Eden

by Georgia Le Carre

  He comes toward me and holds it out. I take it cautiously. It is a square box, five inches by five. It is wrapped in dark gray paper with a broad red ribbon. It screams expensive.

  I undo the ribbon and tear the paper open. Inside a transparent plastic box is a spray of white orchids. The stem is immersed in a small plastic tube of water and attached to a comb-clip.

  ‘For your hair,’ he says softly. ‘Wear it tomorrow night… For me.’

  White flowers. I remember the poem: Somewhere there’s beauty. Somewhere there’s freedom. I nod slowly, my eyes locked on his. Hypnotized by what I see in them. ‘So you’re coming to the club tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Wait for me?’

  I register a surge of uncontrollable joy inside my body. It makes my ears burn. I smile—happy, wistful.

  ‘And one more thing—Miss Mornington didn’t stay the night.’

  SIX

  It is a slow night at the club and I worry about how awkward it will be to see Shane there, but as it turns out he does not come in. At two Melanie and I take a cab back to the apartment.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I say walking to the fridge. ‘Do you want something?’

  ‘Get the ice cream out,’ she says flinging herself on the sofa.

  ‘Chocolate or vanilla?’

  ‘Both.’

  I bring two bowls of ice cream out into the living room and Melanie is taking crumpled, damp notes out of her bra.

  ‘Whoa,’ I say, kicking off my shoes and curling up on the couch opposite her. ‘I thought we all have to use ECs.’

  ‘Yeah, we do,’ she admits. ‘But some guys want me to have cash. They know I’d lose twenty percent during cash out and they’d rather I had the whole thing.’

  ‘Does Brianna know?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So how much money do you make in a night then?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘About a thousand on a bad night and three to five on a good night.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Three to five?’

  ‘Why? How much do you make?’ She looks at me with narrowed assessing eyes.

  ‘After paying the house fee and other costs about three hundred quid. Once I made seven hundred.’

  ‘No fucking way,’ she erupts, clearly as shocked as I was that she was taking in up to five thousand in one night.

  ‘Why is that so shocking?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Damn, girl, if I looked like you I’d be making five thousand a shift. That’s what those blonde bimbos take home every fucking night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really, and you know what else? If you don’t start earning at least four figures soon Brianna is going to ask you in for a little chat, and if your income doesn’t improve real quick after that you’ll be politely asked to leave.’

  ‘Shit,’ I curse softly. I can’t afford that to happen.

  ‘What did you think? You’re taking up the place of a girl that could be earning thousands for the club. We are the sweets in the sweetshop.’

  I stare at her stupidly.

  ‘Look, it’s not hard. You just have to apply yourself. Do you know what Jolene takes home?’

  ‘Jolene?’ I frown and shake my head. Jolene is the least good-looking girl at the club. She even has buck teeth. When I met her in the changing rooms it surprised me that Brianna had taken her on.

  ‘That girl takes six to seven thousand. Sometimes I’ve heard she even makes ten when her regulars come.’

  My jaw drops open. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘A night?’

  ‘Yeah. You should see when she cashes out at the end of her shift. It’s like someone hitting jackpot at the fruit machine in a Vegas casino.’

  ‘What does she do to get them to give her all that money then?’

  ‘To start with she doesn’t act all high and mighty like you do.’

  I open my mouth to deny it, but Melanie holds out a warning hand. ‘I’ve seen you. You will be sitting down with a guy and your body language will be screaming, I don’t want to be here. I mean which man is going to pay a girl who clearly tells him she finds him unattractive.’

  ‘But they are unattractive..’

  ‘True, but,’ she licks her spoon, ‘why did you become a dancer?’

  ‘To make money.’

  ‘You’re not going to make any with your attitude. You know what Jolene does? She goes and sits next to them and whispers in their ears, “I’m here to be anything you want me to be. I can be the dirtiest, most forbidden whore of your fantasies. Tell me what you want me to be? Talk dirty with me.” And guess what? They never get to touch her, she talks dirty, they empty their wallets, and they come back for more. Now that is a clever dancer. She’ll even invite other girls into the VIP room to dance for her customer and pay them for it.’

