As I entered the bank, a wave of emotion crashed over me. It took me a moment to identify the feeling as guilt. Bless me, I felt bad about taking the witch's money. Yesterday I ran one of her credit cards into the space station, but today I was uncomfortable about borrowing—okay, stealing—her hard-earned cash.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
You're becoming human, that tiny voice whispered. Not just in form—in feeling.
Crap. I didn't want to develop a case of morals. That could be very hazardous to my health. Not to mention to my sense of humor.
I approached an available teller, a sheepish grin on my face. "Excuse me, but I must be having a bad day. For the life of me, I can't remember my PIN."
The well-dressed representative sniffed. Based on the tight smile he wore, either he had hemorrhoids or his underwear was too tight. "If you fill out a withdrawal slip, you can access your account. Checking or savings?"
"Um, checking." He said it first, so it must be more common.
"Here's a blank slip. All you need to do is fill in your account information."
Staring at the instructions on the small piece of paper, I felt like I was thrown into the Tower of Babel. "Er, I'm not sure what my account number is."
The teller wrinkled his nose. "May I have your driver's license, please?"
I opened Caitlin's wallet and rooted out the plastic State ID. "Sorry, I don't drive."
"I see," the man said, the tone of voice clearly indicating he equated nondrivers with nose boogers. He pierced me with his gaze, scrutinizing my features and comparing them to those of the woman smiling on the identification card. "One moment, please."
Based on the clacking sounds, he must have typed something on a keyboard. "Miss Harris, could you please tell me your address?"
I rattled off Caitlin's home address, which I'd memorized from her State ID.
"Thank you. All I need now is your mother's maiden name, please."
Blinking, I said, "Excuse me?"
"Your mother's maiden name, please."
My mind drew a complete blank. "Um, Harris."
The teller sniffed. "Thank you. Your mother never changed her name when she married, I see."
I didn't know if I was more relieved over my sheer luck or annoyed at the little prick of a man for being so condescending. "Actually, my mother was brutally raped by a traveling gang of Satanic bikers. She died giving birth to me. The hospital, in its infinite wisdom, assigned me my mother's name."
The teller paled. "I," he said. "I.I.I had no idea."
"And now you do. So, if you have all the information you need, could you please take out two thousand dollars for me?"
"Certainly," he said, his voice a nervous wheeze. "One moment while I access your account."
Maybe I should become an actress.
After a few more clackety-clacks, the teller frowned. "Miss Harris, it seems that you closed your account."
I froze for a heartbeat, then said, "Excuse me?"
"It seems that sometime this morning, you closed both your checking and your savings accounts." He darted a glance at me. "You have no recollection of this?"
"I've had a very bad morning," I whispered, feeling all of the blood drain out of my face and pool in my toes.
Caitlin must have woken up and discovered that her purse was missing. Bless me, I thought I had at least another full day before she realized that she didn't have her wallet.
Crap.
No money… and if Caitlin closed her bank account, she probably also cancelled her credit cards.
Double crap.
I took back my State ID and fled the bank, hoping that Roman wouldn't fire me for being late. Yesterday, the job had been a lark. Today it transformed into a necessity.
Triple crap on toast. This day couldn't possibly get any worse.
Dashing into the club, I heard Hank Williams Junior singing that all his rowdy friends were coming over tonight. Some singers had all the luck. I wondered if Lyle was really a Good Ol' Boy, or if he'd always wanted to grow up to be a cowboy.
Peeking into the showroom, I waved gamely to the dark DJ booth. "Heya! Anyone home?"
Over Hank telling me he had a little whirlpool just made for ten, Lyle's voice boomed, "Hi, Jezebel! You're early!"
"Looking for Roman," I called out.
"Office. You think I'd be allowed to play this stuff if he was sitting in this room?"
Invisible Man had a point.
A minute later, I was seated in Roman's office, staring at Dickhead himself. No telltale smell of brimstone, no redness to his eyes; I was willing to bet that the man was demon-free. Excellent. Last thing I needed was for Daun to make an appearance. After what happened with Paul and then with the bank, I doubted I had the strength to fend off a serious attempt at seduction, even with the Shield Against Evil. My head throbbed just thinking about it.
