Two people were seated at a table near the stage, a man in an open-necked button-up shirt and a plump woman in a light sweater, both with drinks. The man called over his shoulder, "For God's sake, Lyle, can't you please lose the country shit?"
"But I like country," a guy's voice boomed from loudspeakers I couldn't see. "And you never let me play it when we're open."
The blonde bumped and thrusted as Shania sang that the best thing about being a woman was the prerogative to have a little fun. My kinda gal, that Shania. The dancer wasn't really feeling the music; she moved as if she was trying to find the groove but her feet wouldn't pay attention to the rhythm. Maybe it was the fuck-me shoes. With stilettos that high, if she exhaled too much she'd fall on her ass.
Hips swaying to the beat, the blonde pulled her shirt over her head, revealing a black lace bra barely containing two D-cups. Tossing the garment to the seated man, she flashed a nervous smile when he caught the shirt one-handed. A real pro, that guy.
A grin bloomed on my face. I was in a strip club! Well, no—the decor seemed a bit too upscale for a titty bar, despite the gauche mirror-as-wallpaper motif. More like a gentlemen's club. Flesh as fantasy. I inhaled deeply, imagining smoke and booze and sweat riding the air, hearing whoops of carnal desire over the thumping of the music. No wonder this place called to me. I might not have been a succubus any longer, but my sex radar still worked.
Shimmying to the song, the blonde slid her miniskirt down and stepped out of it. Sheer thigh-highs clung to her curvy legs, held in place by a black garter belt. She performed a slow turn—either in an attempt to move to the beat or to avoid a wipeout in five-inch heels—broadcasting the fact that her black undies were the barest scrap of a thong. Bending over, she wiggled her bare bottom as Shania insisted we forget she's a lady. Her head bobbing between her legs, she fumbled with her bra clasp. Finally unhooking it, she slid her bra off, then sank to the floor. Flipping onto her back, she wriggled like a hooked fish, her large mounds doing their best Jell-O impression as they shook back and forth.
"All right, honey," the woman at the table said. "That's fine."
The blonde sat up, swinging her legs beneath her bottom. She rose to her feet, using the pole for balance. Shielding her breasts with her hands, she licked her lips and waited, shivering either from the arctic temperature in the club or from nerves.
"Lyle," the man shouted, "turn that shit off!"
"Sure thing, Roman," Lyle said offstage, and the music cut off.
"Did I get the job?" The blonde's voice was breathless with hope.
"Of course, love. I'm sure when you get some real music on, your feet'll know what to do."
The older woman sighed, throwing the man a disgusted look. "You did fine, honey. You've got a lovely body, and that's what the customers want to see. If you get nervous before your set, knock back a drink for some liquid courage. You'll be terrific."
The blonde smiled her relief.
"But honey, no throwing your clothes to the customers. You'll never get them back. And I'm guessing you don't want to buy a new outfit for every show. First time dancing, right?"
Her breasts jiggled in time with her nodding head.
"You'll start on the early shift, then. Ease you into things. We open at five, but I'd want you here around four to go over the rules and fees and such like."
"Fees?" The dancer's face scrunched in puzzlement. Man, she was fabulous at playing a Dumb Blonde. I bit back the urge to applaud.
"Momma here'll explain how Belles works," the man said, tossing the shirt back to the sweet young thing. "We'll see you around four."
She gushed her thanks as she collected her clothing. Dressing quickly, she prattled about how thrilled she was, how this was so exciting, how she's always wanted to dance.
If what she just did on stage was dancing, then I needed a new definition for the word.
She carefully stepped down the stairs on the far left, a touch wobbly in her heels. Sauntering up to me, she gave me a thumbs-up sign. Up close, I saw she was blond by way of Clairol—platinum all around except by her roots, which threatened to sprout brunette. "Roman and Momma are really nice," she said, motioning to the two seated at the table.
I glanced over at the man and the woman, who were bent together, speaking softly. They were nice in the way that diamondbacks were pretty—you still didn't want to get too close. He looked like he was aiming for Mafioso Chic, while she was pushing the boundary on All-American Mom. I didn't take either at face value.
