by Bec Linder
I risked a glance back over my shoulder. He was still watching.
Rule 1: never get involved with the clients.
No matter how attractive they were.
No matter how kind they had been to you.
Had he followed me? Did he know I worked at the club, or was it just a weird coincidence?
Either way, I was pretty unsettled.
The music changed, my cue that I needed to wrap things up. Fine with me; I was suddenly eager to get off stage and go back to the safety of the seraglio. I let my robe slither to the floor and spun slowly on one foot, cupping my breasts in both hands, giving the watching men the view they had all been waiting for. Now was ordinarily the time when I stepped off the stage and let a client peel off my g-string, but the man in the dark suit was still watching me, and I didn’t want to linger. I pulled the g-string to the side just enough to give a peek, and then gave a little curtsy as the music ended, blew a kiss to the audience, and left the stage.
As Mercedes took the stage behind me, I made my rounds of the audience, collecting tips and pausing here and there to let a man slide one hand down the curve of my ass. This was usually a prime opportunity to talk someone into a lap dance or a private room, but I wasn’t feeling it. I wanted to go back to the seraglio and gossip with Scarlet some more. Maybe I would take tomorrow off. I had worked for a week and a half straight, and I was feeling a little burned out.
I slowly wove through the tables, moving inevitably closer to the man in the suit at the back of the room. He hadn’t looked away from me, and I had the strange sensation that he was reeling me toward him like a fish on a line. Impossible, of course, but I felt the draw, a steady tug, and I wondered what he would say to me when I finally made my way over to him. What he would do.
My heart beat in a relentless pounding rhythm.
But as soon as I came close enough that he could have touched me or spoken to me, he looked down at his phone and ignored me.
I paused by his table, uncertain, waiting for him to look up again, to give some indication that he knew I was there—but he didn’t, and I had to keep moving or it would get weird.
A man at the next table said, “Are you entertaining clients tonight, sugar?”
I looked him up and down: young-ish, handsome-ish, probably very wealthy. A good catch. A safe bet. I could make a lot of money off of him.
But he wasn’t the man in the dark suit, and I wasn’t interested.
“Not tonight, sorry,” I said, and moved on.
I regretted it immediately. I wasn’t in this business for my own pleasure; I was in it to make money, and I should never turn down any man who was willing to offer me money.
Too late to take it back, though.
I sighed and looked around the room. Everyone was paying attention to Mercedes now, and my g-string was stuffed full of bills. Time to go back to the seraglio and regroup. It was still early. Maybe I could join Schoenemann’s party later.
As I left the floor, I glanced back over my shoulder, wanting one last glimpse at the man in the dark suit.
He was watching me again.
* * *
When I arrived at the club the next afternoon, Germaine called me into her office.
“What’s up, G?” I asked, leaning in the doorway. “Am I getting fired?”
I liked Germaine. She worked too much—I didn’t think she had taken a single day off since I had been hired—and that was a little weird, but whatever made her happy. She was efficient, and she didn’t play favorites, and she wasn’t a tight-ass about scheduling. A good boss.
She didn’t look too happy, though. I wondered if I had pissed off a client, or one of the other dancers. She set aside her paperwork and said, “You’ve been requested.”
I straightened up from my slouch. That was good news: a request meant one of my regulars, and I was fond of all of them, or fond enough. They tipped well and didn’t try to push for more than I was willing to give them. A request would keep me off the stage and in a private room for most of the evening, but it was a worthwhile trade-off. But there was still something weird about Germaine’s expression, like she wasn’t thrilled about the request, and that set my Spidey senses tingling. Something was off.
I had a feeling that I knew who it was: the man from yesterday. But if Germaine knew him too…
“It isn’t one of your regulars,” she said. “But he’s an… established member of the club. You’re free to say no.” But her expression said I probably shouldn’t.
Super weird. “So it’s someone you know, then,” I said.
She hesitated, her mouth pursed, and then nodded.
“Germaine, you’re really wigging me out,” I said. “Is this guy, like, the Boston Strangler or something?”
She frowned at me. “You know I wouldn’t vouch for a client who I thought would ever—”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” I said. Germaine was good about that. She wanted us to be safe, and she took the screening process for new clients pretty seriously. “So there’s something weird about him, but you’re cool with him. Okay, sure, why not? Just tell me when and where.” Maybe I could even turn this guy into another regular.
Her mouth twitched in a way that I couldn’t decipher, and she said, “He’s waiting for you in room 10. I told him that you would need time to get ready, and he said he didn’t mind waiting. But I wouldn’t keep him waiting for too long.”
God, so weird. The club didn’t even open for another hour—why was a client already there and waiting for me? Some of them were pretty eccentric, but Germaine didn’t usually indulge them to this extent. Maybe I was right, and it was the guy from yesterday, and he really was a secret agent. “I need at least twenty minutes,” I said.
“I told him thirty, but don’t dally,” she said.
“Aye aye, showering now,” I said, and took myself off to the seraglio.
Alone in the shower stall, I stood beneath the pounding spray and scrubbed my skin until I was pink all over. My conversation with Germaine had unsettled me. I’d never seen her like that, so—worried? Nervous? I still wasn’t even sure how she had been acting, but whatever it was, I didn’t like it.