Now I knew where "Not now, hon; I have a headache" came from.
Still doing the Johnny Cash thing, my boss was swathed from head to foot in black, looking like he was a walking advertisement for trendy mourners. He finished typing on his keyboard, shut his laptop, and looked at me as if I were his favorite dessert.
"Thanks for coming in early, love." He tapped his lips with a finger, staring at my face, then dropping his gaze lower down. "I see you're happy to see me."
"Sweetie, the temperature's set for North Pole standards. My nipples would be poking out even if you were the Queen of England."
"See, that's what I like about you, love. You've got attitude. And when you're on stage, you demand to be watched." He dropped his hand to his desk, where he began to tap, tap, tap. "You're not the prettiest girl here."
My eyes narrowed.
"And you're definitely the oldest girl here."
Only by a couple thousand years or so. But it was fucking insensitive of him to say so. "Boy, Roman, you're a real sweet talker."
"What I'm saying is that you've got all that against you. But still, you were on fire last night. What'd you walk away with, about four hundred?"
Five hundred twenty-seven. "About."
"That's fucking amazing. Most girls, until they find their rhythm, they're lucky to earn carfare home for the first two weeks. But you, you know how to move, how to smile, how to talk to the customers."
I shrugged. "I speak body language. It's sort of universal."
"You know it's more than flashing your tits and shaking your ass. It's knowing how to make the guy feel like he's the only one in the room, that you've singled him out because there's something about him that's appealing. Touchy-feely bullshit like that."
"I like touchy-feely bullshit."
"I bet you do, love." He leaned forward. "You mentioned yesterday that you were experienced. You been a dancer before?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
Hmm, how to explain that I used to target my prospective clients, seduce the pants off of them, and lead their souls to Hell? "Let's just say that I made house calls."
"Really." His eyebrow arched. "We are talking about the same thing, right? The adult entertainment industry?"
Entertaining for me, an industry for the Pit. "Right."
"You worked where, in a massage parlor?"
"More like an independent contractor."
"And you had no, you know, business manager?"
King Asmodai and Queen Lillith. "We sort of had a parting of the ways."
His eyes flashed dollar signs. "Maybe we can help each other out. You want to make more money?"
After the fiasco at the bank, want had nothing to do with it.
After tonight, I had to leave the hotel. And unless I planned on slumming on Roman's Naugahyde sofa, then I needed a place to live. That meant I needed a lot of cash, quick. "Yes."
"See, I knew you were a businesswoman. You use that special gift of yours, love. You keep dancing and making the men feel like they own the fucking world. You get more of them into the VIP room, you do what they want you to do. Wha
tever they want you to do. But it will cost them more than just what they pony up for the privacy and your company. You understand what I'm saying?"
This was definitely getting interesting. Unless I was grossly mistaken, Roman was giving me the go-ahead to screw the customers' brains out. "You want me to solicit them?"
"No! Oh, love, never that. That's illegal. But if they want maybe to have you show them some affection, just make sure they tip you appropriately. Say, fifty for a touch of such affection, a hundred for a special kiss. And, hypothetically speaking, if a customer wanted to get the full Jezebel experience, that's at least two hundred for thirty minutes. On top of the VIP room rate."
"Uh-huh."
He wagged a finger at me. "And make sure they tip you first. No trading favors for cash. That's prostitution. And we don't believe in that here at Belles."
"Then what do we believe?"
"In having customers get their money's worth. And me, too, of course. Whenever you have these special arrangements, my house fee goes up. Forty percent on all such transactions."
"That's a lot for just providing some privacy, no?"
"Privacy, clientele, security." He spread his hands. "You've been around, love. You know how the world works. You want to play nice, that's fine. But if you want to score big, you have to put out."
Let's see. The former succubus was being asked if she'd like to make money by sleeping with her customers. Hmm. Let's think.
