The
Black
Chapel
by
Marilyn Cruise
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First edition January, 2014.
ISBN-13: 978-1494377915
ISBN-10:1494377918
Chapters
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
1
I never thought I’d take such a degrading job.
Well, degrading doesn’t even scratch the surface of how mortified this job makes me feel. Quite frankly, I’m disgusted with myself. And once I reveal my job, you probably will be too.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a regular saint, by any means; I can’t even remember the last time I went to church, or prayed to God. Not that I don’t believe in Him, it’s just I haven’t made the time for Him in my life. But nevertheless, I’m here. And it’s just, I never thought I’d end up here, at The Black Chapel, of all indecent places.
When I was twelve, I dreamt I would become a respectable prima ballerina and that I’d meet a really nice guy, get married in a church and have three or four kids. Instead, here I am, fresh out of college, having just lost my mother in a car accident, struggling to make ends meet, and supporting my sick dad.
When I first started this lowly job, I promised myself I’d only stay here until I found a better one, and told myself it wasn’t that bad. But if I’m truly honest with myself, I’m sickened, knowing if my mom had been alive and seen me working as a stripper, she’d be mortified.
The Black Chapel is really hopping tonight. The about twenty girls working here are yapping and laughing, and the air is inundated with hairspray and rich perfume.
I apply my make-up, heavy glitter around the eyes, black eyeliner and crimson red lipstick. My first outfit tonight is Foxy Little Red Riding Hood. I moan inwardly as I feel those familiar butterflies flurrying in my stomach, like they always do before I perform. Just don’t think about it, Scarlett. Just do it.
The good news is that my income has doubled since I arrived here six months ago, which is great. Though I can’t exactly jump for joy, because I’m still struggling with paying my parents’ mortgage, my mountains of student loans, my maxed-out credit cards, all the while saving up for my dad’s chemotherapy treatments. It’s going to take a lot more to dig myself out of these vacuums of debts than my current income.
“You’re up soon, Samantha, in twenty,” Laila yells in my direction. Samantha is my stage name. My real name is Scarlett. Laila’s the owner here, and has more balls than any man who’s ever set his foot into her strip club. She’s tall, voluptuous and feisty, and always has her black hair flatironed to perfection. “Don’t be late, you hear? Last time there was an awkward pause before you took the stage.” She peers over at me—a dagger-like stare.
“I just wanted them to be even more excited about my arrival,” I say cheekily, dabbing some more sparkly ruby-red lip-gloss onto my full lips.
Laila huffs. “Well, the gentlemen in here pay a hefty price to see your performance, and you don’t wanna disappoint any of them, you hear? Disappointment leads to loss of income for the club, and loss of income to the club leads to job loss.” Laila is a businesswoman first, and an entrepreneur second. If you follow her rules, you will be treated with respect and she’ll even go so far as to show you some kindness. But never too much, and always at arm’s length.
“Yes, Laila,” I say. I desperately need this job, so I follow all her rules to a T.
Laila purses her lips and flips the page on her clipboard. “After Scarlett, comes Anne.”
Anne, AKA Wonder Woman at the moment, nods. Anne is my best friend, and the one who got me the job in the first place. She’s worked here for three years, and doesn’t mind it one bit. Or at least that’s what she tells herself and everyone around her all the time.
I tie a red cape around my shoulders, put my red mask on and do one last check in the mirror. I look skinnier than before because I had to go to the doctor last month, having contracted bronchitis. We don’t receive any health insurance here at the Black Chapel since we’re considered Independent Contractors. And since I’m still trying to pay off all my college debt and my parents’ mortgage, I’m basically half a million dollars in debt. So this month instead of buying food, I’m paying down the ER bills, which are steep, and a hell of a lot too many.
I should have gone to medical school instead of majoring in Humanities. A degree in Humanities is a useless degree, I’ve learned, especially when it comes to finding a decent paying job.
“You look super sexy,” Anne says to me.
“Thanks,” I reply. “If only sexy equaled three billion dollars, I’d be happy.”
She laughs. “No, seriously, that gold glitter really makes you brown eyes pop.”
I’m not so certain, but I do think the fiery red against my black wavy hair looks pretty striking.
“Coming to church with me tomorrow?” Anne asks, her perfectly arched eyebrows rise.
She always asks if I’ll come to church with her on Saturday night, and of course I always refuse. It’s like our religious ritual.
“No, thanks, I’m good.” I’d feel too guilty sitting in a pew next to a real saint.
Anne is an enigma. She’s a stripper, but goes to church. She’s a huge supporter of animal rights, yet she loves to eat veal and lamb, and she refuses to spend money on lattes, says it’s wasteful, though she splurges on getting her nails manicured every single week. But she’s a dear friend, and I love her no matter how many quirks she has.
“Hey, isn’t Wonder Woman supposed to have dark hair?” I smirk.
“This Wonder Woman is blond. Besides, haven’t you heard that blonds have more fun?” She adjusts her Wonder Woman crown.
“I never heard that,” I say. “And here I am thinking that brunettes have all the fun.”
