Beautiful Failure

by Mariah Cole

  “I’m looking for a job.” I spit out and he goes silent again.

  “Age?”

  “What?”

  “Your age.”

  “Twenty one.”

  “Height?”

  “Five six.”

  “Hair color?”

  “Black.”

  “You’re available to come right now?”

  I look at where the gas needle is sitting on my dashboard. Empty. “Yes.”

  “Good. We’re sixty miles outside of Blythe. You’ve got an hour and a half.” He gives me the address and hangs up without saying anything further.

  I reach under my seat and pull out my emergency twenty dollar bill—the only money I have left, and make a mental note to pick up my last check from Starbucks later.

  Knowing that there are only three gas stations in Blythe, I head for the cheapest one and pull up to the pump. Just like in New Jersey, the gas pumps aren’t self-serve so I have to wait for an attendant to come out of the store and do it for me.

  No one comes.

  Three minutes pass.

  Still no one.

  I honk my horn as hard as I can, and then I see a shirtless man walking towards my car in the rearview mirror. Instead of coming to my window first and taking my money, he pops open the tank and places the pump inside.

  Annoyed, I roll my window down and stick my head out. “I’m only paying for ten dollars’ worth so please don’t think you’re doing me any favors.”

  He looks up and slowly pushes his shades off his face, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes.

  Carter.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  If it wasn’t for the fact that I have somewhere to be, or the fact that I swore not to have sex with anyone in Blythe, I would be stepping out of my car and trying to seduce the shit out of him.

  In broad daylight.

  He steps closer to my window with his eyebrow raised and smiles at me. “You need to get your brakes fixed.”

  “You need to finish pumping my gas.” I hand him the money. “I never thought you’d be a gas station attendant.”

  “I’m not,” he says. “I’m helping a hometown friend. And you don’t have to pay for the gas, it’s on the house.”

  I glance at his sweaty chest for a second and look into his eyes again. “You may want to reconsider that. I need ten back.”

  He gives me another swoon-worthy smile and softly pushes my hand away.

  “I missed seeing you at Starbucks yesterday.” He leans down, bringing his face at level with mine, showing off his full and defined lips. He presses his hand against my face and softly brushes his thumb against my cheek. “I went three separate times...Did you quit or did they get smart and fire you?”

  “They fired me.”

  “Shocking. Did your friend give you my note?”

  “She did.”

  “Do you know how to read?”

  “Your handwriting was too terrible.”

  He grins and moves his face even closer—so close that we’re nearly lip to lip. “Am I going to have to chase you, Emerald?” He stresses every syllable of my name. “I will.”

  I can’t think of anything sarcastic to fire at him because for whatever reason, my heart is racing and I’m pretty sure he just made me wet.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he says as he steps away.

  He taps the gas nozzle against the edge of my tank as he pulls it out, and then he pats the back of my trunk—signaling for me to drive off.

  I don’t hesitate to speed away, but I glance in my rearview mirror to get one last look at him—watching him smile as he slides his shades over his face again.

  Damn...

  I speed off towards the backstreets of Blythe and follow the directions I’ve scribbled on the back of a receipt.

  Turning the radio up, I groan as the sound of country music blasts through my speakers. I have yet to get used to that twangy-yodeling and I doubt I ever will.

  As I cruise down the open lanes, I notice that there’s not much to see on my left or my right—just barren fields and a small wooden house here or there. Up ahead I see what appears to be a herd of cows grazing in the grass; one of them lifts his head and moos when I get closer.

  I honk at him and throw up my middle finger.

  Satisfied that I’ve shown him who’s boss, I turn off the radio and decide to listen to the sound of my tires against the street for the rest of the drive. Even that sounds better than country music.

  An hour and twenty minutes later, I find myself outside of a colossal black building. It’s hidden behind a clove of trees and a random brick wall with climbing ivy.

  There’s no sign on the outside that says anything about it being The Phoenix, but this has to be it.

  Just as I’m about to park my car—right out front and not in a parking lot because I don’t see one, a buff man in a gray suit walks out of the building.

  He looks at my car in confusion, then he walks over to my window. “May I help you, Miss?”

  “I’m here for an interview.”

  “An interview?” He raises his eyebrow. “We’re not hiring.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you’re looking for a job, there’s a diner down the street and to your left. Try them.”

  I suck in a breath and try to stay calm. “I’m here for a goddamn interview and I’m not leaving without one. I spoke to someone on the phone a little over an hour ago, so I suggest you either A) Get on the same page as him, or B) Bring out someone who knows what the fuck he’s talking about because I’ll sit out here all day if I have to.”

  He blinks.

  “Are you the valet or do I just leave my car right here?” I cut my engine off. “You’re not getting a tip.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face and he pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Mr. Watts? Yes...Do you have an interview scheduled for today? You do? Well, she’s out front.” He pauses and steps back a bit. “Green. Her eyes are dark green...Yes...No...She does...Will do.” He ends the call and opens my door. “Leave your keys in the car. I’ll escort you inside.”

