Chapter 11 Lucy
Lucy
It’s been years since I’ve been to a nightclub. Just the thought of going out drinking, dancing, and staying up until two in the morning exhausts me. My ideal night with my girlfriends is a low-key, candlelit wine bar, and bonus points if they have cheesy garlic bread.
When Marsh discovered two of the escorts involved in the trial used to work at The Peppermint Club, he wanted to check it out.
Get in their heads, see what they saw, as he said.
Naturally, anything related to this story I’m more than happy to help with.
So, cut to me putting on the only outfit that felt acceptable for tonight.
My tightest black dress. The one I wore for my twenty-fifth birthday that hits just above mid-thigh, shows off my modest cleavage, and hugs my ass in all the right ways if I do say so myself.
Looking in the mirror, I forgot just how hot I can look if I try.
Age is a funny thing. As we get older, we tell ourselves it’s inappropriate to dress a certain way.
But looking at my reflection, I feel beautiful, and there shouldn’t be any shame in flaunting that.
I think of photos I’ve seen of my mom when she was younger and remember being taken aback by how stunning she was.
She still is, but there’s something special about youthful beauty.
If I’m still able to feel good in a dress like this, why shouldn’t I?
The Peppermint Club is a sixties-inspired music lounge with deep lighting throughout.
With cork-indented ceilings, the venue feels larger than life, yet surprisingly intimate with a giant stage that feels like it was pulled right off a set.
There are wooden booths with velvet seats surrounding the bar with warm globe lighting and gold hardware.
It’s striking, and based on the drink prices, I’m not surprised women choose a place like this to be a waitress.
According to the website, there are two live performances starting at ten p.m., but in the meantime, there’s a DJ set up on the stage and already a surprising number of people. I don’t see Marsh yet, so I make my way to the bar.
A man in what looks to be his early thirties—with pale skin and an intriguing tattoo sleeve on his left arm—is sitting by himself. I find a spot a few feet away and lean toward the bar, looking at the drink specials. It’s not hard to feel his eyes on me, not in a creepy way, but he’s looking.
“How’s it going?” he says loud enough for me to hear over the music.
“Fine,” I answer politely and get a better look at his face. There’s no denying he’s attractive. Blue eyes, a subtle thin gold nose ring, and another tattoo on his hand I can’t quite make out.
“You here for the show tonight?” he asks.
“I’m meeting a friend.”
The corner of his mouth curls and he then takes a sip of his beer. He definitely thinks I’m meeting a girlfriend.
“I’m Colton.” He reaches over and shakes my hand.
“Lucy…”
“You from LA, Lucy?” He turns his body to face me.
“I am,” I say.
“A native,” he says. “I haven’t met too many of you.”
He’s not wrong. Los Angeles is full of transplants; rarely do you find someone who was raised here and spends their time at nightclubs like this. That’s because we’ve already experienced it all growing up. It gets old.
“I’m from Philly,” he offers, even though I didn’t ask. “I’ve lived here for two years, though.” Colton takes another sip of his beer. “So, what do you do? You must be an actress.”
“Journalist,” I say.
“Shit, my mistake.” He raises his eyebrows. “I’m a DJ, I’m playing a set here tomorrow.”
“Oh cool,” I say, not really sure what to do with that information.
“Let me get you a drink.” He waves over the bartender.
“Oh, no thank you,” I protest. I know what buying a drink for someone means. It means you’re unofficially theirs for the night. You’re obligated to talk to them, maybe dance. I’ve learned the hard way. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” He smiles like a flash of his teeth can get me to change my mind. Like I’m too naive to not know when no means no.
“I’m actually not thirsty.” I turn and walk away.
I find a seat at one of the two empty high-top tables and look at my phone. A new text from Chris.
Chris:
What’s up
One of my biggest pet peeves with Chris is that he hardly uses punctuation.
Hesitating for a moment, I open my camera app and take a selfie sitting cross-legged on the chair.
I don’t include my face, just my lips. Enough for him to recognize me in the photo.
There’s not a part of me that wants to see Chris tonight, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy him wanting me.
I snap a few angles, choose the best one, and send it to him.
Lucy:
Out with a friend
In less than thirty seconds he reacts to the photo with a heart.
Chris:
Where u at
Just then, a tall figure walking through the entrance catches my eye.
