Hell on Earth 1 - Hell's Belles

by Jackie Kessler

  Speaking of sex…

  Before I hopped into the shower, I padded over to my purse. Rummaging through it, I pulled out a folded slip of paper. I picked up the phone, entered the code to leave the internal hotel system, then punched in the numbers scrawled onto the hotel stationery. After two rings, a man's voice said, "Paul Hamilton."

  A smile in my voice, I said, "So you said to call you whenever I wanted."

  I could picture him blink before recognition set in. "Jesse?"

  "Heya, sweetie. Is this a good time?"

  Paul chuckled. Just hearing his laugh made my toes curl. "You bet. How's everything going?"

  "Good," I said, rolling onto my back. Teasing my left nipple with my fingers, I purred into the phone, "So I wanted to tell you about my new job."

  PART THREE

  DAUNUAN

  Chapter 10

  Belles

  Backstage at Belles, five minutes before my shift started: I was elbow-deep in lingerie, and the vanity tables were so littered with cosmetics and brushes and tissues that I could barely find the mirror. Momma's baskets of complimentary makeup and perfumes had been ransacked, leaving only a lonely lipstick and broken wicker. Free facial products apparently brought out the pack rat in dancers.

  The yellow paint on the walls looked like urine stains, and the stench of cabbage and peanut oil clung to the air, thanks to the Chinese restaurant next door. Even Momma's cinnamon incense couldn't mask the smell. Ling's brought more than culinary perfume to the dressing room; earlier, I'd seen a cockroach that would've scared the piss out of an alley cat scuttle into a crack in the wall. Dandy. I suspected that the black beans in some of Ling's recipes were more of the Periplaneta Americana variety.

  But I didn't care about roaches or how cramped the room was for seven women. In a few minutes, I'd be dancing on stage. Men would watch me, their pulses quickening, their sweat gleaming on their foreheads. As I moved, they'd follow my body with their eyes, wishing they had the balls to jump up on stage and touch me. They'd sit there in the dark, worshiping me with their lusty thoughts and hidden hands.

  So maybe I couldn't suck out their souls. I could still make them want me. A girl had to exercise her skills, after all.

  As I tucked my hair under a black fedora, one of my coworkers let out a curse that would've had marines take note.

  In a thick Jersey accent, another dancer asked, "What's the matter?" Whassamatta?

  Lorelei, a top-heavy, brain-dead beauty pouted so deeply that her lower lip touched her boobs. "My fucking hairspray just died!" Sure enough, half of her copper tresses were teased higher than a man's erection, and the other half was as limp as that same dick, two minutes after ejaculation. "Where's Momma when you need her?"

  "Jesus, Lori, what'd you use, a whole fucking can?" Candy rolled her eyes. I didn't know how she managed it; her lashes were so gunked up with mascara, it must've felt like her lids were toting bricks. "Know what that shit does to the ozone layer?"

  Lorelei's pout sank to her knees. "Candy, you don't even know where the o-fucking-zone layer is."

  "This from the girl who thinks 'ozone' is the place where you get an orgasm," Circe said. Circe, whose legs reached her chin, was the brains of the Belles dancers; she'd told me no less than three times that she was in law school, and dancing paid a hell of a lot better than waitressing. "At least here if the guys grope me," she'd said, sucking on a cigarette as if there were better drugs than nicotine buried within, "they usually stuff a fiver between my breasts. And then I get their asses thrown out for touching me."

  Trying to scare her hair to new heights with a comb, Lorelei muttered, "Christ, all I want is some fucking hairspray. You guys don't have to be so fucking mean about it. Where the fuck is Momma?"

  "Here, use mine." I tossed Lorelei my can of Rave. No, I wasn't being nice. I would've done anything to shut them up for a moment. I couldn't tell if the banter was friendly or not; some of these gals scored so deeply with their barbed words that the floor should have been tacky with their blood.

  Umm, pools of congealing blood. I sighed with longing. Bless me, I missed home.

  Candy grinned at me, her white teeth a startling contrast to her ebony skin. While Aurora, the Jersey babe, had a rich cafe au lait coloring to her skin, Candy was pure dark chocolate—thus her stage name. She said, "Careful, Jez. You get footprints all over your back, the men won't tip so much."

