5. Colton #2
Ben stops dead in his tracks, a teenager caught sneaking in through his girlfriend’s window.
Resigned to his fate, he makes his way over to where the three of us huddle.
His demeanor shifts as he catches Fallon trying to migrate slowly away from the group, puffing out his chest and standing a fraction taller like he can intimidate his way out of a punishment.
A tactic I’m sure has worked for him in the past, but I doubt will have any effect on Marcus.
“What’s up, boss?” he says casually, the nonchalance in his voice a lie given away by the bounce of his right leg, heel barely making any contact with the ground from the sheer speed of the movement. A nervous tic that’s anything but subtle.
“You’re late. Again,” Marcus scolds. And this time, I do hear a little tweak in his voice. Restraint?
I’m torn on what to do. The polite thing would be to gracefully depart from the conversation and let them work this out in private.
But one look in Fallon’s direction makes the choice for me.
She’s trying to make herself as small as possible, shoulders tense and gaze averted. She knows how this will go.
Ben hoists his bag off his shoulder, aggressively tossing it to the right of our little circle, if you can still call it that, with Fallon inching toward the stairs that lead off the stage. Her desire to move away makes sense the minute Ben decides to open his dumbass mouth.
“You couldn’t wait to run to Marcus because I’m a few minutes late?
” he spits at her before spotting the key in her hand.
“Seriously? Because you needed to get into the closet. There is plenty of time before we open to get the rooms ready—you just wanted to get me in trouble. Fucking bit—.” He doesn’t get farther in his insult before Marcus is stepping in front of him with a hand on his chest. I’m not even sure Ben realizes that with each word he spat, he slowly worked his way closer and closer to where Fallon was.
Marcus isn’t the only one to step between the two as I shift my body in front of Fallon’s, one arm outstretched to shield her from any physical blows, wishing I could shield her from his words.
I’m staring over Marcus’s shoulder, looking into Ben’s blown-out pupils, veins protruding from his neck as rage radiates from every pore in his body.
Rage and sweat, a light sheen taking over his facial features, give the impression he ran several miles to get here.
“Back office. Now,” Marcus orders Ben as he moves his hand to his shoulder, turning him around to head in the opposite direction.
Ben scoops up his bag as he moves ahead of Marcus towards his back office, for what I hope is a full-on ass kicking.
Marcus turns around briefly, looking between me and Fallon.
“I got it,” I tell him. His eyes jump from me to her before he decides I’m sincere in my concern for her well-being.
“I’ll update Harper later,” he lets out a long sigh. “He’s my performer, it should come from me,” he states, giving one final nod to Fallon before following Ben to his back office.
Turning to face Fallon, I open my mouth to ask if she’s alright when she beats me to it.
“He’s just been so moody lately. Short fuse that he didn’t used to have,” she punctuates with a roll of her shoulders, as if she can physically dislodge his words.
“Maybe he’s just getting restless here after so long in the same position.
It happens,” she pauses, taking one steady breath before turning to face me instead of watching their retreating forms. “I’m fine. ”
I met Ben earlier in the month, a fire-breather who has been here for a few years.
He and Marcus have been working to change his routine, maybe incorporate fresh concepts into his piece.
His behavior didn’t convince me he was bored, but it did convince me he needed a closer eye, one I’m happy to provide.
“Okay,” I respond slowly, hoping she can’t tell I’m not convinced, especially since she hasn’t tried to leave the stage again since Ben was walked off it.
“Ready to show me the rest of the rooms?” I ask her, a distraction she is happy to jump at, no doubt grateful for the escape from having to talk about the spiteful words thrown at her.
“Sure, that would be great. I’ll get the costumes and meet you in the showroom. You can help me set up the rooms while we go through everything.”
“Absolutely, one question though. What the hell is the showroom?” I admit.
“Don’t worry, honey, I’ll explain it all,” she laughs lightly, nudging my side with her elbow playfully.
She isn’t flirting with me, saying honey like she’s helping a little brother find a lost toy, and I’m grateful to be making connections beyond the perfunctory ‘hello’ and ‘good morning’ I’ve been getting from the rest of the staff, still the new kid on the block.