It probably wasn’t the man in the dark suit. That would just be way too weird. It was probably someone who saw me dancing the night before. Maybe he was ugly or something. That would be okay. I didn’t mind ugly. They were usually so grateful to have a woman touching them that they tipped extravagantly and were kind. I liked the nice clients. It was easier, being touched by someone who was careful and happy to see you.
Maybe it was someone with a Band-Aid fetish.
No point worrying about it. I would find out soon enough.
I got ready in record time, slapping on makeup, my wig, a long silky robe with nothing underneath, and my highest, tackiest stripper heels, six inches with a thick platform and a stiletto heel so spindly I could barely walk. It was the same as the name thing: stripper heels told the clients they were getting the authentic experience.
It wasn’t false advertising. I was authentic, and I was definitely an experience.
Dressed, game face on, I teetered down the hall to room 10. It was one of the sex rooms down the hallway, with the bed and the tub. It was the largest and most decadent of the private rooms, and I was kind of surprised that Poppy hadn’t already laid claim to it for the evening. Maybe the client knew it was the best and had requested it specifically. Maybe he had paid extra. Germaine was a pretty shrewd businesswoman; I wouldn’t have put it past her to charge the clients extra if they wanted a particular room.
I stopped in front of the door and looked at the shiny metal 10 for a few moments. A new client was always a gamble. Would he be weird? Would he push my boundaries? You just never knew, and I’d had a few unpleasant surprises over the years. Nothing awful—there were hidden cameras in all of the rooms, and Germaine sent someone in if the clients got too rough—but enough to make my skin crawl. My blacklist was short, but it existed, and Germaine knew
to tell those men I was busy if they ever requested me.
Whatever. It would be fine. Money.
Sad, maybe, that money was my primary motivation in life.
Whatever.
I knocked on the door, and then opened it a crack and poked my head inside.
I didn’t see him immediately. The room was dim, windowless and lit only by a lamp beside the bed, and he was wearing dark clothing and sitting in the corner, not moving. But when I spotted him, I recognized him right away, and my breath caught as my heartbeat leaped into high gear.
It was the man from the day before, the man in the dark suit.
I didn’t know what to think, and so I didn’t try. Thinking wasn’t my strong suit anyway.
I slipped into the room and shut the door behind me, leaning back against it, hands pressed against the smooth wood. “Good evening, sir,” I said, in my breathy, smoky Sassy voice.
He stood, slowly unfolding his body from the chair, and walked toward me.
I kept my lips curled into a slight smile, eyelids lowered seductively, but I didn’t feel seductive or glad. I was terrified. Not of him, or at least not physically; I was reasonably certain that he wouldn’t hurt me. I was terrified of my response to him. I thought I was immune, after years of dealing with clients, to their various charms. But this man, whoever he was, and for whatever reason, made me feel like I was on one of those roller coasters that turned upside down in big loops, and your stomach dropped and you thought you would puke or die or let out a shout of joy like a thunderclap.
He came closer, and all I could think about was how tall he was, easily over six feet. I was a pretty average height for a woman, but I wore heels most of the time, and I wasn’t used to having to look up to meet a man’s eyes—but the closer he came, the higher my chin lifted, and by the time he stopped a foot in front of me, my head was tipped back against the door and I felt small and helpless, completely at his mercy, and I didn’t like it, but I did. I wanted to be at his mercy.
It terrified me.
He wasn’t wearing a suit, which should have made him less intimidating, but instead had the opposite effect. He wore gray trousers and a black knit shirt, probably expensive, with the sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. He looked down at me, face stern, eyes dark and deep as the ocean, and I waited for him to speak.
He didn’t.
I rearranged my face into an appealing pout, hoping that would motivate him to say something.
The silence dragged on.
Christ, I hated it when they wouldn’t talk. I never knew what to say. Come here often? “I heard you asked for me,” I said finally, desperate to break the mounting tension. I wanted him to quit looking at me with such laser-like intensity.
“I did,” he said, and then lapsed back into silence.
I couldn’t decide if he was doing it on purpose, to set me off-kilter, or if he really didn’t have anything to say. And I couldn’t decide which of those possibilities I preferred.
“Did you follow me here?” I asked. I didn’t mean to, but it burst out of me, and as soon as I said it, I was glad that I did. I wanted to know. If he had followed me to the club after he helped me on the street yesterday, I was going to kick up a huge fuss and have Germaine call the cops, because that was creepy.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “You’re not that attractive.”
That stung. He’d been so nice to me the day before. I didn’t like the change. It didn’t come as a surprise, though. Yesterday, I had been a cute girl in distress; today, I was a woman who sold her body for money. Different operating procedures. “Well, it’s just weird,” I said. “That you were here last night. I’ve never seen you at the club before.”
“I’ve been here many times,” he said. “Our encounter on the sidewalk was pure coincidence. Does that reassure you?”
“I guess so,” I said. I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, hiding myself from his gaze, but I resisted the impulse. “So, um. You asked for me.”