  "Much obliged, sweetie." I blew her a kiss, then returned my attention to the film-encrusted mirror.

  "Footprints they dig," Aurora said, shaking her head. "Scars they love. But don't you dare bruise. That makes you a damned leper. Can't figure that shit out." It was like a foreign language: Canned figgur dad shitout. Good thing demons (even the former kind) automatically spoke, read, and cursed in all known (and many forgotten) languages.

  "You trying to understand men?" Candy snorted, "please. You're in it for the money. Who gives a rat's ass why the men like what they do? As long as they pay, who cares?"

  "I'm going to barf," Jemma said. "I'm going to vomit all over my shoes."

  "Girl, you don't want to do that," Faith said as she fluffed her white-blond locks. She liked doing the angel-as-temptress thing; the feather wings attached to her white bustier were sort of a giveaway. "Those shoes look like they cost more than my rent."

  Exotic dancers—flexible and practical. Who'd have guessed?

  "I'm just so nervous," Jemma said, her face a picture of lament. Sitting on the threadbare sofa, she wrapped her arms around her legs and propped her chin on her knees. "I barely made it through my two sets so far. How do you guys do it?"

  Three of the strippers chuckled. "Some nights I strut out of here with almost a thousand in cash," Faith said. "And that's after tipouts and giving Dick his house fee."

  Dick, short for Dickhead, was Roman. Apparently, he thought with Mr. Happy even more than I'd credited him with.

  "Good hours, good money," Candy said, buckling the strap on her heels. "Makes anything bearable."

  "And there's nothing like knowing you got a roomful of guys just begging to get into your G-string," Circe added with a sly wink.

  "Damn straight," I said, grinning as I adjusted the rim of my hat. I was doing the spy versus spy thing for my first show—fedora, trench coat, and killer lingerie. I'd lose the hat and coat by the end of the first song, the teddy and peek-a-boo bra for the second, leaving me clad in my G-string, garters, nylons and heels for the last song. And my amulet, of course. Nothing would ever get me to remove that baby. The peridot nuzzled between my breasts, cold and hard.

  "So, you been in the business" (da bizniz) "awhile?" Aurora asked me, pulling up her thigh-high boots.

  "You could say that." I stood up and cleared away from the crowded space by the mirror, practiced a few steps in the new heels. "I'm more used to one-on-one attention."

  "Jez, you know Dick don't go for soliciting here, right?" Beneath layers of eye makeup, Candy met my gaze. "He'll show you the door, let it hit your ass on the way out."

  Lorelei snorted, but said nothing.

  "Guy asks you how much for a blowjob," Faith said, applying fuck-me-red lipstick to her mouth, "you tell him that all we do is dance."

  I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief. "Sweetie, I've never asked a man for money in my life." My collections had been a purely spiritual thing.

  "So we don't… um, you know?" Jemma looked like she was going to cry.

  "Hell no," Candy said, shaking her head. "You want to get busted for prostitution? Shit, the place is crawling with undercovers."

  Jemma looked like the Governor had just called to save her from the chair. "Okay, good. But you know, Roman sort of, um, made a pass at me. So I thought that he sort of, you know, was encouraging me to, um. You know."

  "Girl, Dickhead wants nothing more than to bang his dancers, have one draped over each arm," Faith said, shaking her platinum tresses.

  "Man thinks with his cock all the time," Lorelei said, chucking my can
of hairspray into a trash bin. "But you got to tell him no. Man's like a fucking tic. You let him into your pants once, you need a fucking crowbar to get him out."

  "So you guys haven't slept with him?" Jemma asked.

  The ladies shared knowing glances. "All I'll say 'bout that," said Candy, "is you don't ever want to accept a drink from Dick."

  "He likes 'em spaced out," Aurora said, as if that made any sense, even with the thick Jersey accent.

  "Dickhead," Circe muttered, and the ladies all agreed.

  The curtain between the dressing room and the dark hall that led to the stage parted, and Joey lumbered in, doing the Arnold Shwarzenegger thing from the original Terminator. One of the three Belles bouncers, he was all muscle and, according to Candy, all heart. A walking teddy bear, swore Aurora. If you asked me, he was a poster child for raunchy dreams. Yummy!

  "Momma's on the way with some JD," he boomed. "Then it's the Cabaret Bow."

