The Art of Sin

by Alexandrea Weis

  The Art

  of Sin

  Alexandrea Weis

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Alexandrea Weis May 3, 2015

  Weba Publishing May 3, 2015

  Licensing Notes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Cover: BookFabulous Designs

  Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

  Editor: Karen Hrdlicka

  Chapter 1

  The shadow of the imposing French Quarter mansion towered over the handsome stranger standing before its decorative black wrought iron gate. The home’s etched glass and dark oak front doors beckoned, while the weight of the man’s suitcase, garment bag, and duffle bag weighed him down. Struggling to balance his cumbersome luggage, he pressed an elbow into the buzzer next to the gate.

  While he waited for a response, the muscular blond turned his attention to the stately three-story home. The façade of large french windows complimented the wrought iron-wrapped second and third floor balconies, while a round, white cupola sat atop the steeply sloping roof. Painted a dark shade of yellow, with dark green shutters for protecting the front doors and windows, the structure had all the classic detail of a Creole townhouse. One pair of french windows on the second floor of the grand home was open, and a soft spring breeze was billowing a sheer pair of white curtains just inside.

  His brawny arms were growing weary with the heavy luggage, and after uttering an aggravated grunt, he smacked them down on the uneven sidewalk.

  “Son of a bitch. Where is everyone?”

  Standing back, he gazed up at the open french windows, and was considering calling out for assistance, when a sultry female voice came over the intercom speaker by the gate.

  “Yeah?”

  He pressed the reply button. “I’m Grady Paulson, the new tenant for apartment C. I’m supposed to be getting a key from—”

  “Oh, you’re the new guy,” the tantalizing voice interrupted. “I’m on my way down.”

  Minutes ticked by and his impatience grew. He was about to press the intercom button again when he saw the front doors of the home open.

  A well-endowed blonde appeared, wearing only a thigh-high, silky pink nightgown with a flimsy, short pink robe that highlighted all of her assets. She was the epitome of a centerfold pinup. When she came down the front steps and saw Grady standing on the sidewalk outside of the gate, she gave him a show-stopping smile.

  Grady’s sharp blue eyes greedily devoured her figure and he smiled back at her.

  I think I’m gonna like it here.

  As she made her way down the short walkway, Grady could feel his cock coming to life when he recognized the long, toned legs and slender hips of a dancer. However, when her face came into focus, her features held none of the youthful appeal of her figure, making Grady’s lustful intentions quickly fizzle out. If anything, she was more careworn than fresh and vibrant. The folds alongside her slender red mouth were deep, and her skin was more sallow than pale. Even her empty brown eyes seemed hard and suspicious, as if a lifetime of second-guessing the intentions of others had taken its toll.

  “I’m Suzie,” she said in a breathless, Marilyn Monroe-esque voice. “It’s Grady, right?”

  “Grady Paulson.”

  While admiring his chiseled cheekbones and square jaw, Suzie flashed a set of silver keys in her manicured hand. “I’m to show you to your place and give you the ground rules.”

  Grimacing, Grady ran his hand through his short-cropped blond hair. “Ground rules? You’re kidding?”

  Suzie reached the other side of the gate and turned the handle. “Wish I was, but Little Al’s kind of picky about noise, probably since she’s the only one with a day job around here, whereas all the rest of us work nights in the Quarter.” She pushed open the black gate. “She’s got a nice place here, so she likes to make sure it stays that way.”

  Grady lifted his luggage from the sidewalk. “Who’s Little Al?”

  Suzie held the gate open as he passed through to the walkway. “Allison Wagner … we all call her Little Al; tiny thing, but real smart. She owns the place.”

  With a glint of lust in her deep-set brown eyes, Suzie checked out Grady’s body beneath his tight blue T-shirt and baggy jeans. Licking her red-painted lips, she paid special attention to his thick arms, wide chest, and broad shoulders.

  “Are you gonna work in one of the clubs?”

  “Yes, The Flesh Factory.” He headed for the steps, struggling with the luggage. “I’ve got a four-month gig as a guest dancer.”