  The whole idea puts me off. I feel decidedly glum. ‘I don’t get why they just don’t all go to a knocking shop and buy a prostitute.’

  ‘Aha!’ she cries triumphantly. ‘That is why plain Jolene is taking home ten thousand and super gorgeous you is bringing in three hundred. Because you don’t understand the job. The “no touching” rule means there is no longer any pressure for the man to sexually perform. It’s all about his fantasies. For a few hundred quid he can be that guy of his dreams with beautiful girls hanging on his every word, laughing at his most inane jokes.’

  She leans back and takes off her boots. There are more sweaty notes stuck to her calves. As she peels them off and straightens them out on the table I see that some of them have phone numbers scribbled on them.

  ‘And here is something else you should understand. Dancing can be incredibly empowering and a great turn-on. Why do you think all the girls wear tampons even when it’s not their period?’

  My eyes widen.

  She just nods sagely. ‘When your garter starts to bulge with twenties and fifties you know you’re not just hot, you’re bloody good at what you do. I always make them sit with their legs spread wide so I can see them get a hard-on. This gives me total control of the situation. I will then roll my body inches away from their faces so they feel the heat coming off me.’

  She puts her feet up on the coffee table and wriggles her toes.

  ‘And I’ll purposely let my hair trail their cheeks or let out a long sigh close to their ears. Usually they will start breathing heavily, which means I’ve done a good job, but sometimes they will become so fixated, so paralyzed they actually forget to take a breath and have to take a sudden sharp intake, and that is when I know. They are ready for the VIP room.’

  Melanie looks at me as though seducing strange men is the simplest thing in the world to accomplish.

  ‘And if you know a guy is really satisfied with your service you can even ask for a tip.’

  Wow! It had not even occurred to me to do such a thing. ‘Won’t they feel robbed after they’ve paid all that money for the dance?’

  ‘Don’t ask, don’t get.’ She grins. ‘These men know the game. They know what I do and where they are and that means if they spend my time it has to be in exchange for money. Exactly as they would pay their lawyer, by the hour. I’m not there for fun. I’m there to make money.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she adds, ‘the more wealthy and powerful the man the more cheeky and forthright you can be with them. They’ll think you’re hilarious and that’s another tip there for you. It’s a hustle only if they feel they’ve been harassed. I take pride in never letting them feel they’ve blown away good money.’

  I think of her dangling from the top of the pole and doing splits mid-air to David Guetta’s electronic music and a voice screaming, ‘Let me see your fucking hands,’ as she starts tumbling down the pole. And when the male voice asks again, ‘A party without me?’ the lights come on and the club fills with lines from the song, ‘I Might Be Anyone’. But she is not anyone. She is as beautiful as Lupita Ny in that iconic Lancôme advert. After her performances the club always erupts into applause.r />
  ‘I know you are very good at what you do,’ I tell her sincerely.

  ‘Damn right. I’m not just showing them a pair of tits. I’m giving them a performance that will blow their heads off. And if a customer treats me with contempt—some of them come in there just to do that, a stripper and a black stripper at that, I must be despicable—I’ll use his money the next day to buy me something that will make me feel good, and that will be my revenge.’

  Melanie yawns hugely.

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ I say gratefully. She is absolutely right. I’d better get off my high horse or forget dancing altogether. And since leaving Eden is not an option I’m going to have to do things very differently from now on.

  SEVEN

  The club has a carnival air to it. Men throwing money into the air as if it is confetti, champagne flowing like it is free, gorgeous girls dressed for showtime, and then the cabaret starts, and ladyboys from Thailand flutter onto the stage. They are bold, highly talented, and gregarious.

  I stand backstage and hear the DJ announce my name. As I walk up to the door I remember Ann, my instructor, saying, When you are on stage wave a wand and become a tigress. Make eye contact with the punters, hold their gazes for a long time. Make them think you want them. Make them squirm in their seats. Make them feel your power, so that when you have finished your routine and are walking toward them they know it’s time to reach for their wallets.