Before I could say, "Hell yes," the small voice—which I was starting to suspect was either my conscience or the first sign of schizophrenia—whispered in my mind. Yesterday, the dancers had been pretty clear that Roman didn't tolerate, let alone encourage, prostitution at the club. So what was the change of heart?
Maybe he recognized someone who was an expert in the art of seduction. Maybe, as a mortal creature of Lust, he had his own sex sense when it came to other Seducers.
And maybe not, the voice whispered. Daun told you you're taking too many risks, and he was right. You've got Hell sniffing after you, even with your human shell and your shieldstone. How long do you think it'll take for word to get out that a dancer named Jezebel is fucking her customers? How long before your brethren start popping in, just to see who this mortal Jezebel is?
This fucking conscious thing sure knew how to rain on a parade. "I'll think about it."
"You do that, love. Go on, scoot. I'll see you during your shift." He tapped his lip again. "Understand that if I'm ever asked, this conversation never happened."
"Of course."
"Last thing. If you're looking for some, ah, business advice, you talk to Momma."
That caught me off guard. "She knows?"
"Love, it was her idea."
As I rose from the vinyl chair, I realized that the old saying was correct: You really can't judge a book by its cover. Maybe Roman was a what-you-see kind of guy, minus the occasional demonic possession. But Momma, the middle-aged, sweater-wearing madam actually being a madame blew my mind.
And that was free of charge.
Chapter 16
Belles
" Jez? You okay?"
"Huh?" Blinking, I realized I'd been staring at nothing as I started applying my lipstick, my hand frozen midstroke. "Oh. Sorry. Lost in thought."
Candy grinned, her white teeth brilliant in the frame of her dark lips. "Fuck lost, girl. You so far gone, you're in another dimension."
"Yeah, I guess." Sighing, I dropped the tube of lipstick on the cluttered vanity, then tried to do something to make my hair less Medusalike. Momma's baskets of hair accessories had already been pilfered so completely, a Coveter couldn't have done it better; to tame my mane, I was on my own. "Today's been a shitty day. Thought I had money, now I don't. Thought I had another job opportunity, now I'm not sure it's a good idea. But the thing I keep coming back to is this fight I got into with this guy."
"He pop you?"
"What?" At first, I thought she meant in the cherry sense, but then I realized she was talking about physical violence. "Oh, no. Well, he rolled me onto the floor. But that was to get me off of him."
Her chocolate-brown eyes measured me. "You pop him?"
"No. Tried to jump his bones."
"And?"
"White guys can't jump."
Letting out a belly laugh, Candy shook her head. "Girl, you're a dancer. Who gives a shit if one guy doesn't want you? You got a roomful of men who give you money because you tickle their fancy."
"Yeah, but I wanted to tickle his fancy." I stuffed my boobs into my bra, a red satin demicup that made my breasts defy gravity. After I tucked and arranged, I turned away from the mirror and faced Candy. "Am I ugly?"
"Shit." Candy rolled her eyes. "Jezebel, you listen to me, all right? You aren't ugly. If you were, Dickhead wouldn't have hired you to flash your tits on stage. Hear me?"
"Then why—"
"Jesus, girl, who cares why? He didn't want to. He had his reasons. Best thing you can do, go out there, dance your ass off, get a lot of tips. Break a lot of hearts."
"You think so?"
Chuffing laughter, she winked at me. "Jez, trust me. I know it 'cause I've been there. Move on. Lots of fishes in the sea."
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Heavy shadow and blue eyeliner hid the redness in my eyes; mascara pumped my lashes out almost as far as my nose. My hair was a lost cause, but whipping it around on stage would give it that windblown, stylish look. And my lips, while perhaps not as bee-stung as Angelina Jolie's, still had that blowjob glossy look to them.
Okay, so all was not lost.
Momma stuck her head in the dressing room. "Jezebel. Come on, hon. Your show's about to start."
Frowning (carefully, so as not to smudge the lipstick), I said, "Jemma's on now. She just started not even two minutes ago. Isn't she doing a full three-song set?"
"She's fading fast. Says she's got a cold or a flu bug, and it shows. She's barely moving her legs. Come on—Lyle said he's got the perfect opening tune for you."
