by Nicole Marsh
I roused her the best I could and together we stumbled the remaining block to my apartment, with her long-limbed, shoeless form leaning heavily on my much smaller frame. After I got her inside, I placed her gently onto my couch. Leaving her for a few minutes, I ran into my bathroom to start a warm bath. The woman appeared to be barely hanging on to consciousness, she was mumbling incoherent words that I wasn’t even sure were English. I thought the warm water may help to reheat her shivering body and hopefully bring her back into awareness a bit.
Once the bath was filled with warm water, I moved the woman into the bathroom and removed her nightgown. She fought me a bit at first, her limbs flailing at me weakly. I whispered a few words to her to try to calm her down and let her know that she was safe. The sound of my voice, or my words, seemed to kill her fight. Once her nightgown was off, I started checking her body, trying to find if she had any injuries before I helped her into the water. I quickly found the source of her illness, discovering track marks up and down the inside of both arms.
I cleaned her up the best I could in her semi-conscious state and put her into a set of my pajamas. Once she was free of all the dirt and grime that had coated her face and body, I could tell that this girl was very pretty and quite young. Possibly even a year or two younger than my own twenty years, with vibrant blonde hair and pale skin.
I stayed up all night with her in my living room, forcing her to eat crackers and drink water. I took the next day off of work and sat with the girl as she continued through the first stages of withdrawal. I attempted to keep her as hydrated and comfortable as possible, during this first stage. I also researched places that I could bring this woman I found in the street. Somewhere better equipped to help her with the rest of her recovery.
After calling around to a few places, I found a facility that agreed to take her in without any payment. I kept her in my apartment for the rest of the day, waiting until she seemed a bit more lucid to tell her what was going to happen next. Once she was more conscious, I was able to find out more information about her, including her first name, Katia and her age, nineteen.
I dropped Katia off at the rehab facility that I had called, deciding to visit her every Monday, my day off from the bar, for the eight weeks that she was there. At first the visits were awkward and weird. Katia asked me a few times, why I continued to come to see her when I didn’t even know her.
As I said before, I can read people. Katia was like me, she didn’t have anyone in her corner. Our friendship began slow, but built steadily and soon we became the people in each other’s corner.
Following her release from the treatment center, Katia moved onto my couch. It was the only thing I could offer to help her continue with her recovery and get back on her feet. She got a job at a local bar, and started to help pay for some of the utilities and groceries in the apartment. With her help, money wasn’t as tight for me. One night I was talking to Katia about my dreams to own my own business. She listened and told me that I could make it happen, that she believed in me.
Katia helped to encourage me, even on days where opening my own business felt so hopelessly far away. Without her encouragement, I don’t know if I would’ve been able to open Vice as quickly as I was able to.
I know Katia still hasn’t disclosed all of the details of her past to me. To this day I don’t know Katia’s true last name or why she was on the road that night. But honestly, those things have always been trivial, because of what I do know.
Katia has proven herself to be trustworthy thousands of time and she’s also a fighter, trying to create a better life for herself. From what she has disclosed about her past, I’ve been able to piece together a few parts of her story. It’s my understanding that she didn’t start doing drugs by choice.
Her choice or not, she fought to get clean after I found her on the road and has stayed clean since then. She’s a damn hard worker, and I am thankful every day that I found her that night, four years ago.
Once I reach Katia, I give her a quick hug as a greeting, before relaying the message I recently received from Sira. I hand over the note, telling her the message it contains at the same time, “Trent just requested you in the Bottom Floor tonight. Can you switch whatever you need to and be ready for him downstairs in an hour?”
Katia nods her head and tells me she’ll sort everything out, then struts off, her mile long legs extended further by her heels. She starts barking orders to her various Main Bar Escorts and pulls her dress over her head as she walks towards the back of the room to find an outfit more appropriate for her Patron of the night.
Knowing the ladies don’t need my help with their outfits and Katia is capable of making any adjustments needed to keep the front running smoothly, I head out of the dressing room to chat with some of our security guards that entered the building with the girls.
Our security team is essentially invisible during the evening. It’s one of my main goals to keep the Club secure, but not menacing with an abundant show of security. If you sought security out, looking in the corners of the room, or in the empty spots between the draperies, you would be able to spot one or two of the guards easily. When specifically looking for them, they’re visible observing and ensuring the safety of the girls, but it’s not likely that they would be spotted otherwise. The security team doesn’t interfere with the Club business or the Patrons, unless absolutely necessary.
An overly protective security team would be an easy way to lose business in a Gentlemen’s Club. The ability for Patrons to come into the Club and fulfill fantasies is our main mission, one the entire team is working towards. Having a staff that’s loyal and does their job well is one of the most important parts of my business. It’s unlikely that any of us imagined this career growing up, but if done right, it’s lucrative.