"I was so nervous!" the blonde confided. "But Momma let me have a shot of whiskey before I tried out. That helped, but I was still afraid they would think I couldn't dance. And I really need this job. I got lucky!"
This girl with her Marilyn Monroe hair wore naïveté like jewelry. I was willing to bet one of Caitlin's credit cards that dancing ability was the last thing an exotic dancer really needed. Low body fat and a ready smile were probably more valuable than high kicks. And I wondered whether Roman thought he'd be getting lucky with the new blood later tonight.
I said, "They wouldn't have hired you if they didn't like what they saw."
Gah. There I went again with the nice shtick. I didn't want to be nice. Bunnies were nice. I wanted to be less like Thumper and more like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
A fluttering smile played on the blonde's face. "Thanks. My name's Jennifer, but I'm going by Jemma here."
"I'm Jesse."
"Nice to meet you. I'd stay to cheer you on, but I've got to get an outfit for later. Good luck, Jesse!" With that, she tottered down the hall and out of sight.
"Hey, love," the man at the table called out, "you here to audition?"
It was a moment before I realized he was talking to me. "Audition?"
"Christ, not another one who doesn't speak English. You know, to try out? Dance?" He made a waving motion with his hand.
Ooh. Me, an exotic dancer? Why not? I needed a job. Caitlin's credit cards wouldn't last forever… especially not after all of the yummy purchases I'd made at Bloomingdale's. Grinning, I decided to give it a shot. "Right, audition. That's why I'm here."
"Well, come here, love. Let's take a look at you first."
I dropped my bags by the bar and walked over to the table. Momma was older, maybe in her fifties, with a ready smile and warm eyes. Roman, maybe thirty-five, had a lean face and jet black hair. The multitude of rings on his fingers tried to outshine the gold chain around his throat. His open-necked black shirt looked like silk. Style byway of pimp. He radiated money almost as much as the Coveter had. One of the managers, then; maybe the owner.
"You're a bit old for this, aren't you?" His gaze crawled over my body, leaving no curve unexplored. "What are you, thirty?"
Next to him, Momma rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Roman. Have some class."
"I'm so fucking classy, I could open a university. I'm just saying the gal's a bit past prime."
Creep. Never ask a female her age. Personally, I stopped counting after four thousand years, but that wasn't the point.
I planted a hand on my hip and rolled my shoulder back, thrusting my tits forward. Maybe I couldn't tap into my power, but thousands of years of seducing shmucks like this guy meant that I knew how to move my body. Putting the right amount of purr into my voice, I said, "I might be older than other dancers, but I'm also more experienced."
Roman swallowed, his eyes locked on mine. A bead of sweat glistened on his brow. Based on how the air-conditioning was set to about thirty degrees, I was sure his reaction wasn't from the temperature in the room. "What kind of experience you talking about, love?"
My eyes telegraphing all of the things I could do to him if I so chose, I blew him a kiss.
Momma chuckled, a throaty, rich sound. "Oh, you're good, honey. I love the attitude. And your eyes're lovely, and so's your hair. Can't tell about your figure with your clothes on, but I guess if you're willing to show it off, you're proud of what you've got. Can you dance?"
Turning
my smoky gaze her way, I smiled. "Try me."
Roman mopped his brow, then shouted, "Lyle! Put something on. And make sure it has a beat, God damn it."
"Go ahead, honey." Momma motioned to the stage. "Show us what you've got."
I sashayed to the stage and glided up the five stairs. Standing on the platform, the spotlights in my eyes, I couldn't see a blessed thing other than the stage itself. Probably done on purpose to keep dancers from getting nervous, seeing so many eyes on them. Me, I liked the attention.
From the speakers mounted above either side of the stage, drums tapped out a beat—bump, ba-bump, bump, ba-bump—followed by a guitar. Southern rock, maybe country gone the way of blues… Marc Broussard's "Home." A good tune. I let my body pick up the pulse, felt it move through my hips, my shoulders, my neck. Marc began to sing, his voice deep and lush with emotion. Feeling the passion in his voice caress me, I let his words carry me across the stage.