"Get out there, Jez," Candy said with a wink. "Give some guys a couple wet dreams."
Blowing a kiss to Candy, I jiggled after the house mom.
Offstage, I peeked at Jemma's performance. Momma had been kind in her assessment—Jemma looked like the walking dead. And that's coming from someone who's seen her fair share of zombies. Jemma's blond hair was the most lively thing about her—her face was ashen, making her bright red lipstick all the more dramatic; her body swayed, sort of in time to Berlin's "Sex," looking like a slight breeze would topple her onto her ass. How she balanced in those five-inch heels, I had no idea. She wasn't trying to score any tips, even with a few hopefuls waiting by the tip-rail. Definitely ill, or maybe on drugs.
Momma looked over her shoulder at me. "I'll tell Lyle you're ready to go. If Jemma doesn't get the hint, I'll have Joey escort her offstage."
"Thanks, Momma."
She took off at a clip, and I marveled how a plump woman could move so lightly. Before I ducked back, I swept my gaze over the showroom. Not bad for a Thursday evening, I decided; not filled to capacity, but well over half-full. Maybe sixty men, all wanting some entertainment. A few groups of businessmen clustered around various tables, their ties loosened and their money flowing, judging from the number of beer steins on the tables. A group of stray cats hovered by the tip-rail, gazing at the swaying blonde, lust in their eyes and singles in their fingers. Yes, tonight would be a money night…
Hold the phone. At table three, toward the back, that wasn't… Paul?
No. No, no, no. He wasn't allowed to be here.
Lyle's disembodied voice sliced through the showroom. "Give it up for Jemma! Thank you, Jemma, we love you. Right. And everyone tip your hats to Joey, one of our doormen, who's a perfect gentleman." This last as Joey, who'd bobbed on stage, tucked Jemma's arm over his and quickly escorted her backstage.
I was so wrapped up in my own dark thoughts over Paul that I dismissed the tingle from the shieldstone as Jemma a
nd Joey brushed by me. It was nothing—just my body already humming with the electricity that came with being on stage, being the center of attention.
The center of Paul Fucking Hamilton's attention.
"And now," Lyle's voice boomed, "please welcome back to the stage, the one, the only, Jezebel!"
Electric guitar screamed out from the speakers, with drums pounding out a beat. The audience whistled in approval as the singer let out a "Woooooo!" I let the sound ride my body for a few drumbeats, and after the band called out "So good!" I shimmied on stage. Gene Loves Jezebel's "Desire" boomed out loud and hard, pulsing, passionate. Perfect song for me, indeed.
The spotlights dazzled my eyes, turning all the faces in the audience into specters, shadows. So Paul was there, eh? Well then, I'd put on a show that would make him regret not taking advantage of me in my moment of weakness. He wanted to be noble around a former being of the Abyss? Fine. Time for him to stew in his choice.
For the next ten minutes, I moved my body in ways that made women burn with envy and men wet their shorts. Hips grinding, tits bouncing, ass wiggling… I did it all, and I did it all damn well. I gripped the stripper pole and tilted back far enough to let my hair brush the stage as I swung round and round, a sexual whirling dervish. My floor work turned the act of miming sex into an art form. I high kicked and low dipped, I ran my hands over my body as if my fingers were discovering new planes and curves.
"Desire" melted into "Mysterious Ways," and I slowed my movements until my body was one with the new tempo. Rolling my hips, I ran my fingers through my curly hair, feeling Bono's voice tease my skin. I stripped off my red teddy and dropped it to the floor. As I danced in my bra and G-string, the humans called for me, whistling and waving their money by the tip-rail, begging to caress my flesh, even if it was only to stuff their dreams into my garter belt.
"Bad Touch" thundered from the speakers, and I unclasped my bra and swung it over my head, basking in the gaze of the audience. Even though I couldn't see their features, I sensed their open mouths, their hungry looks. I smiled at every man there, at every male who wanted nothing more than to have me fuck him until he exploded inside of me, and I grinned with shining lips as I imagined the taste of their souls.
Hell on Earth 1 - Hell's Belles Page 14