by L. D. Fox
Another feature of the Red Room: pawing her assets was not only allowed, but encouraged.
The man, dressed in a suit that she could only assume was an Armani or something similarly lavish from the play of light on the gorgeous fabric, had never attempted to touch her. Surprisingly. Most of the guys who came to the Red Room were only here for the limited action their sizeable entrance fees allowed: being able to manhandle her ass when it came within reach.
Pearl fell into her dance with only a second’s hesitation, after finally forcing oxygen back into her lungs. She thrust out her hips in time with the pumping rhythm clamoring through the narrow room. The sound system almost drowned out her audience’s enthusiastic whistles.
You could take an animal out of the wild…
Forcing her eyes away from sexy Mr. Armani — the kind of sexy where you put a crick in your neck if he walked past you on the street — took considerable effort, but Pearl managed. Her boss was running a ‘Game of Thrones’ theme this week, so she’d been dressed in a skanky imitation of the Mother of Dragon’s outfit: complete with thigh-high stiletto boots in pale faux-kid. Her hair — naturally red and just covering her earlobes — had been stuffed under a fake mop of ash-blond tresses.
She looked ridiculous, of course… but hot enough to fog up a car’s windscreen in summer.
Pearl swung around, turning her back to the crowd as she let the music take full control of her body. She’d loved dancing ever since she’d chomped ecstasy at a rave club back in high school… back when they’d still been called raves.
God, that felt like centuries ago.
Her leg swept out, hooking the pole behind her as she bent over backwards. She grabbed the slick metal with both hands, getting an upside-down view of Mr. Armani as she did — was that smile a little deeper now? — and released one of her hands so she could twirl around the pole with sinuous grace.
She loved her job. Well, the dancing bit, anyway.
Yes, she was a stripper.
And in a few minutes, she’d have to take off her clothes. But, for now, this small crowd was captivated by her rhythm. She held them spellbound with every roll of her hips and buck of her shoulders. The pole became a strong and reliable dance partner, someone who would always support her, regardless of what ludicrous positions she chose to contort her body into.
She spun around, her back pressed to the pole’s cool metal, and slid down. A fresh-faced couple sat next to Mr. Armani, the girl watching her with large, doe-like eyes. They weren’t unusual at the club, just less frequent than the individual men that made up most of her trade. The two held hands, the guy glancing between Pearl and his girlfriend as if trying to figure out if she would agree to a threeway in some stage of their relationship.
Not going to happen, buddy. The girl was obviously uncomfortable. Her eyes were skittish on Pearl, glancing away from her breasts and crotch the instant they neared.
Uncomfortable… or maybe just shy?
Pearl sank lower still, aware of Mr. Armani’s unwavering stare on her body, and spread her legs in a quick tease that synchronized with the start of the track’s chorus.
The girl blushed deeply but didn’t look away.
Hey, maybe doe-eyes was just shy. Lucky dude.
Mr. Armani shifted on his seat and took a long sip from his tumbler before setting it back on its napkin. Pearl despised the way her stomach fluttered.
So he was good looking; she’d seen her share of men, handsome and not.
So what if he was rich? This club wasn’t exclusive, but it was pricier than most of the ones she’d stripped at before.
So what if he’d been back every night this week to watch her dance? Maybe he just liked the way she moved.
Pearl arched her back, letting her body straighten as she pushed back against the pole. It thrilled over her moist skin — the costume was hot and annoying, the lights glaring down on her even more so.
The track reached a familiar cadence.
Time to take it off.
Pearl braced herself. This part had never been hard, but it had never been as easy as the dancing.
At least, judging from the previous six nights, Mr. Armani wouldn’t be in his seat when she turned around buck-naked.
Pearl teased the clasp of her sequin-laced ‘Stormborn the Stripper’ corset. Appreciative murmurs fluttered out from the crowd. The top came off after a furtive struggle, and she swung it blindly out behind her, looping it around the pole and using it as leverage to go into another languid back bend.
Upside-down Mr. Armani was still there. He smiled at her.
Pearl straightened a little faster than she’d anticipated, wobbling for a moment on her suicidal stilettos. If they hadn’t been boots, she’d have sprained her ankle. She forced her spine straight, tried to persuade her heart to stop hammering, and attempted with every fiber of her being not to cover her breasts.
The boss was watching — he’d told her so many times that she was the club’s best dancer — and if he saw her trying to recover… it wouldn’t end well.
Pearl let the shimmering top fall to the stage and sashayed up the runway. The glittering curtains beckoned her, promising to swallow her and keep her secret from Mr. Armani’s penetrating eyes… but this was her job. She couldn’t walk out.
Pushing back her shoulders, Pearl spun back to the crowd.
There was a yelled “Yeah baby!” and a “Take it off!” — there always were. She cast a few of the louder mouthed patrons a sultry simper and met her stalwart lover right where she’d left him: impaled to the middle of her tiny dance floor. Hooking her leg around it, she bent back and swung around the pole, letting her eyes close against the sensation of cool air caressing her nipples.