  I asked Candy, "What's that?"

  "Stupid shit," she said. "We all get out there, do a bow as Lyle introduces us. Stage is too damn small for eight of us."

  "Ten," Faith said, dusting her cheekbones. "What with Jemma and Jezebel here."

  "Momma says it's advertising." Circe shrugged. "Whatever."

  "Joey," Lorelei said, her motor purring and her eyes screaming JUMP ME NOW, "can you get the clasp on my necklace?" She motioned to her throat, where she held a row of faux pearls in place with her other hand.

  Aurora, Circe, and Faith rolled their eyes. Candy said, "For fuck's sake, Lori, the man's gayer than Liberace."

  Joey shrugged, and his shoulders moved like boulders rolling downhill. "No problem, Lori."

  As Joey's thick fingers fumbled with the clasp around her long neck, Lorelei's face had that smug "drop dead" look, the kind worn by tigers about to munch on small children.

  Momma bustled into the room, holding a tray with a bunch of shot glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels. "Here we are, my bellerinas."

  Bellerinas? Groan.

  "A toast to today's latest additions to the lineup. Speaking of which, here's the order. We've already got Selina, Josie, Harmony, Aurora, Circe, and Jemma doing their shows." She paused, giving Jemma a critical eye. "Honey, you're looking a bit green. You've been doing fine on stage, but you really should talk to the nice men, get some lap dances."

  "I've never done that," Jemma admitted, looking miserable. "I'm scared I'll do it wrong."

  "Heaven knows the other girls'll thank you for limiting yourself to the stage, but still you have to think of yourself." Momma sighed as she poured out the whiskey. "Better take a few swigs, hon. Courage in a bottle. Does wonders."

  "That'd be great," Jemma whispered, her voice thick. Poor girl really was going to lose her lunch, wasn't she?

  "So. Selina, Josie, and Jemma clock out at eleven. Circe, Harmony, and Aurora are here until one. Everyone else is here until closing. So the lineup is Candy, Selina, Aurora, Josie, Jezebel, Jemma, Circe, Harmony, Faith, and Lorelei."

  Man, she was good with the names. Me, I would've had to write them on my palm or etch them on someone's forehead to remember the order. I noticed that Momma didn't offer a glass to Joey, and he didn't ask. Maybe bouncers stay away from booze while on the clock.

  "First shift dancers have only one more mandatory show, by the way. Jezebel and Jemma, remember to tell Lyle when you're heading up to the VIP area so he can skip your name until you're back. You don't want to miss your rotation. Roman'll charge you extra for the missed show."

  I nodded, turning the shot glass around in my hand. Rules, rules, rules. There were always rules. Jemma looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.

  Momma beamed at the seven of us. "Here's to lusty men."

  As the mortals say, Amen.

  "Between your shows," Momma said to me as Joey collected our used shot glasses, "work the crowd. Talk to the nice, lonely men. You remember the pricing?"

  I nodded, but she kept on talking.

  "Lap dance by the tables is up to you, but if you ask for more than twenty for a song, they're going to get their expectations up. Thirty gets them a private dance upstairs in the VIP lounge. Two-fifty for thirty in the VIP room. Roman gets his cut before you go home. Got it?"

  "You bet," I said.

  "Now go on out there, ladies. Say hi, give them a hint of what's coming. Make some money, and make Momma proud."

  Sheesh. She laid it on thicker than lubricating oil, didn't she?

  Candy grabbed one of my hands, and Lorelei took my other. "Quick little hustle on stage holding hands, a bow, that kind of thing," Candy said as the other dancers all grabbed hands. "Then we all scoot off, and my act starts."

  "You got a theme song?" I asked her, my heels clomping on the wooden floor as we seven trotted down the dimly lit hall.

  Grinning, she whispered, "Candy Girl."

  Of course.

  Suddenly we were on stage, the spotlights dazzling my eyes like paparazzi flashbulbs. I barely made out the three other dancers joining us from the floor—it looked like the Cabaret Bow wasn't optional. Amid a backbeat of drums blaring from speakers above the stage, I heard the appreciative claps and whistles of our audience. Inhaling, I breathed in cigarette smoke and booze-heavy air, peppered with the spice of sex. Ummmm.