Stopping in front of Roman and Momma, I planted my feet wide and dropped my body down, then rolled up slowly, snaking my hands up my calves, my inner thighs, my belly, my breasts, then raised them over my head, all the while my hips working the beat. I felt Roman's eyes on me, locking onto my hands as they traveled the length of my body, boring through my clothing as if he wanted to eat me alive from the inside out.
That's right, sweetie. Feast on me.
Moving to the music, I pulled the pins from my hair, freeing my curls. My hands swam through my locks, gathering up my hair and letting it crash around my face. I smiled at my audience as Marc sang, feeling as sultry as his voice.
Next to Roman, Momma's head nodded, either to the beat or for my performance. I didn't care which it was—as long as she didn't grab a cane and yank me off the stage, she was encouraging me to go on. And I did, letting my body speak the language of foreplay, promising sweat and tangled sheets.
Marc sang, "Here we go," and clapping hands amplified the drumbeat, making my steps bigger, bolder. Crossing my arms in front of my stomach, I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head, then let it drop to the floor. Hips grinding to the music, I unclasped my bra in a fluid motion and swung it away. Freed, my breasts bounced as I danced, my nipples erect and my skin dotted with goosebumps. My amulet bobbed against my skin.
Maybe it was an icebox in the club, but I was feeling hotter than the Lake of Fire. There was no way I could strip off my jeans while dancing in low-heeled sandals, so I opted to keep them on. Instead I popped the button and unzipped my pants, then mimed peeling them off. Roman's face told me he easily pictured the real deal. He looked like he was thinking with Mister Happy instead of his brain.
Awesome.
Crying out to his audience or his God, Marc begged that someone take him home. I dropped to my knees and arched back, my body undulating to the beat. The sound reverberated along my flesh, teasing me, seducing me, and I opened wide as I let the music fuck me.
And just like sex, it was over too fast.
I held my final pose for a moment after the song ended, thrilled by how my blood pounded, how my breath had quickened. Then I lifted myself up until I was on my knees. Still smiling my Come Here Sailor smile, I planted one foot and rose gracefully, awaiting judgment.
Roman's eyes shone, a wolf contemplating the possibility of lamb chops. "When can you start, love?"
Feeling proud, I toted my shopping bags as I marched down the hallway of Hotel New York, searching for my room. I was looking forward to my new role as a dancer. Granted, Roman seemed to be a real ass, but I liked Momma. Maybe that's because she'd buttered me up as she'd given me the lowdown about working at Belles.
"You've got terrific sex appeal," she'd confided after my audition.
"It's my scented body wash," I said. "Vanilla. Does wonders for pheromones."
"Hygiene helps," she chuckled, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "But on you, it's more than a smell. You radiate sex. If you're half as confident with a live audience during your shows as you were for the audition, you'll actually score decent stage tips."
"I'm feeling confident. But I'll buy some new lingerie just in case. You can't help but feel sexy when you're wearing new lingerie. Maybe some new shoes."
"Shoes are wonderful. Go with a minimum of four inches. Five, if you can swing it—you're a tiny thing and can use the extra height. Break 'em in before you show up tonight. And don't forget to put grips on your heels. Stage floor's polished and can be a slippery bastard. Don't want to see you taking a spill."
I grinned, bemused by her concern. "You really are the house mom, aren't you?"
"It's what I'm paid for. Actually," she added, lowering her voice, "that's a lie. I work for tips. But my girls are good to me. And I'm good to them. Makeup, hair, costume repair—you name it, I'll do it. I even have spare G-strings, if you ever need one. But those are a dollar a pop. The other stuff is free."
"Good to know."