We make our way off the stage, grabbing the costumes and adding them to a rolling rack of clothes. Fallon brings me to the right of the stage, leading down a long corridor with evenly spaced doors, rattling off details as we pass each one.
“Each private room is themed to match the aesthetic of the club, but still provide a more custom experience to meet each patron's desire,” she stops in front of a room with a wood carved sign mounted above the door frame that says showroom in elegant script.
Before she can reach for the door, it opens from the inside, a tall, willowy woman with a high blonde ponytail greeting us at the threshold.
“Oh, Hannah, hi, you surprised me,” Fallon says, holding a hand to her chest in playful shock.
Hannah simply smirks at her and reaches around to pull the rack of clothes, ranging from nurse costumes to designer gowns and three-piece suits, into the room.
When she steps back to the doorway, she pointedly ignores Fallon but hides nothing in the way her eyes sweep over my body in assessment.
“I can take over the tour,” she says, hand tugging my arm forward to pull me inside before calling out a quick thanks to Fallon and shutting the door. So much for making a friend at work.
“So, you’re the new assistant,” she states, not really a question, but I nod in acknowledgement, anyway.
“Fallon was going to explain some of the private rooms to me while we stocked the outfits.”
“Perfect. This is my favorite room, so it only feels right that I explain it. Plus, Fallon isn’t a dancer, so this isn’t really her territory anyway,” she says, the bite a little too snarky for my liking.
She steps back and gestures to the mostly empty space, save for a large black leather couch, its back to the door facing, nothing?
“This is the showroom—kind of a sugar daddy, sugar mama fantasy room, even though I usually like to think of it as playing dress up,” she explains, walking further into the space, taking several of the dresses off the rack and bringing them to a closet door in the back corner of the room opposite the entrance and couch.
She has several of the exact same dress in multiple sizes, hanging them neatly next to the ones already filling the closet, leaving the other, more outlandish, costume-type outfits on the rack, most likely to fill one of the other rooms.
Hannah gestures to the leather couch before telling me to take a seat.
My hesitation at the way her gaze lingers on my ass melts away the second I sit down, my tired legs and feet practically sobbing at the relief of being off them for even a moment.
“So, people actually pay to watch you try on clothes?” I ask, baffled by the things people are into.
The closet that she just restocked now filled with luxury high end cocktail dresses, full on ballgowns, designer suits and tuxes.
She finishes placing the last few dresses in the closet and walks to a panel on the wall, where she detaches a portable tablet, pressing a few buttons to bring the speakers to life and adjusting the volume before tossing the tablet onto my lap.
I pick up the tablet as Hannah saunters back to the newly filled closet, pressing a button on the far wall that slowly drops a sheer black partition from the ceiling, completely separating my side of the room from hers.
The partition descends slowly, catching her wicked smile seconds before she’s cast in shadow.
“It’s more than just watching people try on clothes,” Hannah says through the partition.
“Pick an outfit.” I furrow my brows, not understanding what she means until I pick up the tablet and see row after row of familiar garments prompting me to make a selection before a little next button shows up in the right-hand corner of the screen.
“The patron chooses the outfit,” she purrs as the lights on my side of the partition dim and a light behind the partition glows brighter, giving my vantage point a silhouetted visual of every move she makes. Also making it clear that as I was selecting an outfit, she was taking hers off.
“The partition is up when they enter the room, and we provide a little pre-show while they make their decisions. It’s essentially a reverse striptease, but this gives the illusion of complete control over what we do,” she states as she sways with each step across the space, clearly walking to the closet and pulling an outfit out of the closet before sauntering back to center stage.
The entire process is done with such single-minded intention and fluid grace that it’s easy to forget that she’s simply taking a dress off a hanger.
“A lot of the patrons that come here get off on dressing up their partners, telling them what to do and having the direction eagerly followed,” I can’t see her facial features, just her body language, but I swear I can hear the delight from where I sit.
The patrons of this room might like telling someone what to do, but I have a feeling Hannah likes following orders more.