  “Heard that’s the new hot spot for the boys in town. My agent says a lot of clubs are gettin’ out of the girls and goin’ for the boy shows. More money, you know?”

  Grady climbed the steps. “Men’s strip shows are all the rage.” He made it to the porch and stood before the double doors. “I just drove in from a gig in Chicago.”

  Suzie shut the gate. “I danced there for about a year at The Monte Carlo Club. Real money town, Chicago.”

  Grady waited at the front doors and glanced back at Suzie. “Yeah, hated to leave, but my agent said New Orleans is an up and coming place for men to dance.”

  Suzie snorted as she came up the steps. “Honey, New Orleans is far from up and comin’ for anythin’. Real strange city this is, and I’ve been here damn near a year.”

  Grady arched a single blond eyebrow at her. “Strange how?”

  Suzie held the right side of the front doors open for him. “They’ve got more holidays and reasons to throw a party down here than any place I’ve ever been. Just be thankful you’re not dancin’ during Saints football season. Whole damn town shuts down for a Saints game.”

  Grady maneuvered his bags through the doors. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Suzie blatantly checking out his ass.

  He chuckled to himself. Women and their obsession with men’s butts; he could never understand it.

  Grady stepped inside a brightly lit entrance foyer, with a flight of dark oak stairs with a thick banister climbing to a second floor. In the ceiling was a plaster inlay medallion of rose vines with a beaded drop chandelier hanging from the center. To his right was a dark oak-paneled hallway, and beside the massive glass doors sat a walnut table engraved with intertwined vines and a collection of unopened mail atop it.

  Suzie motioned down the hallway. “Doug is in apartment A. He’s a bartender at Pat O’Brien’s.” She pointed to another door closer to them. “Lydia lives there. She dances at the Fleur De Lis on Bourbon.” Suzie started up the stairs. “You’ll be on the second floor along with me, Donna Maria, and Randy. Donna’s in apartment E—she dances with me at the Flying Aces. Randy is in F, and he dances in the show at Harrah’s Casino.”

  Keeping an eye on Suzie’s fine ass, Grady struggled to balance his luggage and duffel bag while he followed her up the steps.

  Halfway up the stairs, he asked, “What about the third floor?”

  “No tenants above the second floor. Al lives on the third floor.”

  “What about the cupola? Can we go up there?”

  “No one is allowed in the cupola.” Suzie took the last step to the second-floor landing and turned to him. “And don’t be botherin’ Al about it. She gets real testy if anyone starts askin’ questions about the cupola.”

  Grady made it up the last step. “Why?”

  Suzie turned from him and proceeded along a
landing that led to another open hallway. “All I know is, it’s one of her ground rules.”

  As Grady trudged along the hallway, fighting with his bags, he eyed paintings of riverboats and the New Orleans riverfront from the late 1800’s. Several of the pieces appeared to be very old, and he figured were probably worth quite a bit of money. An ornate mahogany bench with dark green velvet upholstery sat between two white cypress doors with the letters D and E on them.

  “What are the rest of these ground rules?” he inquired, taking in a beautiful round, orange stained glass window at the end of the hallway.

  “No loud music, no loud televisions.” Suzie came to another cypress door at the end of the hall with a brass C on it. “No obnoxious parties, no playin’ of loud musical instruments, no pets, no smokin’, no barbequin’ in the rooms or on the balconies.” She put her hand on the brass doorknob. “If you are goin’ to paint or redecorate your room, you have to check with Al first.” Suzie placed the key in a shiny brass lock. “Some devil-worshipper a few years back painted his rooms all black, and Al said she had a hell of a time repaintin’ that apartment. So, if you feel the urge to change your décor, let her know. Ain’t no animal sacrifice allowed in any of the rooms, neither. The devil-worshipper was plannin’ on killin’ a goat one night until Al found out and ran his ass out of the place.”

  Grady grinned. “No animal sacrifice. Got it.”

  Suzie turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. “You got a car?”

