The Blue Room: Vol. 1

by Gow, Kailin

  I was here for one reason and one reason only. To find out what happened to Rita. To expose this place as the evil it was.

  I walked through the room, letting my fingertips trace the satin on the bed. I took a bath in the Jacuzzi and tried to watch the sweat, the sickness, the shame off my skin. But they'd got it sticking to me good. Even after an hour in the tub, scrubbing myself fervently, I couldn't stop smelling Terrence Blue on my skin.

  And now I'd dreamed about him.

  A knock comes at my door. Breakfast – this early? On my day off? I groan as I pull on a lilac silk dressing gown and go to the door.

  “Good morning, miss. Courtesies of Terrence Blue,” the maid holds out a silver platter. “He says to spend your day off wisely.” She looks up at me. “A car's waiting downstairs to take you to the airport.”

  I look down in shock at the platter. There it is, a first class ticket to Los Vegas.

  My mouth drops open.

  Does he know?

  No, he can't know. He thinks I'm like the other girls, that I want to go squander all my winnings in the slot machines, that I want to get drunk and party. Maybe he thinks a weekend in Vegas among all those high rollers will loosen me up, make me more willing to..

  I shake my head.

  He has no idea that what I want most in Vegas can't be found coming out of any slot machine.

  Before lunchtime, I'm taking a taxi up to the Sweet Ranch Hospice. I've taken off all my makeup, worn my most girlish dress.

  I'm here to see my mother.

  Her face lights up when she sees me. Even under the sickness, there's a woman there, a woman capable of such incredible joy when she's near the people she loves. Not even cancer can ravage that smile, that smile of pure love. Of real love – true love – not the sordid fake affection you buy and sell at the Blue Room. Seeing her, in this simple place – the only hospice we can afford for her – makes me feel ashamed at the luxury I've left behind.

  “Honey!” Her voice is still strong. “I've missed you so much.”

  “I've missed you too, Mom.”

  I wish I could be with her all the time. I wish I didn't have to leave.

  “How's your new job?”

  I flush. “It's good, I guess. They pay me pretty well.” I feel a sudden burst of pride when I'm able to leave a stack of bills on her table. “I want you to order anything you want, ok? Order delivery from the finest restaurant in town. All the dessert you want.”

  “The good life, huh?” Her laugh is a croak, and brings tears to my eyes. “Careful, Staci, you know I can't have too much fat. I might get a heart attack.”

  The humor is black, but it binds us together.

  “You found an apartment yet?”

  “Actually – the club puts the girls up. In a hotel they own.”

  My mother''s brow furrows. “That's pretty unusual, honey.”

  “It's normal for them. It's how they keep an eye on us – make sure we're working out, practicing, eating all our vegetables.”

  “They're not...” she sighs. “They're not making you do anything you want to do, are they?”

  “No, Mommy,” I place my hand against her cheek. “Don't worry. I'm totally in control.” Involuntarily, I summon Terrence to mind again. I shiver at the thought of him.

  “You be careful, hear?” She pulls me closer. “These places, some of them. They exist to make money off the backs of beautiful, naïve girls like you.”

  “I'm not naïve.”

  “You know that world – it isn't all glitz and glamour.”

  “I know, Mom.” I've known that since before I was born.

  “Any boys out there – to keep you on the straight and narrow?”

  “One...” I answer in spite of myself. “But I don't think straight and narrow is exactly his scene.”

  She looks worried again. “I don't like the sound of him.”

  “Don't worry,” I tell her, patting her hand. “I have my head screwed on straight.”

  “There are mistakes I don't want you making.”

  “Don't worry, Mom. You raised a responsible girl.” I try not to let the tears fall. “One who knows how to be careful.”

  Now my mother is smiling again. She's positively beaming.

  “I know, Staci. When I see you coming in here, looking the way you look – you're so beautiful. Not just outside, but inside. You're radiant. Healthy. Happy. I'm so proud of the way you've grown up. I know it hasn't always been easy for us, but you've never let the challenges you faced set you back. You know they'll only ever help you get stronger. You've seen so much, done so much. And I believe you could have the life I....”