  At the doorway of the stage I hold onto the doorframe and strike a pose while I survey the darkened audience of men. The lights are hot and bright in my eyes, but I see him immediately. He stands out like a sore thumb, the only man who does not look like he is looking for a good time. His pose is relaxed, his knees spread apart, one hand on a thigh, another loosely curved around a glass of amber liquid, but he stares directly at me with intense, unsmiling, furious eyes.

  What the fuck is he angry about?

  I freeze and almost lose my self-confidence. But then a blast of candy white smoke from the stage bathes me. A blue strobe light cuts me in half. Then the music comes on and my heart starts to pound with sexual energy, the kind that Melanie uses in her performances, and I think, fuck you, Jake Eden. I haven’t done anything wrong.

  Totally ignoring him I strut onto the stage. There are whistles and catcalls from a stag party that are seated right at the edge of the stage. There are about twelve of them and I am glad for them. They straighten my spine. I will give them the best performance of my life. I’ll take their money. My time has to be paid for.

  I concentrate on the music. I let it fill every cell in my body as I dance around the pole and rub myself sinuously on it. Flicking my hair back, I grip the pole hard and perfectly execute the flying around the pole move that landed me on my knees at the audition. The men from the stag party seem impressed judging from the whistles.

  I search for the bridegroom. Early thirties, red hair, pleasant face and has an L sign pinned to his shirt. I will dance for him. It’s hard to explain, but it’s so much easier to dance for someone you don’t fancy. You look into their eyes and you pretend. So I do. And the more I stare at him the more rowdy and boisterous his mates become. I am clearly a success.

  It is almost time to lose my bikini bra. I climb the pole. Slowly, seductively. They hoot their encouragement. I focus totally on the bridegroom—his eyes are on stalks. Gripping the pole with my thighs I lean right back so I am looking at the crowd while I am upside down. Hanging in that position I let my breath out in a hard puff. The bra pops open and flies off. The boys go crazy.

  Far in the shadows another man is watching, calling. Helplessly my eyes flash across the crowded room, the crush of bodies, and clash with his. All the sounds and smells and chaos recede. He is as still as a statue. For a moment I am suspended on the pole and caught in his world. In this world I am in trouble. I have done something very wrong. Somehow I have betrayed Jake Eden.

  Then gravity asserts itself and I pull my body upwards, and slide down the pole. I bend to pick up my bra from the stage floor and the bridegroom is standing at the edge of the stage holding a fifty. We look at each other. There is hunger in his eyes, the kind of hunger that Melanie talked about. And I feel sorry for his bride. Then I pull my stocking out and he slips my very first cash tip into it.

  I look again at him—we are less than ships that pass in the night, and yet we are more.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, blowing him a kiss as I exit the stage. I go backstage and get back into the deep red cheongsam with the slit that goes up to my crotch. I touch the orchid Jake gave me and it is exactly where I pinned it. With a deep breath I walk out onto the floor. I know exactly what I will say to Jake.

  A waitress sidles up to me. ‘Table twenty-three has just left a black Amex behind the bar and thinks you’re hot,’ she whispers.

  I look at her little name tag, and say, ‘Thanks, Toni. I’ll be sure to remember you later.’

  ‘No problem,’ she says with a wink and moves on.

  For a second I think about not going to table twenty-three and then I think: No, I’m working. I need this job. Toni has taken the trouble to send a customer my way and she’ll be expecting her cut. I’ll make it real quick.

  I walk up to table twenty-three. He is wearing a smile that could light up a Christmas tree.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘You were great on stage,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you. Would you like a dance?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure, I’ll buy a private dance off you,’ he says, another bulb on the Christmas tree lighting up.

  Shit, what bad timing! My first big spender and I’m in a horrible hurry. From across the club I can feel Jake’s animosity searing my back. I realize now I shouldn’t have come. I should have passed table twenty-three onto another dancer.