  Following him, I notice that the inside looks more like an expensive hotel lobby than a strip club. As a matter of fact, it reminds me of one of the hotels where Leah met her suitors.

  The walls are a smooth taupe, the floors are a sparkling hardwood, and the artwork that hangs high is framed in crystal.

  There are a few plush chaises and sofas scattered about the room, but it looks as if they’ve never been used.

  “Miss?” The man clears his throat, and gestures for me to keep following him.

  He leads me down a long corridor—where I can hear the faint thumping of music coming from what seems to be a lower level, and then he knocks on a door.

  “Send her in.” The voice on the other side of the door answers.

  The man opens the door and motions for me to step in, then he slams it behind me.

  I step forward and look around the opulent office—ignoring the man that’s sitting behind the desk.

  “You’re the girl on the phone?” The man is suddenly standing in front of me, looking into my eyes. He’s about thirty years old—beautiful brown eyes, perfectly trimmed blond hair, and slight smile lines, but I’m not attracted to him.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  He looks me up and down. Then he circles me, smiling. “I’m Mr. Watts, but you can call me Michael. Have a seat at the desk.”

  I walk towards the chair and sit down, watching as he adjusts a wall painting before sitting across from me.

  He stares at me a while—tapping his chin, not saying anything.

  Reaching into a small wooden box and pulling out two thick cigars, he sighs. “Do you smoke?”

  “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Fair enough.” He nods and drops one back into the box. “I’m sure you know what type of business this is, so I’ll spare you the introductory bullshit and get straight to the point: If I choose to h
ire you after your audition, I expect you to give a hundred and ten percent every day. I don’t care why you’re here and I don’t give a damn about whatever sob story you may tell years down the line. This is a business, and my clients want to see women who actually enjoy what they’re doing. If you’re the type that’s going to cry every night because you’re ashamed to dance, get the fuck out of my office right now.”

  I don’t move. I sit still and watch him light his cigar.

  “There are several rules you’ll need to learn, but we’ll get to those in a minute. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Why is the club hidden?”

  “Hidden?” He furrows his brow. “I believe secluded is the word you’re looking for, because people do know that the club exists. We moved last year and simply changed the name.”

  “Why?”

  “How inquisitive. We needed more space, and we wanted to step things up a notch.” He puffs a wisp of smoke across the air. He’s being incredibly vague and for once in my life I actually want the details.

  As if he can pick up on my hesitance, he leans forward. “You can walk out of this room at any time. The last thing I need is a woman who is unsure of herself. Insecurities aren’t welcome at The Phoenix. Ever.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I see that. Do you have any more questions before we start the official part of the interview?”

  I shake my head.

  “Okay.” He leans back and sets his cigar down, letting the smoke unfurl in slow spirals. “Show me your tits.”

  “What?”

  “Show. Me. Your .Tits.”

  I’m blushing right red. I can feel it. “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.” He looks at my chest. “You think I’m going to let you hit the stage or dance for my clients without knowing if you have something worth seeing? Take your shirt off.”

  I swallow and move my hands to unbutton my blouse. Once I reach the last button, I slip my hand around my back and unsnap my bra, letting my C-cup breasts fall free. I shift in my seat and stare into his eyes, realizing that he’s looking at me as if he’s incapable of turning away.

  “Get up and stand by the bookshelf,” he commands.

  I do as he says and keep my eyes locked on his.

  “Your pants...” His voice is hoarse. “Take those off.”

  I unbutton my jeans, aware that he’s watching every single movement I make. I take my time unzipping my fly, and push the pants to the floor. I’m now wearing nothing but a heart necklace and a lacy black thong.

  He stands up and walks over to me, circling me slowly. He sighs and gently touches me, trailing his fingers against the tattoo that’s etched onto my left shoulder.

  “You’ll have to cover that up,” he whispers, and then he rubs the other tattoo that’s on the back of my neck. “This one too...”

  I nod and he runs his fingers through my hair from behind.

  “I don’t hire nervous girls, Emerald...”

  I stiffen. I never told him my name. I’m about to turn around and ask him how he knows it, but he wraps an arm around my waist and holds me still.

  “We ran your plates the second you pulled into the parking lot.” One of his hands is still in my hair. “Nothing that happens here is mentioned outside of these walls. Understand?”

  I nod, but he spins me around.

  “I need you to say it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Put your clothes back on.” He clears his throat and watches me again.

  When I’ve re-buttoned my shirt, he tilts my chin up and looks into my eyes. “Do you know how to dance?”

  “Yes.” I lie.

  “In six inch stilettos?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You get two weeks to shadow your future coworkers and train and then you’ll audition. After that you’re on your own. The first three rules are simple. Rule number one: Don’t fuck the customers. Rule number two: Don’t fuck the customers. Rule number three—”

  “Don’t fuck the customers?”

  “No. If you choose to break rules one and two, I’m not responsible. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “What would you like me to call you?”

  “What do you mean call me?”