  I never got to have.

  But she won't say that. Not for a second. She won't ever admit that having me ruined her life, ruined her dreams.

  “The truth is, though,” my mom smiles. “Despite everything. Despite the hardship, the difficulties, the motels...I wouldn't have had it any other way.”

  “That's crazy.” Of course she would have. She could have been a star, a diva, a millionaire. She could have had it all, made it big. Instead she made that one huge mistake.

  “Having you...” She beams up at me. “That was my dream. That was worth it. And I wouldn't trade you for all the stardom, all the fame and fortune, all the success in the world. I got my dream coming true. Every time I look at you, I'm reminded of that. But I want you to have it easier than I did, Staci. I want you to have everything. Love and success. A family and a career. And I worry that Hollywood, LA, that world – it's not the place to get that everything.”

  Maybe she'd rather me to go to law school, business school, med school. Something safe. Something that would put me on the track to success.

  But I've always known that I have to sing. I've always known that my future, my fate, is onstage. It's in the Atussi blood.

  “Promise me something,” she whispers, and I know whatever it is, whatever she wants, I'll make that promise to her.

  “Of course, Mom. Anything.”

  “If you find a man – make sure he's a good man. Don't settle for anything less. He can be poor, he can be shy, he can have too-big ears or be a little bit awkward at remembering your anniversary. But make sure he's a good man. One who treats you right. And if you can't find one that you like, promise me, honey, you'll take up with no man at all. Never take up with a man who isn't good – you promise me that?”

  I think of Terrence, again, and I'm almost ashamed of how far I almost let things go, how stupid I almost let him make me be. I think of him, and once more my thighs clench together involuntarily in memory of the pleasure he gave me. I remember screaming his name in my dreams and I blush.

  But I say nothing. I take my mother into my arms and kiss her, hold her, make her the promise that I’m also making to myself.

  “I promise, Mom.”

  I mean it.

  Chapter 6

  I don't have too long to stay at my mother's side. My return ticket was for 5:30, and I know I have to get a good night's sleep at the Blue Tower if I want to do a halfway decent job at the club tomorrow. Not that I'm sure whether or not I want to. Doing a good job means that a lot of men will be clamoring to spend the night with me – and I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet.

  Could I do it? If I had to. If it was the only way I could keep my cover. My virginity was just a concept, after all – sex was just an act, wasn't it? And Rita – I had to find out what happened to her. If she was even still alive. If she needed my help. If Rita was in danger somewhere, I'd have to do whatever it took to get her out safely. And if that meant making men like Angus happy, I guess that's what I'd have to do.

  The idea still fills me with revulsion – and anger. What is it about a woman's body that made the most powerful men – because the powerful were always men, aren't they? – lose all control like that? What is it about this skin, these bones, this collection of flesh that I live and breathe in, this part of myself, that men thinks belongs to them, just because they wan
t to do things to it? Don't I have more to offer them than my pound of flesh?

  I want to be sick. I don't doubt what Terrence says – that the Blue Room is one of the most powerful places in the world. It's where deals are made and broken – over bodies like mine. Over the backs of women like me. I retch the whole plane ride home, thinking about it.

  No, I decide. If I'm going to have sex, it's going to be for me, because I want to, because I love and trust someone. Not because some rich guy with a hard-on thinks I owe him one just for existing while male. My mother is right. I'm better off with no man at all than with a man who treats me like a piece of meat.

  But could I pretend? Just for a little while? Just if it meant getting Rita home safely?

  I try not to think about it. I tell myself I don't have to decide just now. That I'll be able to hold the wolves from the door just a little longer.

  By the time I get back to the Blue Tower, I'm exhausted, physically and emotionally. My day off hasn't exactly been a vacation. I make my way to the service entrance, and am surprised to find the maid I knew that morning looking at me in shock.

