.”
“My sister walked this road and suffered the consequences.”
He paused, then took a glug of whiskey I poured into his glass moments ago.
“We found her tied to a bed in an abandoned whore house. She’d been there for weeks. Most likely died from dehydration.”
He winced at the memory. “I’ve spent the years since then trying to support women in this industry. Sex will always be a trade, but that doesn’t mean it can’t have regulations, even if those regulations are imposed from within. This is something Parker and I agree on—the women, the product,
are of the utmost importance. By being known as a regular here and in a few other places in the city, I’m privy to information others aren’t.”
“So, let me get this straight,” I said, resting my elbows on the bar and placing my chin in my hands.
“You expect me to believe that you’re not a randy old man here for kicks. That even though you’re a multimillionaire businessman, you spend your nights and weekends fighting for the safety of women in the sex industry.”
“That’s a fair summary. You’re a good judge of character, Violet,” he said with a smile. “Reading people is something that comes naturally to you.”
“You wouldn’t think that if you knew my history,” I muttered. “I haven’t managed to read men particularly well. My current condition is proof of that.”
“Condition?” He raised an eyebrow in question.
“Situation,” I whispered quickly, placing my hands on the bar. My eyes darted from side to side to ensure no one heard our conversation. He placed one hand over mine.
“Know this, you have a friend here who can help. If you’re ever in trouble, you tell me. I like you, Violet. Being here is something you don’t need to be doing.”
He stared at me, unblinking, his authority palpable.
“But I think you already know that, and for some unknown reason, you’re choosing to be here and swing around that pole. Just don’t get lost in the fog. Know when it is time to leave.”
I nodded to him, unable to speak. My words caught in my throat.
“Anyway,” he said, “I have places to be and other people to chat with.” His lips broke into a cheeky grin. “But you’re always my favorite conversation partner. I’ll see you soon, Violet Chase.” It was only when he turned and left that I realized he used my real name.
Fuck, he knows who I am.