  He smiles. “No one here goes by a real name. While the majority of my clients are businessmen and high level executives who fly in from bigger cities, we do get a few strangers here or there and we don’t need anyone knowing who you really are. If I offer you this job, and you choose to take it, the day you bring your license and social security card will be the only time your real name is welcome here.”

  “Does that mean I’m temporarily hired?”

  “No,” he says flatly. “It means it’s time for me to take you on a tour.”

  He slips an arm around my waist and leads me down another hallway and through a small metal door. Behind that door are two short flights of steps, and the sound of thumping music which is becoming louder and louder.

  As we approach a velvet curtain, I can smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke. And sweat.

  “Stay close,” he orders as he pulls it open and pushes me into a dark room. “I want you to leave the very second any of this feels uncomfortable.”

  My eyes take several seconds to adjust to the darkness and the haze, but when they do, I have to literally pinch myself to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

  There are five huge poles in the room—each one surrounded by its own circular platform stage. The one in the middle stands a little higher than the rest and is clearly the main draw, but all of them feature the same pretty prize: a half-naked woman clad in only lace panties, swirling around in confidence.

  “We’ll come back to the standard things...” Michael shows me into a dimly lit hallway. There are doors on each side, and their windows are all tinted.

  Despite the privacy, I’m pretty sure there are moans coming from the other side of those doors. And not the fake kind.

  “We fulfill fantasies here,” he says calmly. “A man divorces his wife and wants to relive his glory days? Fine. Someone gets off by being beaten and tied up? Done. And if some of my girls choose to break rules one and two to earn triple of what they would make on stage?”

  He doesn’t say anything further.

  He simply leads me back out into the main room where a new group of girls have taken their places on the poles.

  I’d thought that coming to a strip club in the daytime would mean the place would be empty, but it’s not. Far from it.

  There are several men—all dressed in designer suits, sitting at the base of the stages. They’re lounging in the luxury booths that line the far wall, and I see a couple of them walking out of what appears to be a private lounge.

  “Hello, Michael.” A woman steps in front of us and extends a tray of shot glasses. “Is your new friend enjoying the show? Does she need a drink?” She smirks, and I realize she’s wearing nothing but a white thong and matching pasties.

  I don’t answer her. I let my eyes continue to roam the room, watching as the women gracefully contort their bodies around the poles—as they make the men squirm and lose control over what they’re able to do.

  One man who’s sitting in front of the center pole suddenly stands up and approaches it. He reaches into his breast-pocket and pulls out his wallet.

  The dancer wraps her legs around the pole and tilts her upper body backward so he’s standing right above her face.

  My vision isn’t the best, but I’m pretty sure he inserts two hundred dollar bills into her mouth.

  While still hanging from the pole, she extends her arms and touches him, running her hands against the large tent that’s formed in his pants.

  “You can touch them, but they can’t touch you.” The shot glass woman follows my gaze, and then she whispers into my ear, “Unless you want them to that is...It’s more money if you do.”

  I swallow and look away—letting my eyes settle o
n a pair of doors to my right. A half-naked woman and a suit are stumbling through them, and he’s definitely touching her—kissing her. I know she’s going to do more than dance for him behind those walls.

  I want to ask Michael a number of questions, the main one being “How the fuck is all of this legal?” but I don’t want him to think I want to back out.

  After we watch a woman descend from the pole in an effortless flip, he shows me to the bar that extends against the entire back wall.

  Behind it, women are dressed in shiny gold bras and black cut off shorts that could reveal everything with one slight tug. Standing tall behind them is a massive wall of lit glass shelves that hold every brand and flavor of alcohol.

  My mouth waters just looking at them. It’s been a long time and I figure one shot won’t hurt anything. I can easily drive home after just one.

  “We pulled your record from your license plate too.” Michael hands me a bottle of water. “You’re banned from the bar. I’ve got legal issues of my own.”

  I sigh.

  “If any of the cameras,” he says while pointing at the black orbs that hang down from the ceiling, “or any of my security guards catch you even looking at a drink, I’ll turn you in to the state personally. Clear?”

  “Clear.” I unscrew the bottle and slurp as much of it as I can.

  He looks at his watch and quickly shows me the DJ booth, the private dance-rooms, and the private “bachelor pads” that feature their own poles. He says a lot more about The Phoenix as he leads me back upstairs, but I only catch bits and pieces.

  I’ve been to strip clubs before—a couple ones with Leah and one with Parker in college, but The Phoenix is not a strip club. I don’t know what the fuck it is.

  My car is where I left it outside, and when a black Jaguar suddenly pulls behind it I feel embarrassed and out of place.

  “For future reference,” he says as he opens my car door, “the employee parking lot is straight ahead and through that black gate.”

  I nod and slip inside, twisting my key into the ignition. “How much time do I get to think about it?”

  “Friday. Five o’ clock.” He steps away.

  I drive off, completely dazed by everything I’ve just seen. I don’t think about the boring country fields or the stupid cows that block the road on my way home. All I can think about is The Phoenix and whether or not I should consider it.