  He nodded to the front of the house. “Honda Accord. I parked it out front.”

  “There’s off street parkin’ available in the courtyard in back, but let Al know you’re parkin’ back there. Al gets all the cars she don’t know towed away.” Suzie stepped into the apartment. “The rent is due on the first of the month, and left under Al’s door. Everyone usually pays her cash, but she takes checks, too.”

  When Grady entered the apartment, and dropped his bags on the worn oak floor, he found himself in the center of a cozy living room. The furnishings were simple with only a round coffee table and dark brown upholstered sofa. Two long french windows facing Esplanade Avenue took up most of the adjacent wall, with a faux wood entertainment center placed between the windows. Atop the entertainment center was a modest flat screen television and cable box.

  Grady went to inspect the walk-in efficiency kitchen across from the entrance.

  “If you have anythin’ that needs to be fixed, leave Al a note under her door,” Suzie related behind him.

  He ran his fingers over the white Formica countertops, and then opened the white refrigerator.

  “There’s a convenience store two blocks down, on Decatur,” Suzie remarked when she saw him inspecting the empty refrigerator shelves. “If you want fresh fruits and veggies, there’s the French Market at the end of Esplanade.”

  Grady pulled out a few of the plain pine drawers and glimpsed the paltry flatware and utensils left inside. In the cabinets above the metal sink, he discovered a few mismatched dishes of various shapes and colors, two blue mugs, and a few old-fashioned glasses. He opened the white range oven and found two pots and one frying pan.

  “Most of us eat out around here. That’s one thing this city has got tons of … good places to eat.”

  “So I hear.” He turned on the cold-water tap and a steady stream of water flowed from the sink faucet.

  “The water, electricity, and gas are factored in with your rent,” Suzie informed him.

  Stepping out of the small kitchen, he made his way across the living room. “That’s very helpful.”

  “Al has been rentin’ to our kind for years. She knows none of us stay too long in one place and tries to make it easy for everyone. She even has washin’ machines and dryers for the tenants in the carriage house across the courtyard.”

  “I’m glad my agent was able to get me in here. Seems like a nice place.” Grady entered the adjoining room.

  The bedroom had a king-sized sleigh bed set in the center, already made up with a blue bedspread and two pillows. Next to the bed was a nightstand, and along the far wall, beside another tall french window, was a single chest of drawers. The room was painted a light powder blue with a single painting of the Mississippi River hanging above the head of the bed.

  He stuck his head in the very small bathroom done in the same powder blue. There was only room for a single sink and vanity, toilet, and a narrow shower stall. Three folded white towels, waiting on a rack next to the glass shower stall, caught his eye.

  “This Al seems to think of everything,” he commented, turning from the bathroom. “I’ll have to thank her when I run into her.”

  Suzie snickered from the doorway. “Good luck with that. Al may be all helpful with her tenants, but she’s never around much. She’s always workin’.”

  “What does she do?” Grady asked, coming back into the bedroom.

  Suzie furrowed her smooth brow. “What do you call those people that put you to sleep for operations?”

  Grady’s eyebrows went up. “An anesthesiologist?”

  “Well, aren’t you a smarty?” She regarded him anew, making sure to stick out her ample bosom. “No, not one of those. The kind that is a nurse and does that.”

  “You mean a nurse anesthetist.”

  Suzie pointed a slender red-manicured finger at him. “That’s the one. Al is one of those,” she bobbed her finger up and down at him, “… nurse thingies.”

  “How does a nurse anesthetist end up running an apartment house for dancers?”

  Suzie pouted her thick lips and shrugged. “Beats me.” Her eyes hungrily lingered over his physique. “You’re in real nice shape. How long you been strippin’?”

  “Four years.” Grady’s eyes gravitated toward Suzie’s plentiful bosom. He briefly pondered how her big tits would feel in his mouth. “Where are you headed next?”

  Her flirty grin fell. “I’ve been waitin’ for my agent to get me another job, but things are slow, you know?”

