The Art of Sin

by Alexandrea Weis

  Al smiled, but the light of sorrow in her eyes gave Grady pause. “I’m not sure.” Turning off the engine, she quickly added, “You got any family?”

  He reached for his door. “A brother in Denver. We don’t talk much. His wife likes to keep him on a short leash.”

  “Yeah, marriage can be a real bitch,” Al proposed, opening her car door.

  Grady stood from the car and gazed across the roof at her. “You ever been married?”

  “No,” she told him, collecting a blue backpack from the rear seat. “I don’t want a husband. Never have.”

  “Then why the bad opinion of marriage?”

  She slung the backpack over her shoulder. “I’ve heard enough horror stories to know I don’t have any interest in writing my own.”

  He went around to the front of the car and waited for her. “Maybe it isn’t all bad. Might be nice to have someone to lean on.”

  She slowly sauntered up to him. “The only person you have to count on is you. To other people, you will eventually end up as a burden.”

  “That’s an awfully pessimistic attitude.” He considered her intense gray eyes, trying to fathom the reason for her cynicism. “I thought working in the medical field would give you a kinder opinion of the human race.”

  She pulled a set of keys from a pocket on the outside of her blue backpack. “No, working in the medical field gives you a realistic view of the human race.” She walked to the back door of the house. “Your world and mine aren’t so different, Grady. We get to see the ugly reality of life, not the fairy tale.”

  He came toward her, wearing an upbeat smile. “In my world, the fairy tale is what we sell. It’s the fantasy of having a dancer for the night. If it weren’t for the suspended disbelief of my customers, I would be out of a job.”

  Al opened the massive solid cypress door that filled the rear entrance. “They know what they’re getting, Grady: a little flash, a little bump and grind. Then, it’s time to go back home and crawl into bed with men they have learned to put up with for the sake of money, children, or because they are too afraid to make it in the world on their own.” She pushed the heavy door open.

  Before she could step inside, Grady stretched his thick arm across the doorway in front of her. “Who was he?”

  Her gray eyes angrily whirled around to him. “Who?”

  “The guy who made you so bitter about relationships.”

  Al pushed his arm out of the way, and then smiled seductively. “What makes you so sure it was a guy?”

  She glided in the doorway. Grady stood behind her with his mouth slightly ajar.

  “Well, that would explain a hell of a lot,” he muttered.

  Inside, a narrow hallway was paneled in dark oak with occasional framed drawings of old New Orleans decorating the walls. Sconces of brass shaped like lilies occasionally appeared from the rich wood, lighting their way. Eventually the corridor opened up, and to the right the staircase Grady had used when first entering the house rose up alongside them.

  Before they reached the beginning of the staircase, Al stepped up to a formidable man with short-cropped black hair, rugged features, and a very well-defined torso. Standing by a table just inside the front doors, he was taller than Grady and probably a good twenty pounds heavier. He was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and in his hands were an assortment of envelopes.

  “Hey, Doug.” Al sorted through a few envelopes. “Is this today’s mail?”

  Doug looked up and Grady noticed the blackness of his eyes. They had a sinister appearance that was compounded by his olive complexion, the thick black stubble on his chin, and his prominent carved cheekbones. His jaw was square and added a brooding quality to his face.

  “Hey, Little Al.” He handed her a few of the envelopes. “Yeah, I was looking for my check.”

  Al pointed to Grady. “Doug Larson, meet Grady Paulson, new tenant in C.”

  Doug shoved a stack of envelopes under his arm and stretched out his free hand to Grady. “Welcome to the dorm.”

  Grady shook his hand. “The dorm?”

  Al rolled her eyes, turning to Grady. “Doug’s way of making fun of my ground rules.”

  “Well, you do have a lot of them, Al.” Doug retrieved the envelopes from under his arm.

  “I don’t see you leaving,” Al quipped.

  Doug shrugged his broad shoulders. “Hey, I love it here.” He removed an envelope from the pile. “There,” he said, handing it to Al. “Light bill.”