Breaking loyalty here essentially ensures you will be blacklisted from both my Club, and any other bar or club that I associate with in Chicago. This covers plenty of territory and no one wants to lose their employability in the city. During the past year, we’ve only had one incident that involved a girl trying to leak a story of the bar to the press. Luckily we have Patrons in high places and the story was squashed before it gained any traction. Other than that incident, the loyalty of the staff is solid and almost every night goes off without a hitch.
A gong echoes through the Club, our signal for ten minutes til opening. The sound sets the whole team into motion, our security team gets into place, and our Escorts that man the front door go to their table. Our bartenders grab any missing supplies for their bar and continue their prep work for the night. Majority of the Escorts will wait in the dressing room, despite being dressed and ready. The girls slowly trickle out as guests arrive, only a few Escorts start out on the floor of each zone, these few head into their respective zones at the sound of the gong.
Tonight, I head to the foyer with a couple of the girls at the gong, ready to greet Patrons as they arrive. I don’t always start my night in the foyer, I like to rotate my presence to experience each part of the Club at different times of the night. I’m constantly seeking opportunities to give our Patrons an even better experience.
Once I arrive in the foyer, I unlock the front door. We only have to wait a few seconds before the night begins. We have a few early Patrons that arrive at opening, ready to enjoy the ambience Vice offers. They drift into the Club in waves, queueing in the foyer, some standing and others taking a seat, waiting to be called up by the Escorts to check-in and be taken to their zone of choice for the night.
Patrons check-in with a deep navy colored card. It has a magnetic strip that is slid into the computer by the Escorts at the door. The card has no words, no identifiers. Even if lost, nothing about the card connects it to the Patron or to the Club. Once swiped at the front, the card produces the name chosen by the Patron when they sit with me during the Membership process. Some Patrons choose their true first, last, or middle name, or some choose a new name as part of their persona. The computer tracks t
he name, the zone input by the hostess, and the number of visits, but all of this data is essentially useless without my Member files, which remain locked away in my office safe.
Everything done in the Club is aimed to maintain privacy and make sure all of our Patrons feel comfortable within our walls. Although the services offered by Vice are sinful in nature, Patrons often find escape from their stressful lives in the luxury and privacy offered here.
Escorts within zones are assigned Patrons and given their Member name. This process is assisted by the computer database that handles the check-in process, and the computers within the rest of the Club. The girls are expected to memorize their Patrons of the night and address each by name as an added touch to make Patrons feel remembered, special, and to encourage healthy tips for the girls. It helps that the girls mainly stay in the same zones, so many of their Patrons return weekly, if not nightly.
There are a few, particularly important Patrons, that help Vice stay under the radar of the police, the media, and eliminate a couple of other undesirables. I’m typically alerted of nights when these Patrons intend to visit and I make sure to wait and escort them to their zone of the night personally.
Saturday evenings are one of our busiest nights and tonight is no exception. Within the first few hours, a large number of our regular Patrons show up, with a few guests in tow. After an unfortunate incident involving a guest’s hand and my right breast, I decide to take a break from the Foyer and spend the rest of my night helping the girls in the Main Bar to run drinks.
Most of the Patrons appreciate my business and my role as the owner, but on a rare occasion one will assume my companionship is also up for grabs. I don’t look down upon the profession of the Escorts. I’ve been in their shoes in the past, working in bars scantily clad, hoping for better tips to afford the life I want to live. Here at Vice though, I’m never a potential option for Patrons to have private time with or take to the Backrooms. I enjoy flirting with Members and visiting their tables. I greet many of them at the door with a friendly hug or kiss on the cheek, but I make it a point to avoid any behaviors that indicate interest beyond that.
If asked, I’m upfront about my feelings on the matter. It’s a personal and professional rule of mine, not to become involved with Patrons. It’s simply not good for business. I’m here to schmooze, smooth over any blips, help security identify issues, and generally ensure the business is running smoothly and earning money. Some nights however, I spend too much of my time evading grasping hands and overly friendly suggestions.
It’s all just part of the business.
There have been a few times that I’ve been tempted by the offers of the Patrons. I’m not a nun and not all of our Patrons are old, wealthy men. We have some young, fit, handsome, and charming Patrons that have invaded my thoughts more than once on a lonely winter night. Luckily my common sense has always won out before my hormones.
The rest of my night blurs by in a flurry of faces, drink refills and trips back and forth to the bar. By the time the end of the night rolls around, I’m exhausted. I help clean up the remaining glasses in the Main Bar, then head to the office to grab my clothes from earlier in the evening. The girls return to the dressing room to change out of their outfits and throw them into laundry for the cleaning crew to collect in a few hours.
I let out a deep breath, then smile, after letting the girls out the back door and getting ready to head home.
Just another night in the life.
Chapter 2
Jenna
It’s a rare night if I’m out of the Club prior to four in the morning. Having worked in bars for the past six years of my life, I knew this was a likely outcome being a club owner. For that reason, I purchased a property for Vice that had an upstairs space. One that I could convert into my new living quarters. When I contracted out my renovations and design teams for the Club, I also found a builder to start the renovations on my new living space at the same time.