  “What are you doing here, miss?”

  “Going...home?” I venture.

  “Miss, the Blue Room girls take the guest entrance – like everyone else.”

  “But we're...service, aren't we?” I mean, we get the luxury, the amenities, the perks – but we're just working girls, after all.

  “Terrence is insistent. All our girls live like guests, here.”

  The public entrance. The shiny new lobby. Terrence wants us all out in public. Pretending to be famous actresses, movie stars, society ladies. Pretending like we're not glorified prostitutes. But that's all LA is, isn't it? Pretend.

  So I strut into the front lobby, my head held high, and pretend like I own the place.

  All the while, I wonder. Do they know? The other people here – the businessmen drinking in the lobby, the matrons with their tiny Maltese dogs sitting and waiting to check in – do they know who I really am? What I really do? How much I don't belong here with them?

  When I get to my room, I'm surprised to find that someone's been in. There's a whole bunch of files that weren't here before, all in beautifully monogrammed stationary. “Breakfast. Manners. Exercise. Language Skills. Facial. Waxing. Sauna.”

  Apparently, they want me to learn conversational Mandarin and Arabic, fluent French, art history, and the political history of the Balkans. It's a better education than I ever got at Briar Valley Community College, that's for sure.

  I'm almost excited.

  The menus, though, make my heart sink. Prescribed diets – all carrot sticks and celery – with precise times to eat and drink every day of the week. Eyebrow tweezing is scheduled, as are scrubs, waxing, and something unappetizingly referred to as a “mud rub”.

  This isn't going to be easy.

  On the top of the files is a handwritten note, in a style so elegant it looks like calligraphy.

  See me at once. 2nd Floor, Room 202.

  Josephine Walters (Mrs.).

  I begin to wonder about Josephine Walters (Mrs.). At once, I form a mental image of her: something like the formidable madam from Gone With the Wind and the stern matron of a girls' boarding school. I immediately know she's behind all of this – from the Mandarin to the tweezing. And, all of a sudden, I'm terrified.

  It's with great trepidation that I force my way down the hallway and into the elevator. Whoever this Josephine Walters (Mrs.) is, I have a feeling she isn't going to like me. Mandarin and Arabic, let alone a 24/7 beauty routine, aren't exactly my forte. I didn't exactly grow up going to finishing school. Sure, I'd have loved to learn the socio-political history of the Balkans, but I was a bit too busy flipping burgers to pay for our by-the-night motels to do more than scrawl out the answers to my school assignments.

  I'm not, in other words, high-class courtesan material.

  But the woman I see sitting behind the desk in the sparsely decorated, briskly efficient office in room 202 hardly looks like a high-class courtesan or a frightening matriarch. Small, wiry, with black hair pinned in a prim bun and square-rimmed black glasses sitting neatly on her pert little nose, Josephine Walter (Mrs.) looks like a businesswoman, not a madam.

  “Good evening, Miss Atussi.” She shakes my hand as briskly as if I were here on a job interview.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes dart to the desk, and I see she's got my file before her. “I've just been going over what I have on you. I see you have some college.”

  “An associate's degree...” I say. “I wanted to go to a four-year program, but money...”

  She's moved on. “Performance experience, that's good. Local plays. Amateur dramatics. Church choir.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “Service experience, you've got plenty of.”

  Flipping burgers, she means?

  “I worked for a dentist during college,” I said. Like somehow working for a dentist was more respectable than flipping burgers. Like somehow flipping burgers was something to be ashamed of – when I was applying to work as a prostitute.

  “So, you can work with people.”

  “I mostly did filing,” I say. “Calling in for records.”

  “I see. So fresh.” She gives me the once-over and I don't even have the foggiest idea what she's thinking. “So fresh and young. Stand up.”

  I stand up.

  “Walk.”

  I walk.

  “No, no, no.” Her voice is low but clear. “It's all wrong. You walk too fast – too much energy. Too bubbly. Like you're someone's kid sister.”