  She took the envelope and added it to the stack in her hand. “The mail comes jointly, Grady. I don’t use mailboxes because people come and go so frequently. If you need anything shipped or mailed, just put your name and apartment number above the address.” She waved to a brass mail slot in the lower portion of one side of the double oak and glass doors. “First person to pick up the mail on the floor gets to sort it.”

  “Which is usually me,” Doug piped in. He handed Al another envelope. “Cable bill.”

  Al read the address on the envelope. “Grady’s dancing over at The Flesh Factory.”

  Grady eyed Al suspiciously. “I never told you I was dancing there.”

  “No, but Burt did.”

  Doug smiled at Grady. “Heard that’s going to be the new hot spot in town.”

  Al eased toward the stairs. “I’ll see you two later.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” Grady called to her.

  Al careened her head around. “Enjoy the strawberries,” she added, waving to the bag in his hand.

  The two men stood in silence, seemingly mesmerized by Al’s ass as she jogged up the steps.

  Letting out a low whistle, Doug returned his gaze to the envelopes in his hand. “Hell of a woman, huh?”

  “A very interesting woman,” Grady expounded.

  Doug snorted. “Don’t even think about it, man. That is one smart lady. She also never gets involved with her male tenants.”

  “Just her female ones, right?” Grady asserted with a grin.

  Doug let out a heartfelt roar of laughter. “You fell for that line, too.” He shook his head. “She tells every new guy that walks into the place that she’s into girls, but she’s not, trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  Doug placed the last of the envelopes in his hand on the walnut table by the door. “She’s been dating some older guy for a few years now. He’s got a key. I’ve seen him coming and going at odd hours.”

  “Then why give me that line about being interested in women?”

  Doug shrugged. “To put you off. She never gets involved with her tenants. One of her ground rules.”

  Grady should have trusted his instincts. From the moment he had peered into her eyes, he felt that stirring of interest from her. Now he was beginning to understand why he had sensed such animosity from her. She had been attracted to him, too, but never wanted to entertain the notion of breaking her steadfast rules.

  Grady fixed his eyes on the imposing man beside him. “Suzie told me you work at Pat O’Brien’s.”

  “Yeah. I started out dancing like you, but then the gigs dried-up and I got the job at Pat O’s. It’s steady, tips are great, and the female companionship … even better.” He studied Grady’s blue eyes and good looks. “How long have you been dancing?”

  “Started in college, quit when I graduated, but thanks to the economy, I got laid off. I had to go back to it four years ago.”

  “Damned economy is killing everyone. I’ve got a financial planner and a CPA working behind the bar with me. Both of them got laid off and turned to tending bar to pay the bills.”

  “Yeah, there are a lot of us out there, nowadays,” Grady agreed.

  Doug slapped the envelopes in his hands against his thigh. “How long you here for?”

  “Four months.”

  “When you get done at your club, you should stop by Pat O’s one night, and I’ll buy you a drink. I work the main bar from eight to two every night except Monday.”

  “Thanks, D
oug. I’ll do that.”

  “See you later.” Doug turned down the hall.

  As Grady climbed the steps, he watched the impressive figure of Doug Larson slip inside his apartment door. Directing his attention up the stairs, his mind once again returned to the image of Al’s slender hips sashaying suggestively up the steps. He grinned as he thought of her petite figure and wondered how it would feel having her beneath him in bed.

  He had always yearned to be with a tiny woman with slim hips and a supple body. The closest he had come was a nameless face he had encountered one night during a show in Phoenix. She had been a pretty brunette—barely a size two—but the allure of bedding the hapless fan was nothing in comparison to his sudden desire for Al. He did not know what intrigued him more, her sharp wit, her demure little girl looks, or her damned eyes. Whatever it was, Grady figured it would make for an interesting few months together.

  Once inside his austere living room, he tossed the bag of strawberries to the round coffee table and then plopped down on the brown sofa. He wistfully glanced around the room as an overbearing sense of sadness engulfed him.