With a snap of her muscles, Pearl straightened her spine and hugged the pole, both hands above her head, drawing them down its length. It was a gigantic penis, and she was—
She broke off the thought. It always made her want to laugh. One of her earliest dance teachers — a wizened stripper with a spine suppler than a leather strap — had always told her to treat the pole like a phallic symbol of lust. She’d strongly suspected Ruby of being a druid. She could so easily see that nimble lady dressed in a flowing white robe, boning some old guy on an altar. In Stonehenge. During a lunar eclipse.
Pearl smiled at the thought and then forced her face back into its vapid dance-mask: sexy, dumb, and hot as oil on a griddle.
Her nipples tightened at the touch of the cool metal along her breastbone. She knew the men behind her were craning to see her breasts, but she also knew she was only one track into a three-track set. They’d have to be patient.
In this position, her ass was within inches of the perimeter of the dance floor. She felt a tentative touch brush the easily accessible waistband of her costume: her first grubby note.
God, how she loved that dirty, dirty money.
Pearl turned, fully expecting the girl’s furious blush before she laid eyes on the sop. Yup. As scarlet as a Christmas decoration. Pearl gave her a full-lipped smile. She would call her… Bambi. With those large brown eyes and deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression, the name suited her perfectly.
Bambi’s blush deepened as Pearl slid with her back down the pole and spread her legs for the girl in a not-very-subtle thanks for the bill she’d slipped behind her costume’s waistband.
The girl looked ready to melt.
Pearl gave her another sultry smile and twisted, coming up from her stance butt first.
Bambi probably wouldn’t be giving her any more money; they would have to call the fire department if she didn’t stop blushing.
The music slid into a new track. Pearl took another swing on the pole, switching it up a notch by using just her legs to keep herself attached to her lover. She caught a blurred view of Mr. Armani with each revolution; was he actually going to watch her entire performance tonight?
Her stomach went tight at the thought.
Dammit! Why the hell was this guy t
hrowing her off her game?
Pearl lowered herself to the floor and crawled to the far side of the stage, giving some of the guys there a little attention. They rewarded her with more dirty money, and she thanked them by twerking her ass in their faces.
It dumbfounded her how much men liked that maneuver.
It was astonishing how difficult it was to learn.
Pearl returned to her pole and began to toy with the laces along the side of her costume’s skirt. She transferred the grubby notes decorating her with pale green ruffles to the tops of her boots in preparation of the skirt coming off.
The Red Room was starting to live up to its name; her skin was growing slick with sweat. She already knew her hair was soaked at the nape of her neck: thank God for the atrocious Mother of Dragon’s wig she wore.
Mr. Armani had ordered another drink: his eyes didn’t leave hers as he took it from the waitress. He didn’t pay with cash, which meant he was probably running a tab.
Damn, no tip for her tonight.
Should she still dazzle him?
Meh, why not?
The music changed into a hypnotic deep house track that contained zero in the way of lyrics and went completely overboard on erotic moaning and heavy breathing.
She loved it. When she closed her eyes — as she often did when dancing the pole — she could imagine herself at one of those billionaire night clubs, trapped in a Pyrex cage wearing very little (or even nothing at all) and jamming the night away for a captivated crowd.
One day, that elusive position would be hers. She knew she had the body, the moves, the stamina. But she didn’t have the connections. You didn’t just walk into a club like that and ask for a job. You had to know people that owned things like yachts and mansions and… handbag dogs and stuff.
Her skirt came off. She tossed it to the back of the runway. All she wore now was a tiny G-string that she seriously doubted would have been seen within a ten-mile radius of fiery little Daenerys.
Pearl faced the back of the runway, gyrating her hips so the crowd could all get a good look at her derriere.
She dipped down, doing a quick little twerk for the sake of Bambi — who surprisingly hadn’t spontaneously combusted yet. She was about to lift herself up again when she felt the brush of fingertips against her hip.
Another tip, Bambi? Good girl.
But something wasn’t right. That wasn’t money being slipped behind her G-string.
Those same fingers lingered, caressing the curve of her ass before disappearing and leaving her riddled with goose bumps.
Pearl spun around in her half-crouch, almost tripping over her stilettos.
Mr. Armani had gotten to his feet. He was eye-level with her now.
He lifted his hand, the first two fingers raised, and gave her a mock salute.
Then he turned and left.
Pearl glanced down and tugged free the square of black plastic tucked behind her underwear.
There were initials embossed on the front in silver:
F.P.
On the back, a phone number.
Frederick Paul? Ferdinand Patrick? Francis Poehler?
“Hey… do you do threesomes?” a voice quavered.
Pearl looked up.
Bambi was redder than a fire hydrant, but she had one hand pressed to the dance floor as if she’d boost herself up and join Pearl in a minute. Pearl folded her fingers over the card hard enough that it bit into her flesh and gave Bambi a weak smile.
She wasn’t that kind of dancer… but, dammit, she needed the money.
*
That day, she couldn’t sleep. And it wasn’t because of the sunlight spearing through the crack in her curtains, or the incessant buzz of traffic outside her window, or the damn chirpy nest of birds she failed to get rid of every spring… it was because of that business card nestled in her hand.