There are no stairs from the interior of the Club to my home, which was purposeful. Working in customer service for years has taught me that Patrons can be curious little monsters. If an area in a club or bar appears large and forbidden, they will try to access it to see what’s on the other side. Especially in a club environment as catering to Patron’s desires as Vice. To eliminate anyone trying to roam up a staircase and into my private living space, I just eliminated the interior staircase and had an exterior set built instead. In my opinion, this particular feature was worth the cost to help ensure my privacy.
Each night, I lock up after the Patrons have left, and go out the back door of the Club into the alley. From there, all I have to do is unlock the door to the left of the club exit and head up a covered stairway to my front landing. I unlock another door and I’m in my own private oasis.
My home is roomy, bright, and airy. All of the things that I wished for growing up. During my childhood, I was often shuffled between homes in varying stages of decay or disrepair. I’ve had plenty of rooms in basements, bedrooms crammed full with bunkbeds for other kids in my same situation, and I rarely had a room with windows. I’ve shared enough spaces and been subjected to enough ratty blankets and torn up walls to last a lifetime.
My home is a one-level apartment decorated with pale blues, light browns, soft grays, and white. As the sun rises up, as it is about to now, the wall of windows in my living room throws light across my gray sectional draped in blankets and covered in throw pillows. The windows cast enough light to illuminate my small soft brown square dining room table and as the sun rises, the light drifts in to reflect off my white kitchen cupboards and stainless steel appliances. Building Vice was only one of my dreams that came true when I secured this space for the club.
I shut the door to my apartment behind me. I drop the few belongings I brought back from the club, including my shoes and the clothes I had been wearing before work yesterday, onto the table and head to the fridge to grab a bottled water. From there I continue through my apartment, as I drink the bottle of water, heading straight through my room into my bathroom. I open the door to my shower and turn the knob of my rainfall shower all the way to HOT, quickly stripping out of my dress and panties, ready to wash the night away and fall into a deep sleep.
After my shower, I wander back into my bedroom wrapped in a towel, running my fingers through my hair. I’m about to crawl into bed and worry about clothes later when I catch something from the corner of my eye that causes me to pull up short.
Something brown and furry is sitting in the center of my white, duvet covered bed. I stop dead in my tracks, then take a deep breath and inch a tiny bit closer to my bed. Whatever it is still doesn’t move and I’m not sure what to do. I’m pretty sure it’s a rodent.
Do I grab a shoe?
Do I call an exterminator for one rodent?
I’ve lived places with rat infestations, but I’ve never had to directly face one. Especially not one laying on my King sized bed, like it’s found a new and glorious home.
I move one tiny, half-step closer and that’s when I notice the red splotch spreading outwards from the furry blob sitting on top of my duvet. I chance moving even closer and confirm it is a giant rat, but it’s impossible that it’s still alive. Someone gutted it on my bed, pulling its entrails out and leaving them beside the rodent. Blood and rat guts have been left to soak into my bedding.
I leap back and let out a small cry. For the poor rodent, and for my poor duvet.
I’m disgusted and creeped out. To be completely honest, I’m not really sure what to do. While I stand there trying to figure out my next move, I realize the dead rodent laying on my bed means that someone snuck into my apartment while I was out.
Sometime between two o’clock yesterday afternoon when I left to head down to the club and around four this morning when I returned to head to sleep, someone else was in here. I scramble into the kitchen to grab my phone and immediately call the cops, reporting the rodent and the breaking and entering. While
I’m on the phone with the police station, I look through the rooms of my apartment, but there’s no other evidence that someone was is in my house.
About half an hour later, I’m dressed in a pair of soft gray, fitted sweat bottoms and a blank tank top when I hear the knock at my front door. I pull the door open and am faced with two attractive officers in uniform standing on my front porch. Suddenly I’m not sure if these are some of Chicago’s finest or if my girls decided to send male strippers dressed as cops.
As I stand there, drooling just a tiny bit, the officers look at each other, then back at me. The dark haired, dark-eyed Hispanic looking man standing on the left clears his throat, “Ma’am we received a call about a breaking and entering incident at this address. Were you the one that made the call?” The man I’ve now labeled Hot Cop 1 rattles off my name and address, as the person responsible for the call.
I nod my head and stand to the side to leave room for the officers to pass by me and enter my apartment. They both step inside and I shut the door. Turning back around, I realize I still haven’t spoken yet. Normally I’m not this awkward. I run a successful club after all, I can talk small talk for hours on end, but something about the long night, the dead rodent, and the attractive cops just has me off kilter. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around attractive men around my age that aren’t Patrons, but now probably isn’t the appropriate time to hit on men.
These guys are just here to do their job.
I finish my inner monologue and transition into hostess mode. “Gentlemen, Can I offer you coffee or water?” I inquire.