  “Another town, another empty room,” he mumbled. “How many more years are you going to do this to yourself?”

  The silence in the room was a deafening reminder of his plight. Disgusted with his mood, he grabbed for the bag of strawberries and went to the kitchen. At least, he reasoned, there was something different in New Orleans for him to look forward to. He would be counting the hours until he saw the elusive Allison Wagner again. Only next time, he was going to be a little bolder and get her to commit to a cup of coffee or a drink.

  A wry smile crossed his lips as he thought of her reply.

  “She’ll hate me for asking, but she’ll go. Damn woman is just as interested in me as I am in her. She just doesn’t know it … yet.”

  Chapter 3

  The Flesh Factory was located on Bourbon and St. Ann Streets, in the heart of the French Quarter. Once Grady entered the establishment, the heavy cigarette smoke and smell of stale beer hit his nose. Sitting just inside the doorway was a burly bouncer with bored brown eyes, a face like a pit bull, and the body of an NFL defensive lineman.

  “Ladies only, man,” he said in a voice reminiscent of a ship’s foghorn.

  “I’m one of the new dancers. Grady Paulson.”

  The bouncer thumbed a thick red leather door to his right. “Matt Harrison is the manager. Go to the bar and ask for him. They’ll point him out for you.”

  As soon as Grady pulled the red leather door open, the thumping beat of dance music pounded against his body, and the high-pitched screams of a room filled with turned on, drunken women accosted his ears.

  After heading inside, it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the low light. Then, he saw the brightly lit stage located behind a row of round white columns. He stepped from the darkness behind the columns and looked across the room filled with candlelit tables and packed with women.

  On the stage, a well-cut dancer, wearing a lab coat and white G-string, was grinding against the hips of some unsuspecting doe from the audience. The woman was gushing and blushing, while the dancer went through his routine of rubbing everything he had against her to elicit that desired “Oh my God” response, or as the dancers affectionately called it … the orgasm. It was what every male dancer went for when he pulled a woman onto the stage.

  Grady watched the woman scream with exhilaration when the dancer rubbed his cock against her face. It was all part of the show. It also helped a performer connect with his audience. Grady always tried to spot the most innocent-looking woman in the crowd to bring on the stage when he went for his orgasm every night.

  Each dancer had a type they searched for in the pit—what the dancers in the business affectionately called the area before the stage where the women gathered. Some guys went for the refined women, others the excited ones, and the newer guys always went for the pretty ones, hoping to get lucky. With experience, Grady had learned that the prettiest girls in the audience were not the best to bring on stage. Time had taught him that finding a woman other women could relate to made a show a hell of a lot more successful.

  At the bar to his left, an array of beefy bartenders were standing around, wearing only skimpy silver shorts and silver bow ties. He stayed along the outskirts of the room, wanting not to be seen by the customers. Grady knew entering the pit, when women were in the throws of being entertained, was as good as handing yourself over to an out-of-control mob.

  One of the servers saw him waiting by the bar and came over. A bartender with black curly hair and black mustache inspected Grady’s thick arms, chest, and shoulders.

  “You looking for Matt?”

  “Grady Paulson. New dancer.”

  The bartender held out his hand. “I’m Nick Davies. Matt is backstage.” He motioned to a door at the end of the bar with the word Private embossed in gold across it. “Go through that door. It will take you to the backstage area.”

  Before Grady slipped behind the backstage door, he explored the faces of the women in the pit. There were all kinds gathered there. The old, young, pretty and not so pretty, but all the faces had the same frenzied look he had seen a million times from the stage. It had always reminded him of his days at the New York Stock Exchange. The screaming women waving their hands about resembled the buyers and sellers on the floor of the Stock Exchange. He thought it curious how the hunger for sex and money appeared exactly the same on the human face, making it hard sometimes to determine which one was more important.

  Behind the door, the thud of the dance music and screams of the women were not as pronounced. Grady welcomed the respite. The backstage area was compact, stuffed with scenery and props set against the back wall with ropes tied off to a pin rail. Above, a batten that housed several stage or trooper lights hung along with extra rigging for background scenery. A few men, scantily dressed in G-strings with oiled bodies and shiny silver boots, were standing about on the dusty hardwood floor drinking from white paper cups or talking on their cell phones.