"You'll do well here, honey." Her eyes twinkled as if she had a marvelous secret. "I can tell. And you'll find that even though we're small, we believe in quality. And that's not just for the entertainment." She began ticking off points on her fingers. "We don't use funny money here, and we've got an ATM on the premises. The music's never so loud that you can't hear your customers talking to you. Our waitresses know better than to hustle drinks, and God forbid the bartenders screw around and water things down."
I had no idea what the "funny money" comment meant, but I just smiled like I understood and nodded my head. When in doubt, pretend you have a clue.
"Okay, let's discuss your role. You'll do a minimum of three shows a night, three songs per show. We don't require lap dances, but you'll probably want to work the floor. That and the VIP room's where the money is."
I nodded again, filing away her advice for later use.
"We're a medium-mileage place for lap dances. The customers know there's no touching your breasts or genitals, ever. You, on the other hand, can touch the customers however you want, just not their crotch. Feel free to grind, if that's your pleasure."
Hmm. Get them all hot and bothered, with no follow-through. Maybe the place should be called Blue Balls instead of Belles.
"Fees are pretty good, all things considered," Momma said. "Only a forty-five dollar stage fee, but it's more if you're late. Roman's a bit of a dick when it comes to that, so do yourself a favor and show up on time."
"Noted. Thanks."
"There's no cut for table dances, which usually go for twenty bucks for three minutes. If your men want privacy, there's the VIP lounge upstairs with couches, and the VIP room itself. Ten dollars of every thirty-dollar couch dance goes to the house. VIP room's two-fifty for a half hour, with fifty going to the house for a room rental fee. What you arrange for dances in the VIP room is up to you. No fixed salary, of course. All we have here are house dancers. Features are prima donnas, and they mess up the rotations and put the house girls in bad moods, so we don't book them."
My head was spinning from all the information. What was the difference between a table dance and a couch dance? And what were the prima donna features? Ah, screw it. I stretched my "Yes, I understand completely" grin from ear to ear. I'd figure everything out on the job.
"You'll do the last shift, nine to three. Long dresses required before ten. Short dresses from ten till midnight. Then it's lingerie and bikinis from twelve until closing."
Mental note: Go on shopping spree.
"Like I said before, we're about quality here. We don't want Neanderthal asshole customers, so we expect our staff and dancers to follow certain rules. No hustling drinks; wait for a customer to offer. No hustling private dances. You tell a guy you'll see him in the VIP room, you make sure you show up. Don't have one of the other dancers entertain the customer while you take your time, then show up and force the guy to tip you both. We ask our floor girls to follow tip-rail etiquette—no hitting up the men by the stage for dances when another dancer's performing her set."
Holy fuck in Heaven,
there were as many rules here as there were in the Pit.
"And last thing," she said as we got to the front door. "Tipouts. You want to treat the DJ and the bartender right. Don't go any less than ten, unless you want to dance to Enya on stage and get completely snorkered when your men buy you drinks. Some girls tip the doormen and VIP host. Me, I recommend it. A girl can't have too many friends."
I knew a hint when I heard one. I opened my wallet and produced a ten, handing it to Momma. "Thanks for all the info."
"See that?" she said, beaming proudly. "I knew you were a natural. You keep us happy here, and we'll keep you happy in return. So what should we call you, honey?"
I grinned. "Jezebel."
It had to be the rush of hormones. I would never have been that stupid if I were still a creature of the Abyss. Sure, I walked, talked, and smelled like a human. That didn't mean I should all but advertise what I really was. But I was high on life, so I trusted Caitlin's magic to keep me safe. I was Jezebel.
Pleased with all of my accomplishments so far, I opened up the door to room 217 and threw the shopping bags to the floor. I dropped my purse to the carpeted floor and kicked off my sandals. In my first day as a mortal, I had a body, a job, and a possible love interest. Not too shabby. Now all I needed was to find an apartment and a couple of pairs of killer shoes.
Humming the tune "Home" under my breath, I turned on the light as the door slowly swung shut behind me.
"Hello, Jezzie."
My heart stopped as the voice hit me, and the melody died in my throat.
Fuck.
Hell on Earth 1 - Hell's Belles Page 5