Baby Doll

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The back alley behind The Gilded Lily had an odor famous poets would’ve put under the name of ‘desperation’.

It was literally piss, pot, and Virginia Slims. And maybe a little bit of magnolia.

In all — a typical New Orleans summer night behind a strip club.

The air sat sticky, the sweat never dried — and I kept pulling on my tiny black lace slip they called a uniform.

Well, I had — during my first hour here, but I quickly realized I was fighting a losing battle and gave it a rest. If my cheeks were willing to wink at every passer-by, I let them.

Dahlia passed me the cigarette she’d been smoking. Her dark curls were pinned up high, glitter sparkling on her collarbones, catching the light of the alley.

“Rule number one, Mary babe,” she said, pointing at me with blood-red nails. “If a man calls you ‘baby’ more than twice in one sentence, he’s either broke or a serial killer. Usually both.”

Burgundy snorted, adjusting the strap of her crimson bodysuit. “Or he’s married. Married ones always try to act all sweet, thinkin’ we ain’t like their wives and won’t whip them on the head if they try some bull.”

Lolly — tiny, blonde, and perpetually sucking on a cherry lollipop even when she wasn’t on stage — laughed and leaned her head on my shoulder.

“Don’t listen to them too much, Mary. You got a real sweet face.

These nasty ass men go nuts for it. Just smile pretty, lean over when you serve drinks, and act all flustered when they try to flirt with you. Most suck at it.”

“Or when they pull their one-liners,” Burgundy added after an inhale.

“A jackass last night said this, and I quote: Are you a loan? Because you sure have my interest.” Burgundy rolled her hazel eyes so hard her false lashes nearly brushed her eyebrows, then stuck out her tongue in a cartoonish bleh.

The laughter that bubbled out of me surprised even myself.

“What did you say to him?” I asked.

Burgundy puffed her cigarette that was threatening to go out left unattended and replied, “I said, honey, you couldn’t afford the interest.” She took a long drag and exhaled toward the dark sky. “And then he proved he could afford the interest. The easiest seven hundred bucks of my life.”

I leaned back against the brick wall and looked up at the sliver of night sky visible between the rooftops. Even that looked humid. A distant trumpet wailed from somewhere down on Bourbon, but back inside the club, the bass was thumping.

My break was almost over.

The music inside shifted tempo, and I knew Remy, the floor manager, would be leaning out the back door in about three minutes with that look on his face. The one that said you’re costing me money just by breathing out here.

“First night jitters?” Lolly asked, tilting her lollipop toward me like a tiny pink scepter.

I wanted to say no — I wanted to say that I had been earning a living doing OnlyFans for a little over a year now — that this wasn’t my first rodeo — but all of that somehow didn’t translate to this.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked her.

“Babe, you’ve been pulling at that dress since you walked out here.”

“I stopped doing that.”

“Did you?” She smiled, not unkindly. “It don’t cover more when you pull it, you know.”

Dahlia took a last drag and ground the cigarette under the toe of a heel that had no business being worn by a human being.

Six inches at least, platform, gold. She walked in them like she was born elevated above the rest of us.

My feet screamed in protest when I only imagined the years spent wearing them to get this acclimated to the pain.

Dahlia — my sweet, sweet Dahlia. She was responsible for me being here.

When OnlyFans had starting to dry up, she’d said I should apply for the club she danced at, that they were searching for cute little waitresses, and, according to her, I was a cute little waitress material.

Besides, I fucked myself silly in front of a webcam for a subscription of $9.

99 a month. This should’ve been a piece of cake in theory.

In theory.

In reality it was not a piece of cake.

The back door swung open, and Remy’s head appeared, exactly on schedule. Wide and tan and beady-eyed — but somehow oddly handsome. I know, I know. Contradictions.

“Mary. Babe. Need that tush back inside.” Then the door swung shut again, and I heard the bass swallow him whole.

“That’s your cue, baby girl,” Dahlia said, and squeezed my arm just above the elbow. Her grip was surprisingly firm for someone who looked like she was made entirely of silk and cigarette smoke. “Remember — you’re not serving drinks. You’re selling a feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“Whatever the fuck kind they are paying for.”

I let out a breathy laugh and nodded, even as my stomach did a slow flip.

I wasn’t some wide-eyed virgin walking into the lion’s den.

I knew how to moan pretty, how to look shy while spreading my legs, how to make a man feel like he was the only one in the world while I rode a dildo and called him “daddy.”

But this was different.

This was flesh and blood and eyes that could look straight through the lace. No screen between me and them. No block button. No pink wig and heavy makeup to hide behind.

Still. Money was money. And rent in New Orleans was at an all-time high.

“Alright,” I said, pushing off the brick wall. “Let’s go sell some feelings.”

The girls fell into step around me like glittery, foul-mouthed bodyguards.

Lolly popped her lollipop back between her lips with a loud smack.

Burgundy adjusted her breasts so they sat even higher in her bodysuit.

Dahlia threw an arm around my shoulders, her skin warm and slightly sticky from the heat.

“You’re gonna kill it, babe,” she murmured. “Just remember: eyes up, tits out, and if anyone gets too handsy, you scream for Remy. Or me. I bite.”

“I bite harder,” Burgundy added cheerfully.

We pushed through the back door and the noise of the club hit us like a wall — thick bass, low laughter, the clink of glasses, and the unmistakable sound of money being made in the private rooms. The lights were low and purple, casting everything in that expensive, sinful glow.

I smoothed my hands down the front of my tiny slip, feeling the hem ride up again. Whatever. Let it ride.

We’d barely made it ten steps inside when the energy in the room shifted.

The front doors opened.

I saw a group of men strutting in — tall, loud, and spelling out ‘danger’ in letters woven of leather and tattoos. The whole club seemed to pause for half a second.

“Shit,” Burgundy whispered. “Trouble just walked in.”

“I thought they had at least another two months to tour?” Lolly mused, watching them shake hands and clap backs with every important Silicon Valley expat and finance mogul.

“Heard Brett broke his wrist — couldn’t drum no more,” Burgundy added. “Had to cut it short.”

“That must’ve cost them a fortune,” Lolly said.

“Go big or go home, as they say,” Burgundy muttered. “And they — as we all see it — went home.”

“Which means they’re gonna spend even bigger tonight.”

“And will get stupid drunk.” Dahlia’s arm tightened around my shoulders, and I could feel her smile before I even looked up at her. “Perfect timing, baby girl,” she said, low enough that only I could hear. “Consider this your baptism.”

Baptism? Yeah, I was way past that. Because I recognized their lead, and not from the posters stapled to every telephone pole in the city.

Behind the dark hair, the piercings, and that sharp, beautiful face that looked like sin carved into flesh, was a name I’d seen attached to multiple generous tips on my OnlyFans. Saint Cross.

Naturally, I had thought whoever was using it was using as a bit. A joke, you know. That it wasn’t the real Saint Cross.

But with the way he was looking at me right now, I wasn’t so sure anymore.