  There was an almost bored look on many of the faces of the toned and buff men waiting backstage. All the chaos out front dramatically contrasted against the almost relaxed atmosphere behind the scenes.

  Not looking where he was going, Grady accidently ran into a well-built man apart from the group. He was wearing a snug gladiator costume and waving his wooden sword about.

  “Hey, watch it,” he grumbled at Grady.

  The haughty look in the man’s green eyes seem to challenge Grady. There was something about him that made Grady uncomfortable, as if he sensed the guy was trouble.

  “You lost, buddy?”

  Grady held up his hands. “Sorry. You know where I can find Matt Harrison?”

  The gladiator looked him over, his eyes filled with disdain. “Who’s asking?”

  Grady bit back his curt reply and simply smiled. No need to make enemies on the first day.

  “I’m Grady Paulson, the guest dancer.”

  The man’s uncanny eyes softened a bit. “Colin Caffranelli. I’m one of the headliners here.”

  Grady wanted to groan out loud. He hated headliners. In every club he had worked, from Philadelphia to Portland, the headliners always treated the travel dancers like shit. Just because they had a long-term gig in one club, they thought they were better than the guys who had to constantly move from club to club.

  “Do you know where can I find Matt?” Grady asked, anxious to get away from the rude man.

  Colin tilted his head to his right. “Matt’s at his desk.”

  Grady followed his eyes to a wooden desk located against a red-bricked wall in the corner of the backstage area.

  “Ah, thanks,” he said to Colin, before turning away.

  Sitting behind the desk, talking on a phone and waving his hand furiously about, was a scrawny man, dressed in a tailored gray suit, with a pockmarked, pasty face, gray-streaked, wiry black hair, and coal black eyes. He had a wide
mouth, and his crooked nose appeared as if it had been broken more than once.

  When he spotted Grady eyeing him from across the backstage area, he beckoned to him and instantly ended his call.

  “Are you Paulson?” he asked, in a craggily sounding smoker’s voice.

  Grady nodded and held out his hand. “Mr. Harrison?”

  “Matt,” Matt Harrison corrected. He stood and took Grady’s hand. “Burt said you were a real showstopper.” He waved down Grady’s body. “I can see he was right. The all-American, California look is big with these women.” He put his cell phone in his jacket pocket and nodded to a door to his left. “Let me show you the dressing rooms and we can get you settled.”

  Grady followed Matt as he led him to the plain wooden door set into the red-bricked wall. After stepping into a dimly lit, yellow-tiled hallway, Matt shut the door with a bang.

  “Damn, that’s better,” he said, taking in the almost peaceful stillness of the hallway. “I swear, I hear screaming women in my sleep.”

  “I know what you mean,” Grady concurred.

  “My wife told me I was an idiot for opening this place, but she stopped saying that after I bought her a new Mercedes last week.” Matt came to a wooden door to his right with an A sloppily painted on it. “Ed, who is out on stage right now, shares this with Colin. They’re assholes, so steer clear of them.

  Grady smirked. “Yeah, I just met Colin.”

  “Just keep your distance. He’s got a short fuse and a mean right hook.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Matt moved ahead to the other door, further down the hall. “I’m going to put you in the smaller dressing room with Lewis. He’s my other traveling dancer.”

  Grady followed him down the hall. “Burt told me six days a week, two shows a night.”

  “That’s right,” Matt affirmed. “Tips off the stage are yours. Whether you want to share that with the waitstaff, I leave up to the dancers … though most guys do.” He paused before the last door in the austere hallway. “I pay for your drinks, as long as it ain’t call brands or champagne.” Matt rolled his eyes. “I had a French guy here, a few weeks back, who insisted on champagne every night before a show. Needless to say, he didn’t last long. Damn champagne cost me more than his show brought in.” He pushed the door open.