“Only in the real world, darling.” Anne kisses me on both cheeks and I’m off to the stage. I pass a few girls on their way back from performing. “Is it a good crowd tonight?”
“Oh, the best,” Gina says. “Wait until you see who’s out there.” She giggles.
I’m curious now who she means. I arrive in the wings and wait for my cue. The lights dim. It’s time for me to get into performance mode—my alter-self mode. I’d never dare perform if I couldn’t conceal my identity. Thankfully, I always wear a mask when performing, so I don’t have to be afraid someone will recognize me in here or on the streets. That would be humiliating.
“Please welcome, Little Hot Red Riding Hood,” Jim says over the speaker.
I sigh. He got my name wrong - again. Oh well. No one will notice, I’m sure.
Jim is Laila’s husband, and a very kind man. Not that Laila isn’t kind, it’s just she wears the pants and the tie in that relationship. But their relationship works, and we love them both dearly, well, at least from a distance.
I walk onto the black lacquer-looking stage. The lights are a dim red, and I get into my o
pening pose. Slowly, the lights come up and my music, Lady in Red, comes on. I perform my pre-choreographed moves and I take each article of clothing off very slowly. The crowd is indeed very energetic tonight, and I hear whistling and whooping through the packed audience. I do my least favorite, but most popular move: face the back curtain, straddle my legs wide, and lean forward.
The audience cheers for me. Of course they love it, but inside, I cringe. I just hate everything about this job, since it makes me feel like I’m an object to be had and not an individual with value.
Standing up straight, I pull my bra off, making sure I don’t rush. I’ve learned you need to draw the audience in and make them anticipate the final reveal. That’s where the magic is—make them go crazy as you take your own sweet time. I despise it.
At the end, I’m left standing in nothing but my red and black lacy thong, a couple of sparkly red dots covering my nipples, and my stiletto heels. Applause ensues, and I’m relieved to have the first of three numbers completed.
During the dance, I’ve managed to collect several twenty-dollar bills and I smile, knowing this will be a great night as far as money goes. Part of these bills will go to pay for my dad’s chemotherapy, part to pay my parents’ mortgage.
There’s only one new face in the crowd, a man, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties. Was that who Gina was talking about? He’s got cinnamon, messy hair, the intense blue eyes of Tom Cruise and the lips of Brad Pitt. Wow, he’s handsome! My stomach flutters. My stomach hasn’t fluttered since—at the moment I can’t even remember. He is really good-looking. Our eyes connect for a brief moment, and for a moment, it’s like time has suspended. But his gaze becomes so intense I’m unable to hold it and look away. I think I see him smiling out of the corner of my eye. Taking my bow, I get a few more ten and twenty dollar bills before I leave the stage.
Who is that guy? I wonder. I take another look at him from behind the wings, and my heart begins to hammer—fast. I really want to know who he is; there’s just something intriguing about him. But I shouldn’t waste time; I have another costume to get into. And besides, Laila wouldn’t be happy to find out that I asked about him, so I decide to forget about him. I make my way back to the dressing room.
When Anne is done performing, I’m already in my next outfit: Cat Woman. The audience always loves Cat Woman. The black shiny vinyl unitard is, of course, to my great displeasure, skintight. I pull my black mask on, secure my cat ears and then reapply some more ruby red lip-gloss.
Anne returns and smiles at me. “Great audience tonight, huh?” she says, halfway undressed already. “Did you see Michael Manning out there?” Her eyes are big and bright.
“Who?” I ask, almost ready to go out again.
“Michael Manning, the billionaire?” Anne’s jaw drops open. “Please tell me you’ve heard of him?”
I shake my head almost unnoticeably.
“Come on, you know, the handsome young real-estate guy who owns like tons of major hotels on the west coast?” Anne says. “The most eligible bachelor in all of Oregon?”
“Oh,” I say, not really sure I have heard of him. Should I have heard of him? Yes, the answer comes.
“Never mind. But he’d be a fine catch.” Anne sprays some more hairspray in her already stiff hair.
I shrug my shoulders and decide to just forget about the handsome Mr. Manning. I’ve had so much trouble with men that I don’t want any more of them. My last relationship ended when the guy I was dating beat me black and blue. I reported the incident to the police, and the guy was arrested and thrown into jail. I am so done with men!
I take the stage again, and of course, against my better judgment (which is basically missing at this stage in my life), I take one more look at Mr. Manning.
My heart starts racing. Why is my heart racing? It’s not like I’ve even spoken a single word to him. But there’s just something about him. He smiles at me across the room, and despite my reasonable self now yelling at me to stop this insanity, I go to get a closer look at this highly coveted Michael Manning.
Stepping down the stairs, I cat-walk between the crowded tables and chairs. Michael looks like he’s with a buddy and is sipping his beer. It’s really dim in here, but there’s enough light for me to see his sculpted body. Our eyes connect and now my heart starts pounding. What is it about him that makes my heart go wild? This has never happened at work before, me being attracted to a customer, me wanting to find out more about a guy who likes to frequent strip clubs. Ugh! I don’t really want to get to know a guy like this, do I? Yet something invisible, but oh so forceful, draws me toward him.