She kept staring at it. Kept running her thumb over the embossed letters. She’d tried Googling the phone number and initials on her phone while she was within Wi-Fi range of the coffee shop down the road — the busboy had given her the password a few days ago — but even Google had been flummoxed.
If he was rich, famous, some kind of shareholder… then she should have been able to find something, right?
So what was he then, her Mr. Armani? Just a successful businessman that liked screwing strippers?
And when in the hell had she decided she would become a prostitute?
She could smell the damp coming from her apartment’s moldy bathroom. Her one dingy window faced onto an alleyway, deep enough into it for its stench to prevent her ever opening that window but close enough to the street for her to hear every single passing car, motorcycle, and human being.
How long was she going to keep fooling herself that this was a line she wouldn’t cross?
Her thumb traced the letters again.
F.P.
The phone number wasn’t embossed, but she already knew it by heart.
What difference would one call make? She could ring the guy, hear what he wanted, and then say no.
Then she could get some sleep.
Maybe he would still show up. Maybe he would even start tipping her if he thought she was interested. One of his hundred dollar bills could go a far way to getting her out of this shithole, and he probably wouldn’t even notice it.
She seethed for a few minutes about this: how rich people didn’t deserve their money, no matter how they’d come to it.
Closing her eyes, Pearl brought the man’s face to mind.
Dark eyebrows shadowing emerald eyes. A strong, roman nose. A wide mouth, sumptuous lips. Slim build, dark hair. Last night’s suit had been a dark gray, almost charcoal. Very faint pinstripes. A silver tie.
She sighed. Damn, he was gorgeous. So why the hell was she still considering this? If she’d bumped into him at a bar — because where else would Mr. Armani spend his time but at the dive down the road — then it would have taken one drink for her to accept any proposal he had. Then more drinks, dancing, his bedroom.
Pearl tapped her fist against her forehead.
This was different.
This wasn’t her being a floozy.
This was her being paid for sex. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.
But… paid a lot? She’d heard the other dancers talking. Had spoken to them about it out of sheer interest. A handful of them slept with customers. They kept it on the low-down, of course: the boss would fire them if he ever found out. Surprising, because Pearl knew he was sleeping with at least three of the girls.
Anyway… she knew how much something like that would cost. Roughly how much she should charge.
So should she consider it?
What if she said no and he doubled it? Or tripled it?
Pearl’s hand tightened until the card began to bend.
She leaped out of bed and stormed over to the only table in her apartment that doubled as her dressing table. She yanked open the middle drawer and hunted around for a stick of incense. Sniffing it, she gave a nod. Sage.
Pearl lit it and set it in its holder on the windowsill. She lit the joint she’d taken out of the same drawer and rested her thigh on the sill, staring out at the brick wall opposite her. Several windows looked back, but none of them was open and none had their curtains drawn. Some even had newspaper tacked to the glass.
She took a deep drag from the joint and cracked the window an inch, aiming a plume of smoke through it before yanking it shut again. This was more to avoid her apartment smelling dank for the next week than because of paranoia: she was pretty sure her neighbor’s place was a crack den.
Just one phone call.
It couldn’t do any harm.
Pearl took another hit, staring at the smoke as it coiled away from the roll-up.
She could use the payphone down the street. It could never be traced back to her. No one would ever know.
One phone call…
Four minutes later, Pearl stood beside the dingy phone booth down th
e street from her apartment.
Her hand darted out and snatched up the receiver. She stabbed out F.P.’s phone number and waited.
Before it could connect and start ringing, she slammed the receiver back and took a step away from the booth, glaring at it. Then she shook her head and stormed back up the street and into her apartment.
Sleep came an hour later, interspersed with dreams of Mr. Armani offering to buy a night with her in return for a Gucci handbag — already custom-fitted with a dog — all while smiling that wide, dirty smile of his.
*
Pearl was in The Doll House’s kitchen pouring herself a cup of filter coffee before her shift started when the package arrived.
“You got a delivery, Hun,” Mable said, running her hand over Pearl’s shoulders as she passed with a tray buckling under a load of dirty dishes.
“What?” Pearl blinked at her, but the woman was already walking away.
Pearl shrugged and took a large swallow of coffee. She always put in too much milk, which meant the coffee was always too cold. Why? Because her brain was constantly in overdrive, and it felt it wasn’t needed in minor decision-making processes like knowing when to stop tipping the milk carton.
Goddamn it.
She slugged the rest of the coffee and rinsed out her cup, leaving it to dry on the drip rack. The kitchen was still quiet — the evening rush started just after eight, so most of the staff were busy prepping food further back in the long room.
Pearl slid her bra strap back on her shoulder and ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t had time to wash it before leaving for work — choosing instead to sleep in for those precious few minutes — so it felt far from clean under her fingers.
A delivery?
Was it some kind of summons? A debt collector who’d finally tracked her down? That thought sent her heart racing for a few seconds. Not that, please. She’d been so careful. It wasn’t like she’d go to prison or anything, but she had a shit load of debt. A heroin-addicted boyfriend that you were convinced you could save had repercussions. Having him sell everything you own while professing his love for you in the most romantic — free — gestures that melted away any reservations you might have had… that would put a dent in anyone’s saving account.
