by Unknown
He continued staring at her for a bit, and Marianne assumed Carl was processing the information she’d passed on to him.
“No.”
She almost started laughing. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I won’t have it. It’s not right.”
“Yet you and Paul have regularly had your ‘boys only’ nights.”
“It’s not the same,” Carl said.
This time Marianne did laugh. “What do you mean it’s not the same? How’s you getting a lap dance from some bottle-blonde Russian sloozie any different from me giving a lap dance to some old codger who’s going to slip a fifty in my bra strap?”
Granted, there was a difference, but Marianne was too miffed at Carl’s reaction to want to think too long or hard about her suggestion.
“You’re cheapening the meaning of our relationship by even considering this.”
“And you’re not while you’re busy getting a hard-on.”
His eyes bulged. “No way”
“So you just went for shits and giggles, is that it? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, Carl. There’s no use trying to hide from me that you and Paul have gone to Blue Velvet or Imperial House more than you’ve admitted. So, you’d like to look at those girls, get all hard, yet you don’t want me to be seen as a sex symbol when you’re happy to be the object for someone’s desire. Even if you have to pay her.”
Carl’s mouth opened and shut. Marianne realised belatedly that he reeked of beer and his eyes were just a little too glassy.
He went very pale and rigid. When had she ever gripped his shoulders as though she would shake him? Marianne had not been aware of becoming the aggressor in this conversation. A pang of guilt informed her this was not how her mother had raised her. She let go abruptly, stepping back.
Her boyfriend staggered to his feet, his gaze never once leaving hers. “I will not be spoken to like this.” He wiped his mouth as though he’d tasted something bad. “Bitch.” He breathed the word while scrabbling for his wallet and keys.
When he made for the door after grabbing his jacket, Marianne knew she’d pushed him too far.
“Where are you going? It’s late!” She rushed at him.
Carl shoved her away. “Out.”
“We need to talk!”
He snarled at her before turning on his heel. The slam of the front door resonated through not only the apartment but through Marianne’s very being. She’d crossed some sort of invisible threshold. Why did it feel so final?
Chapter 7
Carl had not returned home that night, nor the next, a fact Marianne tried to shove as far away as possible when she arrived at Imperial House for her first shift. He must have been home while she’d been at work at the call centre, because some of his clothing and a tog bag were missing. But it would not help her tonight to dwell on her disintegrating relationship.
I’m Hot Pepper, she told herself as she entered the club.
Danielshe’d at least discovered the doorman’s namegave her the briefest of nods.
“Katja’s inside?” God, her stomach was churning.
The doorman gave another nod in reply. Daniel’s attention remained focused on whatever paperwork he had on his desk.
Inside, the main house lights cast their glare, a cleaner busy mopping around the tables the only sign of life.
Marianne stood for a brief while, blinking back the brightness while she decided what she’d do next. She wished then she’d pulled enough shifts at Imperial House already and didn’t experience this nagging sense that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was only six thirty, still early for this line of work, she supposed. Lifting feet gone heavy, Marianne went backstage, adjusting the strap of her sling bag. She’d only one costume change. Katja had told her to keep it simple, so she’d bought a skimpy mini-dress of some slippery violet material, as well as a black satin bra with matching panties from the Chinese shop in Rondebosch. Would this be enough?
The dressing room was little more than a storage area. It had mirrors, however, covering almost every available bit of wall, with rows of bulbs lining the tops where a number of stools had been pulled up against the counters. Rails held hangers, empty for now, but a number of feather boas of lurid pinks and greens were draped at random.
The air was musty, reminding Marianne of the changing rooms at her school, but the overpowering welter of stale perfume and cigarette smoke lingered, catching at the back of her throat.
Katja, dressed in a long Morticia Addams-style dress covered in black sequins sat on the chair closest the door, stitching at a scrap of satin. She looked up as Marianne entered, gracing her with smile. “Ah, you’ve showed up.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Some of the new girls do develop cold feet.” She gave a low laugh.
“So, what do I do now? I thought there would be others here by now. I must admit I’m feeling very awkward.”
“Tsk. That will pass. We all had to start somewhere. I normally ask the new girls to come in early on their first night so we can go over the routine. You’ve done lap dances before?”
“Erm, no.”
“I suggest this evening you spend part of your time watching how the others go about it first. You’re pretty much given carte blanche so long as there’s no physical contact from the man’s side. Anything below the waist, then it’s considered a sexual act, and that’s a no-no. If a patron gets a bit touchy-feely and makes you feel uncomfortable, you back off. No, you are expected to back off. This establishment has a reputation to consider.” She laughed again and gave a small shake of her head.
“What?” Marianne hoped she wouldn’t have to go further than dancing.
“You always get guys who get, ah, a little carried away. Some of the girls have been known to offer additional favours. This is strictly forbidden, of course. You will have your contract summarily terminated if it should be discovered that you are engaging in such activities. Mr. Gentle will not stand for this sort of thing.”
“Yet we dance and present ourselves so provocatively.” Marianne shrugged.