  “But I'm only...” I automatically protest.

  “I don't care how old you are. You're over eighteen, aren't you? You're a woman, not a girl. These are worldly men we cater to here. Men who want women who know how to feel comfortable and assured in their own skin. Who feel luxurious in their own bodies. You see the starlets, the supermodels, these men take on dates to events, premieres, launch parties? They may be young, but they've seen the world. They're self-assured, confident, and sophisticated beyond their years. Not jejune girls-next-door.”

  I almost flush.

  “Well if they've got starlets and models as girlfriends,” I can't stop myself from being sarcastic, “I don't see what they need us for, anyhow.”

  Josephine Walters (Mrs.) shakes her head. “I imagine a girl like you would know more about the psychology of the opposite sex than that.”

  I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment, so I force myself to keep my mouth shut. But I can't bite my tongue. “I've been busy,” I said. “Earning money. Supporting my mom. Doesn't give me a lot of time to date around.”

  “Then I'll summarize it for you in a nutshell. Clearly you like things done quickly. Men at the Blue Room –they want it here, and they want it all. They want the illusion. They may have famous and beautiful companions outside of the Blue Room, but that's nothing, nothing, to what they can have in here. Here is where they can let their wildest dreams, their most depraved fantasies, their most unorthodox desires come true. And the girls at the Blue Room will satisfy these desires. They will go wherever those men take them.”

  Is that where Rita went? Wherever some man took her?

  “So, you mean sex.” I know I should hold my tongue, but I can't. This place – this woman – are filling me with rage.

  “Please! So vulgar!” She raises her head at me. “This isn't Nevada. Prostitution is illegal here. We would never, ever formally encourage our girls to sleep with clients.”

  I nod.

  “What happens between you and our clients, romantically or otherwise, is between the two of you.”

  “I understand,” I say. I read between the lines. We want you to sleep with them, but if something goes wrong, then it's your problem, kid. You're on your own.

  Josephine Walters (Mrs.) smiles. “Men come to the Blue Room because we offer them the best. We offer them a place where th
ey can get their needs and desires met. In other words, this is the place where they can get what they need – and what they can't get anywhere else.” Her lips are like rubies. “Clear enough for you, Miss Atussi?”

  Chapter 7

  I'm sure what to expect next. My experience with Josephine Walter (Mrs.) leaves me shaken. The way she speaks about the things I would have to do – why, it was if she's talking about mergers and acquisitions: something formal and businesslike and utterly expected! I can hardly believe the meaning behind her words. Even after a few days in the world of the Blues, I'm utterly bewildered by how...normal it all seems. Having sex for money, in the world of the Blue Room, is a boring everyday occurrence.

  I wonder for a second if I'm doing the right thing. If there isn't some other way to find Rita, some better way, some way that doesn't require me to sacrifice my virginity in the process. But I know now that I'm Rita's last hope. The police never care about girls like Rita – strippers, hookers, whatever you want to call them. And if the clientele here at the Blue Room is as powerful as I'm starting to understand it is, then the last thing any policeman in this town wants to do is to piss them off, ask too many questions. That's just the way things are in this town. The rich get richer and the poor get – whatever it was Rita got.

  I've got to find out what happened to her. I've got to find out why.

  I sit alone in my room, catching my breath. I'm almost tempted to smoke a cigarette, but I'm pretty sure if I do Josephine Walters is going to descend on me like a hawk and give me a lecture about spoiling my teeth and skin. They treat us right, here, that's for sure. Like prized cows, fattened for the slaughter.

  From my suitcase I take out a little ribbon, a locket dangling on the end of it. Rita bought it for me a few weeks after she started working at the Blue Room.

  “You work so hard,” she said to me. “You're so beautiful. You deserve a little something for yourself.”

  I remember how I stared at it in amazement. That silver must have cost her a fortune – that's what I said. I remember telling her how I couldn't accept a gift like that – how I couldn't understand how a girl like Rita could make so much money, so fast.