He’s even more handsome up close, now that I can actually see the details of his face. I break my own rules—not Laila’s—of not approaching a customer (they’re more like guidelines at this point) and sit down on his lap. This close to him, I feel his body heat and smell his cologne. Oh, he smells so good, it’s intoxicating.
I feel myself getting hot all over, and I quickly stand up, because I’m delightfully outraged that I’m so turned on by him. He has my emotions running wild. I lay my hands across his firm chest and he laughs, his eyes dancing, yet intense and wanting. I so want to kiss him, but I don’t know how he’ll react, and it’s too rash a move even for me, even at this moment. So instead, I turn his head to the side and lick his cheek, just like Cat Woman would. His skin feels rough under my tongue; it doesn’t feel like he’s shaved today.
His laugh thunders through my body and I’m excited my actions appear to have pleased him.
My music is almost over, so I head back toward the stage. Even though I can’t see him, I feel Mr. Manning’s eyes on me. I blush. How is he having this effect on me? I’m completely in a trance, mesmerized by this mysterious billionaire. Walking up the stairs, my heartbeat still pounding steadily, I hear a voice behind me.
“Hey, beautiful!”
I turn around and see Mr. Manning standing there with a crisp hundred-dollar bill in his hand. I move toward him, snatch the bill out of his hand, and stuff it down into my cleavage. I feign confidence, but in reality, I’m so nervous and so spellbound by this god-like man that I’ve forgotten to breathe.
When he smiles, his dimples come out and my heart rate goes into overdrive. I pull him up the stairs with me and whisper into his ear, “Stay put.” As I finish my dance, his blue eyes study me the entire time. I feel quite awkward, because the dance has become erotic to me. It’s something that has never happened while I perform and it’s something I should at all costs try to avoid.
I really want to go over and dance with Michael, have his hands on my body so he can feel me move, but I can’t afford to cross that professional boundary. That would even be a bit too much for Laila even, especially since guests are not welcome on stage. And besides, I know I would regret it too much later once I come to my senses. Finally my music ends and I walk Mr. Manning back to his seat.
“Thank you,” I say in my disguised stage-voice and then head backstage as fast as I can.
“Wow,” Anne says when I reach the wing. She’s up next, but she has definitely seen what just transpired out there. “That was so hot. We’ll talk when I’m done,” she says, and she’s off.
Making my way through the crowded, costume-stuffed hallway, my heart is still in my throat. What just happened? I feel off kilter because I promised myself when I started this lifestyle that I’d never, ever, ever consider any man who frequented this facility, or any facility like this. Well, he’s not been here frequent, my alter-self refutes. I scowl at myself. “Don’t even think about it, Scarlett,” I say out loud.
“About what?” Laila says, looking up from her clipboard, her dark eyes slicing through me.
“Oh, nothing, I uh—” I say, playing innocent.
Her espresso eyes squint and she arches her right eyebrow.
“I have to go change,” I say, waving my hands. I have to forget about what just happened. Besides, it’s not really anything to forget about anyway, I tel
l myself, because nothing really did happen. Did it?
I enter the dressing room, and everyone is frantically getting ready for the grand finale. Boas are flying, hairspray has fogged up the room and it smells of about thirty different kinds of perfume mingled with sweat.
My last costume is Naughty School Girl. I get changed in less than a minute, dry my lipstick off with a tissue and apply a pale pink one instead. Then I put my heavy black-rimmed glasses on and do my hair up in pigtails. Cute.
Anne comes in. “I saw what happened out there,” she says, getting undressed. “So are you going to tell me about it?”
I frown, not really wanting to talk about it. “It was nothing,” I say as coolly as I can, but I feel my legs getting weak just thinking about Mr. Manning’s eyes on me.
Anne gives me that look. “Come on. Everyone saw it. But I promise I won’t tell a soul,” she whispers.
“He liked my Cat Woman outfit, I suppose.” I shrug my shoulders.
Anne puts her hands on her hips, and glares at me. “It was more than that. I’d be surprised if he didn’t wait for you after the show and…”
“Then I’d have to talk with Laila, because it’s highly frowned upon here at the Black Chapel. And I don’t want to break any rules,” I say.
“Ha! I’m sure Laila would make an exception for Michael Manning,” Anne says loudly.
“What type of an exception?” Laila says, impatiently. She’s snuck up on us.
There’s an awkward pause. Anne and I both look at her and then at each other and then continue to finish getting ready.
“Nothing,” Anne says. She’s a great liar when she has to be.
Me—not so much. I glance nervously up at Laila.
Her eyes are serious. “No private interaction with our patrons, you understand?” Laila looks from me to Anne and back to me again.
“Yes, understood,” we say in unison.
I take the stage one last time, and I immediately notice that Mr. Manning’s chair is empty. I’m somewhat disappointed, but breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I can fully perform my dance now without the distraction of his intense eyes, and without the distraction of me being turned on.
The Black Chapel Page 1