“I did,” he said again. He watched me for a moment, and then he placed his right hand on my shoulder, and slowly slid it down my arm to curl around my elbow. “Tell me your name.”
“Sassy,” I said. “Sassy Belle.”
“That can’t be your real name,” he said, “but I won’t press the matter.” His eyes bored into me, tunneling deep into the places I preferred to keep hidden. “How much?”
“How much what?” I asked.
“Don’t play coy,” he said. “How much do I have to pay you?”
I swallowed, my throat working. “For what?”
“For everything,” he said.
I realized then, with sort of a belated, dawning awareness, that I was turned on.
If he wanted everything, well—I wanted to give it to him.
“I don’t charge an hourly rate,” I said. “If my clients choose to tip me, that’s up to them.”
“Your clients,” he repeated, and his hand tightened on my arm. “How many?”
“What, you want an exact number?” I asked. “I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Many, I take it,” he drawled. “Whores are all the same. Greedy. You’ll suck a man dry and leave him for dead.”
“I think that’s a succubus,” I said, because I had a smart mouth and never knew when to keep it shut; and because I was angry, and humiliated, and I didn’t like being referred to as a whore. I wasn’t. Or, okay: I was, but he didn’t have to say it like that.
I wished that I was in the room with the careful, decisive man from yesterday. Not this condescending jerk.
That was life, though.
“If you’re a succubus, then at least I’ll die happy,” he said. “No hourly charge, hmm? That sounds like a precarious way to do business. How do you know that your… clients… won’t simply enjoy your services and skip the gratuity?”
“If they do, I won’t entertain them again,” I said. I was starting to get annoyed with the interrogation. Did he want to fuck, or did he just want to chat about my business practices?
“A mercenary approach,” he said. “I can appreciate that.” He leaned in, until his mouth was pressed against my ear, and when he spoke, I felt his lips brushing against my earlobe. “So, Sassy Belle. Are you ready to entertain me?”
3
Most of the time, when something important happened, I only realized it in hindsight. Pivotal moments tended to go unnoticed until I had enough time and space to look back and think: Oh. That was it. That was when it happened.
But sometimes, those moments grabbed me by the collar and flashed huge neon letters that read, HERE I AM! PAY ATTENTION!
Staring up at the man in the black suit, I realized that I was right smack in the middle of one of those moments.
I could turn him down and walk away, go back to the seraglio and dance on stage as usual, maybe entertain a client or two, and keep on living my familiar, routine life.
Or I could stay in that room with him, and find out what happened next.
Deciding was impossible. There were too many factors to consider, and I was afraid of making the wrong choice. I usually was. Paralyzed by indecision in the face of major life upheavals: basically par for the course, for me.
Then he said, “I’ll take that as a yes,” and it was out of my hands.
Growing up, whenever I couldn’t make a decision, my dad told me to flip a coin, and in the instant before it landed, I would know what I really wanted. The man in the suit bent his head toward me, eyes closing, and I knew, then, that by not speaking, I had already made my choice.
I wanted him to own me.
He very lightly pressed his mouth against mine, the barest of pressures, and then lifted his head again. He looked satisfied, like we had just signed a contract. Maybe we had.
I forced myself out of my stupor. “Ground rules,” I said.
He laughed without humor. “Of course. How unsurprising. What am I allowed to touch: each leg below the knee?”
; Was the reference to yesterday’s encounter meant to humiliate me? I couldn’t decipher the undercurrents of everything he said, and so I decided to ignore his subtle maybe-jabs. “You can touch whatever you want,” I said. “But I don’t touch you. That’s my main rule. Your pants stay zipped, and your clothes stay on.”
“Whore and Madonna in one,” he said. “Very well. What else?”
“If I say no, you stop.” I met his eyes, doing my best to convey exactly how much I wasn’t kidding around.
“And what else?” he asked.
“That’s all,” I said. “I’m not too high-maintenance.”
“Women always think that, and they’re always wrong,” he said. He removed his hand from my arm, and reached up to touch my wig, tugging gently at one of the curls. “Take this off.”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to. The costume helped to keep Sassy separate from the real me. Without the wig on, I was just myself, ordinary Sasha, and I didn’t let the clients touch Sasha. Not a single one of them had ever seen me without the wig.
But the man in the suit had already seen me without it. It was too late to protect Sasha from him.
And maybe I didn’t want to.
I reached up and carefully removed the wig, sliding out the pins I used to hold it in place, and tossed it on a nearby chair. It would crumple like that, fall out of shape, and maybe be ruined.
Whatever. I had a spare.
I untied my real hair from the tight knot I had wrapped it into, letting it settle around my shoulders in thick brown waves.
“Much better,” he said. He tucked one strand behind my ear. “You don’t make a particularly convincing blond.”
Nobody had ever complained, but I wasn’t about to say that. Rule 6: don’t talk to your clients about your other clients. Everyone should think he’s the only man in your life.
I didn’t want to talk to him about my clients, or about my hair. Time to change the subject. “I don’t know your name,” I said.
“Do you need to?” he asked. He moved his hands to my waist and began working apart the knot in the belt of my robe.