  "Say hello to the lovely ladies of Belles!" Lyle's disembodied voice boomed out, and the men in the crowd let out a cheer. "Belles is proud to present Aurora! Candy! Circe! Faith! Harmony! Josie! Lorelei! Selina! And two new additions—please welcome Jemma and Jezebel!"

  The shouts filled my ears, echoed through my body as the audience applauded and whistled. Drunk on the sound, I pulled my hand away from Lorelei's and waved at the men I couldn't see, grinning madly as I did a little shimmy-bop and tipped my hat.

  Lorelei snatched my hand back. Just before we all pranced backstage, my eyes adjusted to the lighting, and I was able to make out some of the faces in the packed room. I locked gazes with Paul, who was about two rows back. Smiling, he dropped me a wink and saluted me with his glass.

  Paul! Oooh. My Cabin Boy returneth. Woot!

  Back in the hallway, Lorelei hissed at me, "That was okay, 'cause you're new. But don't you fucking upstage me again. Hear me?"

  Bitch. I was tempted to pull out my hat pin and puncture one of her silicon-inflated tits.

  "Jesus, Lori," Candy groaned, "give it up, will you?"

  "Go fuck yourself."

  The opening of "Candy Girl" rang out, threatening to liquefy my eardrums. Candy fixed a smile on her face and glared at Lorelei with cold, shark's eyes. Lyle announced her, and she headed toward the stage, bumping her hip against the buxom redhead's as she bopped past her. Lorelei snarled and looked like she could have happily plucked out each of Candy's mascara-crusted lashes with her teeth, but Faith put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear.

  Lorelei's nostrils flared, but she kept her mouth screwed shut. Looking pissier than a pit bull with a cavity, she flounced onto the showroom floor, ready to dole out the charm and back rubs.

  As Warren Zevon would've said, disorder in the house. But who gave an angel's feather about potential catfights between strippers? Paul was in the audience.

  A wave of heat crashed through my body, leaving my nipples hard and my panties wet in its wake.

  Life was damned good.

  After my first show of the night finished to the final chords of "Start Me Up" and wolf calls from my appreciative audience, I collected my garments and hustled backstage to throw on my bra and spandex evening gown, and to tuck my tips into my shoulder bag. Then I ambled onto the showroom floor, ready to make casual conversation and see if anyone wanted me to gyrate on their laps.

  A group of businessmen at tables six and eight hailed me, and after some flattering conversation on my part (all bullshit) and theirs (all true), I used my knee to spread one guy's legs and then wiggled along to Bon Jovi, running my body up and down the customer's. On stage, Lorelei was in the middle of h
er Big Hair set, doing the Hard Rock Whore thing. Frankly, I shook it up like bad medicine way, way better than she did. Then again, I wasn't toting around tits the size of watermelons, either.

  One of the guys got a tad too close for Joey's taste. As I plucked his fingers away from my boob, Joey grabbed the guy by his pinstriped shoulders and hauled him away from the table. Joey's buddy Ben—an iron man so full of muscles, I was amazed he could cross his arms in front of his chest—hovered by tables six and eight. His body language dared the businessmen to make another inappropriate move. None of them took him up on it. Wimps.

  Well, rich wimps. They each tipped me ten bucks for three minutes of dancing and not even shrugging out of my dress. Cha-ching! One of them even asked if we could go to the VIP room later that night. But of course, sweetie!

  After we arranged a time for our VIP rendezvous, I sidled up to Joey and Ben, giving them a peck on their cheeks. "My heroes."

  Ben blushed to the top of his bald pate, looking like a sun-burned thumb. But Joey just smiled and shrugged. "You're one of the family now, Jez. We won't let any guy touch you like you shouldn't be touched."

  Ooh, wasn't he the sweetest thing? I could see why Lorelei wanted to ride him like a bronco. And here I'd thought that sensitive men had gone out of fashion in the late 1990s. Silly me. Mental note: Show the love when it's time to tip out.

  Ambling around the main room, I stopped by table one. "Excuse me," I said to the hottie in the pocket-tee, "is this seat taken?"

  "Not at all." Paul grinned at me. "Have a seat."

  "I've got to say, I'm not used to dancing in four-inch heels." I laughed, but it came out more like a giggle. Eek. What was I, a schoolgirl with a crush?