“It’s a show. The men, and women, who frequent Imperial House come here for a number of reasons. Some are the idly curious, who come here to see for themselves what this is all about. Then you have your stag parties, where much silliness ensues.” Katja laughed, her gaze growing distant for a moment. “And you get your average Joe who’s here because he wants to pretend for a while that he is glamorous, like James Bond, and he opens his wallet to the girl who will help sustain that illusion. For a few hours he can sip expensive liquor and live out his fantasy. Then he goes home to a hellion of a wife and their snot-faced offspring.”
A wave of curiosity overcame Marianne. “Do you still dance?”
“Me?” Katja gave a dry laugh. “How old do you think I am?”
This was hardly a question Marianne wanted to answer. The last thing she wanted was to upset this woman, who obviously was quite important in the greater scheme of things. “Dunno. Are you going to kill me if I say late forties?”
This brought on a peal of laughter from the older woman. “Good God, girl. I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m sixty-three. I’m Brett’s aunt. Oh, one day you’ll need to see some of my photos. I danced in Las Vegas, I’ll have you know. Back in the day. London. San Francisco…”
“Ah…” There was some sort of story here, of that Marianne was sure. What family situation resulted in an aunt going into business with a nephew to run a strip club? She gave a slight shake of her head.
The door swung open, and the tall Nordic beauty who’d wowed the crowd with her pole dancing swept in. She spared Marianne a cursory glance before speaking to Katja.
“Hello, Katja.” Her voice was cold.
Katja acknowledged the blonde with a curt nod. “Tonia.”
There was obviously little love lost between the two women. Tonia walked to the chair farthest from where they were seated and
started unpacking her bag, carefully unfolding several items of clothing, which she hung on the rail. Her movements were measured, and the way she kept her back to Katja and Marianne suggested that she’d rather not acknowledge their presence.
Katja arched a brow at Marianne, as if she had plenty she would say if the present company were not in the room.
* * * *
Much to Marianne’s relief, the four other dancers who turned up for their shift that night were not as aloof as Tonia. Sherry, a bubbling and slightly plump brunette, warmed to Marianne immediately.
“I’ll be your big sister for Auntie’s sake over there.” She motioned at Katja, who had resumed her sewing duties but looked up at the mention of her name, genuine warmth suffusing her features when she glanced at Sherry.
Sherry’s laugh was infectious, and she introduced Marianne to the others. Deliaor Delilah as she called herself onstagewas a leggy woman with a warm coffee complexion.
“I’m the exotic snake dancer here, so you don’t go stealing my act, okay?” Her “act” included a two-metre albino boa, which Daniel placed, fortunately, in a crate, and with obvious reverence, beneath the counter where Delia had marked her spot.
Mia and Shan were two near-identical Chinese girls. They didn’t say much to the others, but giggled often, whispering to each other in Mandarin, but they seemed friendly enough on the get-go.
Granted, it did feel a bit weird getting dressed in a room filled with strangers, but their nonchalance at parading about dressed only in their knickers put her at ease. No one stared at her or passed comments, although Sherry did help her out with her make-up, which went a long way toward making her feel less awkward.
For the most, Marianne was content to listen to the other girls, who gossiped about some of the regulars, the tips they received, and what they’d done during their time off. Sherry did introduce Marianne to Steve, the DJ, with whom she spent some time discussing which songs she’d dance to.
She decided he wasn’t a bad sort, probably in his early thirties. He’d seemed far more intimidating on the night she’d won the contest, but now he laughed with her, his round face shining with good humour.
“You’d like to dance to a song that was popular on radio, like Billy Idol or Bon Jovi or the like. Most of the folk who come here were teens during the eighties, so that’s the kind of stuff they’ll remember and appreciate,” Steve said.
“Well, I’d like something I’d know, at least,” Marianne added. “To be quite honest, I’ve not really paid attention to what’s popular. My boyfriend…”
Damn, Carl was the last person she wanted to think of right now.
Steve’s brow rose when he noticed her obvious discomfort.
“We normally listen to some dance music and the like. I never remember the groups’ names.”
“What do you like?”
“I…I don’t really know,” Marianne admitted. “My friends normally listen to nineties alternative stuff, but I can’t really give you much of a list of names except for Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers…”
“Chili Peppers aren’t too bad.” Steve turned to his PC, scrolling down until he selected a track. “You know this one?” He handed her the headphones.
The beat certainly was catchy, and she remembered hearing it quite a few times and enjoying it. “Yeah, that will work.”
“If you know the song, you’ll enjoy grooving to it. Not the usual fare, but maybe that will be a good start, hey? You just come warn me when you’re ready, and I’ll put it on. You’ll find we’re pretty relaxed here. There’s no real schedule of you having to do stuff at particular times. Granted, you’ll stand a better chance of making more tips if you go up and dance. The guys will see you and be more inclined to take you up on an offer for a lap dance when you start your hustle. Think of it as advertising. It’s not like it is in the States, where the girls usually make tips from guys watching them shake it about onstage.”
And that was the crux of her dilemma. As the night progressed and the first customers started filtering in, Marianne wasn’t sure how the hell she could approach them.