  Jake

  What the fuck! I cannot believe my fucking eyes. Not only did I have to sit through a roomful of horny men staring at her nearly naked body—now the fat bastard is standing up and following her. She’s going to go into one of those VIP rooms and give him a private dance. Frustration claws at my heart. I grit my teeth. I have never wanted to be shackled to anyone, no matter how enticing the chains. But damn her. I cannot even bear the thought of any other man in a room with her, looking at her.

  I want her to belong to me. And only me.

  From the corner of my eyes I see Brianna walking toward me. She is smiling. I don’t smile back. The thoughts in my head seethe so bitter and dark that I lose control. I stand up and begin to stride toward Lily and her punter. I see Brianna’s experienced eye sizing up the situation. She stops smiling and picks up her speed—not so she would make a scene, though.

  I grab Lily’s hand. Her first reaction is interesting. It is one of pure repulsion. Then her gaze collides with mine and the expression is replaced by a mixture of joy, lust, and anger.

  The man turns to look at me. ‘Excuse me,’ he says pompously, as if it is I who has trod on his property. I’ve collected money from men like him before. Without their fancy lawyers they are a sniveling, pathetic mess. They’d give up their mothers to avoid a scratch.

  Fortunately for him, Brianna reaches us at that instant. She is so smooth I have to admire her anew.

  ‘Mr. Walsh,’ she coos. ‘Jewel has a personal emergency that she has to take care of, but I have found two beauties to dance for you instead. Obviously, your champagne is on the house.’

  Mr. Walsh accepts with ill grace. He has no idea how close he was to being floored. Brianna leads him away quickly.

  Hiding the black lust in my heart I look down at the brazen little hussy coldly. ‘I believe this dance is mine.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she says sarcastically.

  I am still furious, but her scent drifts over me like a sweet cloud and lust writhes hot in my blood as my cock hardens too fast and painfully.

  Lily

  The walls and ceiling of the VIP room are mirrored. It is empty except for a small, round, low table, a large upholstered red and gi
lt chair, and another much smaller black one that the dancers use as a prop. He kicks the door shut, his heel slamming into the wood, and stands there, tall, proud. Pure alpha. Great! I am alone in the VIP room with one pissed off gangster.

  In a silky, dangerous voice, ‘Did you enjoy that?’

  Nervously, ‘What?’

  ‘Taunting me.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You looked right into my eyes. You knew I was waiting for you.’

  I lick my lips. ‘This is my job.’

  He walks over to the red chair and lowers himself into it. He takes two blue chips out of his jacket and puts them on the table. Blue chips are a hundred pounds each. Then he looks up at me.

  In a voice like the crack of a whiplash, ‘Now strip.’

  I feel my cheeks start to burn. Doing a dance for someone that you fancy like crazy is totally different. The adrenaline rush is undeniable. It surges inside me. I finally understand why the other girls wear tampons all the time.

  Without taking my eyes off him I unzip my dress and let it slip down my body and pool around my ankles. His eyes rush down my body greedily, hungrily. From the speakers Snoop Dogg is singing, ‘Tell me, baby, are you wet? I just want to get you wet.’

  Just perfect.

  Jake

  She flicks her head flirtatiously like an animal in heat and deliberately presents her buttocks to me. I see her sex clothed in satin and puffed out between her spread thighs. I know exactly what she is doing. She is showing me the sweet wet heat at the center of her. The urge to reach out and touch. Fuck!

  She moves her hips from side to side, slowly, teasing, provoking. Then she pushes back until she is inches away from my face. I can smell the heady scent of her arousal. It has hidden itself within the noisy smells of cheap perfume, sweat, sex, and seedy thoughts. It flowers in my face.

  Like a wolf scenting the air, I inhale in quick bursts. She pulls back and my nose moves forward, following the intoxicating trail of her scent. Her hands skim lightly over her ribs and linger over the tops of her breasts, the skin satiny. She cups her breasts. I stare at her utterly riveted. She hooks one leg over the chair’s back and in one deft, smooth movement, sits down on the edge of the seat.