I do a double take because Marsh is almost unrecognizable at first glance.
He’s swapped his glasses for contacts, and his hair looks slightly gelled away from his face.
He has black jeans, a black golf shirt of some kind that’s hugging his arms and chest in a way that feels cruel to me, and a pair of Nikes.
Clearly, Marsh shaves regularly because it’s been only a few days since I’ve seen him and he has a noticeable five-o’clock shadow.
He looks hot. Really hot.
I raise my hand to catch his attention, and I swear I see the blood drain from his face. It looks like he’s not going to walk over, but instead turn around altogether. But he smiles and walks toward me.
“Lucy…” He utters my name in a way I haven’t heard before. “You look…”
“Is it too much?” I ask, internally panicking based on his reaction.
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “You look incredible.”
I’m used to men whispering the most explicit things in my ear, yet Marsh’s remark is making me actively try to not blush.
I’m not sure what it is but there’s something different about Marsh tonight.
The way his hair is thick and full, his tanned skin, the broadness of his shoulders, how his shirt hugs the form of his chest, the hairs on his forearms, and the black leather watch on his wrist. I always knew that Marsh was an attractive man, but in that nerdy professor way.
He’s someone who you can look at and say, Yes, that man is handsome, but his demeanor, his kindness, his intelligence is something that by far overpowers his looks in the best way possible.
Tonight, there’s a new aura about Marsh. I don’t throw around the word sexy that easily, but he looks really fucking sexy. I thought my feelings at the boxing gym were something that would subside, but the fact that I continue to see him this way is a little concerning.
“Lucy?” He ducks a little lower to get my attention.
“Hmm?” I snap back to reality. “Sorry, what?”
“Do you want a drink?” he asks like he’s repeating himself for the fifth time.
“Oh! Yes, yes, please.” I follow him toward the bar.
We walk up to the bar, and DJ Colton is a few feet away from us.
I lean in a little closer to Marsh to show that yes, this is the friend I was meeting.
Behind the bar is a half mirror and I catch a glimpse of my and Marsh’s reflection.
We look good together. We’re an attractive couple.
We look like we should be on a magazine spread. Clothed, unclothed, I don’t care.
“What do you want?” Marsh looks down at me.
“I’ll just have a glass of red, please.”
After ordering, Marsh passes me my wine, and we take a seat at one of the high-top tables.
“Have you ever been here before?” Marsh asks over the music.
“No.” I look around. “It’s different than what I was expecting, though. Like, classier? Is that awful to say?”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Marsh stifles a laugh. “Kudos to the waitresses, though. They know where the money is.”
He frowns like something just came to him and then pulls out his phone.
“Everything okay?” I watch him aggressively type something.
He continues typing and then looks up at me. “I’m wondering if there’s something there.”
“What?”
“I’m thinking about the interview with Christina the other day and how she got started because she needed more money for school.
Now I’m thinking of the women who work here because there are obviously good tips.
” He puts a fist against his mouth in thought.
“What if the story is about how women aren’t making enough money, so they have no choice but to turn to sex work, or how sex workers need access to more money? ”
I sit back, a little dumbfounded. “Oh.”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, that’s not it,” I say. “It’s just…I’m not sure why I was expecting you to write a story about the men who’ve been caught. But you’re writing a piece in defense of women.”
“Well, yeah,” he says.
“It’s a really great angle,” I finally say, answering his question.
My eyes wander to the female bartenders and waitresses.
These are all women who are not only objectively stunning but also making more a night than I do in a week.
I’m reminded of my current salary and lack of growth at The Rue.
Leaving all that to make twice as much, or maybe even just more than I make now, doesn’t sound horrible.
“I think it’s a really discerning story,” I continue my thought. “Because the gender pay gap isn’t exclusive to sex work. I like it.”
“Great. I’ll see how it feels for this story, but regardless I could write something. I’ll explore it.”
I take a sip of my wine. “What do you usually do in situations like this? Ask around and interview people?”
“It depends on the story. I can’t do any interviews tonight since I’m not here on assignment.” Marsh takes a sip of his beer. “I just want to at least bring more color to the piece knowing as much as I can of what these women have been through.”
“How long do you usually stay?”
“Like an hour, if that. Not long, just enough time to get a feel of the place.”
“How do you immerse yourself so much in every story?” I ask.