  Grady gave her a sympathetic smile. There was always plenty of work for good looking young women in the business, but for those who were approaching middle age, there were a lot fewer gigs. He guessed that plastic surgery, and a whole lot of Botox, was helping to keep Suzie attractive, but her days of high-paying shows were behind her. Washed up at thirty-five was unheard of in any other business, but in stripping it was the norm. Grady had often wondered about his own longevity in a profession where big muscles, chiseled features, and a tight ass were prized.

  “I’m sure you’ll get another job, real soon,” he declared, heading to the bedroom door.

  Suzie’s seductive smile was back and she rested her shoulder against the doorframe, blocking his way. “You think so?”

  Grady ogled her deep cleavage. He could feel his cock stirring, and just as visions of getting his hands on her firm tits started filling his head, his common sense kicked in.

  You came to New Orleans to dance, not fuck, Grady.

  “I should get settled in,” he muttered,

  Suzie eased up to him, grinning, and then pressed her hand into the crotch of his jeans. “Don’t tell me you bat for the other team?”

  Grady licked his lips, tempted, but determined to refuse her advances. He moved her hand away. “No, I just don’t like to get involved when I’m on tour. Makes things messy.”

  Suzie frowned and shimmied out of his way. “Shame. Could make our time here interestin’, you know?” She handed him the keys, letting her long nails gently graze his skin. “I’m in apartment D, just down the hall, when you change your mind.”

  She turned from the door, gave him one last come-hither glance over her shoulder—the same one he had seen a hundred times before on the stage—and went to the apartment door, accentuating the roll of her hips as she walked.

  After she had left, he leaned against the bedroom doorframe and blew out a frustrated sigh. “She’s the last thing you need in your life.”

  Beggars can’t be chooser
s, his pesky inner voice returned.

  Angrily pocketing his keys, Grady went to his luggage on the floor in the living room. Snatching up his suitcase, garment bag, and duffel bag, he marched into his bedroom and tossed them onto the bed. Peering down at the crammed bags, Grady clenched his fists. This was not what he had envisioned for himself at thirty-two.

  Unzipping his suitcase, his anger bubbled over. “Here you are still traveling the country, dancing for tips, and being hit on by strippers, with no hope of having a normal life with an honest woman.” He began to remove piles of T-shirts, socks, jeans, and briefs from his suitcase.

  After putting away his everyday clothes, he kicked the chest of drawers. Eyeing the garment bag on his bed, he silently chastised himself for his temper tantrum and then hastily unzipped the bag.

  He carefully removed his black tuxedo costume, with its crisp white shirt and black bow tie, from the bag. While wiping away the wrinkles that his black pants had acquired during the long drive from Chicago, he took it to the small closet next to his bathroom door.

  Returning to the garment bag, he pulled out a pair of black leather chaps, a black whip, and a black cowboy shirt with sparkling silver thread swirls. Next, he removed the silver-sequined cape, silver-satin pants, and bright, silver-sequined shirt. With a sick churning in his stomach, he inspected the sequins and noted their dingy appearance.

  The costumes were his livelihood, but now he looked on them as a painful reminder of the life he had been forced to return to. With a wistful grimace, he placed the shiny, sequined costume in his closet. Unzipping a side-pocket on the garment bag, he retrieved a selection of G-strings, including the silver-sequined one he hated because it always scratched his balls.

  When the last of his clothes and toiletries had been put away, his stomach rumbled. Eager to get something to eat, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the keys Suzie had given him. Tossing the keys in the air, he caught them firmly in his hand and then checked the stainless steel watch on his wrist.

  Heading for the front doors, he figured he had plenty of time to take a walk around before he had to check in at The Flesh Factory. After all, this was New Orleans, and he wanted to see some of the famous landmarks before he got caught up in work. Once his show schedule kicked in, he would have little time left for sightseeing. Grady suddenly yearned to be like all the other tourists that flocked to the Crescent City: to enjoy a few hours of sunshine before he became trapped behind the unrelenting curtain of night.