She stood slightly back, near the DJ booth, watching. No pressure, right? Tonia, who’d skulked in the dressing room for most of the evening, stalked among the tables now, her expression unnaturally friendly by Marianne’s estimation. Tonight she wore a black latex catsuit which fit her lithe limbs like a second skin. The men were certainly captivated, more than one half raising a hand to touch her. It was a pity Marianne had already gained an impression of Tonia’s true personality. She couldn’t help but sense that beneath that ravishing exterior lurked a woman who was secretly sneering at these men who found her irresistible.
It seemed easy enough, Marianne surmised while watching the girls ply their trade. For the most, they’d approach the customers and start chatting to them. From what she could see, the conversation opener included one of the ladies asking if a customer wanted to buy her a drink. When he agreed, the girls would chat to them for a while. Sometimes a girl would dance on the tables for a group. More often than not, she’d lead her client to one of the curtained booths near the back for a private lap dance.
But Marianne’s mouth went dry when she thought about engaging in this kind of activity herself. Why was no one dancing yet? She clutched at her arms, trying not to allow her fingers to dig into her skin.
A tall, dark figure caught her eye at the entrance. Brett Gentle seemed to drag the shadows with him as he walked toward the office opposite and slightly to the side of the stage. Something about the way he moved struck her as being predatory, his limbs flexing with fluid grace. Heads turned as he passed. To Marianne he seemed to belong to another era, not in some club. Glancing down at her skimpy dress, she was conscious of how tawdry she looked, a skinny girl out of place.
What in the hell was she doing here?
She looked up then. Brett had paused before the entrance to the offices and turned, his face pale and cheekbones sharp, catching the glow from the lamps on either side of the corridor. Something told her he was looking directly at her. Marianne shivered.
* * * *
It was at Sherry’s insistence that Marianne approach the short, bald man sitting in the far corner alone, as far away from the other tables as possible.
“Arnold would love to meet you,” Sherry said. “He’s been admiring you since he arrived. He likes to meet all the new girls.”
Marianne suppressed a smile. She fully suspected Sherry had set this up on purpose. By now the club had become quite busy. Tonia had already taken to the stage once, and Marianne had seen enough how the girls had led willing customers to the booths.
“What do I do if he wants a lap dance?”
“You bump and grind and act all sexy, like he’s the hottest stud, and you groove to the music, like you would if you’re trying to turn your boyfriend on. He’s not supposed to touch you, however.” Sherry cast a conspiratorial glance in Tonia’s direction. “Of course, some of us are known to take things a little further from time to time for extra tips, and it’s sometimes difficult not coming into contact with a guy’s obvious excitement, but in your case, I’d keep it clean for now until such time as you figure you know what you’re doing, okay?”
“And you?”
Sherry winked. “Now that would be telling.”
They reached Arnold’s table. Round of face and dressed in a slightly rumpled business suit, tie askew, he beamed up at Marianne as they approached.
Sherry blew Arnold an air kiss and turned on her heel, leaving Marianne faced with the difficult task of introducing herself.
“Hi, I’m Hot Pepper. You keen on buying me a drink?” God, that sounded lame.
“Come sit, darlin’. What would you like?” Arnold patted the seat beside his, which had been pulled a lot closer to him than it should be.
A glint of gold flashed on his left ring finger. Ah, hell, he could be someone’s husband or father. What was he doing here? Doubt surged through her. What was
she doing here, for that matter?
Her knees weak, Marianne complied, reciting over and over in her head the little mantra that had come to mean so much to her, I’m Hot Pepper, I’m Hot Pepper.
Putting a spring in her step she didn’t feel, Marianne flounced around the table to settle next to the man, placing an almost proprietary hand on the armrest.
What the hell was she going to say?
She needn’t have worried. Arnold wanted to talk, that much was clear, and he wanted to know more about her, which struck her as odd until she remembered reading in a magazine a long while ago that sometimes men frequented revue bars and strip clubs precisely for the thing they had lacking in their own lives: bubbling conversation with pretty young women. It made her sad thinking that somewhere a woman may be waiting for him, or what sort of situation he faced upon returning home.
A small stab of guilt needled her again as her thoughts flew to Carl. Where was he? What was he doing? How would she cope without him paying his half of the rent?
Arnold nattered at her for what she assumed to be about half an hour, wanting to know everything from what her last job at the ad agency had been like to what she wanted to aspire to. Try as she might, Marianne could not relax, but she didn’t want to piss the guy off either, and, when she noticed Katja motioning to her from the DJ booth, she struggled to keep the visible relief from her features.
“I must go, sir,” Marianne said. “Katja needs me.”
Arnold laughed then, loud enough for heads to turn. He waved at Katja, who inclined her head in return. “Tell Katja she must not be such an interfering old cow.”
Before she could rise, he slipped a bundle of notes into her hand, more than she felt she could politely count.
“And you can always come chat with a lonely old man when he visits. It’s rare that a fresh face is just thatfresh.”
“Er, um…thanks.” Marianne folded the notes into her palm, glad the club’s interior was so dim so no one could see the blush creeping up her cheeks.
