by Louisa Trent
“And that would be me. I would lend class to prostitution. Not my fondest desire to be a madam.”
“Your position would be a hostess in a gambling operation, not a madam in a brothel. I do not run a whorehouse. And it becomes tiresome to keep saying so. We cater to all vices. Whether you whore is a personal choice, any and all transactions of that nature entirely up to you. As I say – some gents are willing to pay to be heard by a nonjudgmental ear.”
“That would not be me, though I am striving for balance.”
“You would soon learn tolerance in regard to the passions of your clients.”
“How about serving drinks on a tray? Would I do that?”
“No service-related functions. You would meet and greet our guests only. Perhaps discreetly direct them to certain rooms, where certain pleasure could be had. You would neither discuss the price of those pleasures, nor the exact practices, not even discreetly. No money would pass from their hands to yours, no waiting on them of any sort. Speaking of which…would you care for some liquid refreshment? Tea…lemonade…”
I followed him from the large and empty kitchen into a large and empty dining room.
“So quiet here, sir. I thought a gambling den would be loud and boisterous. Where are the gamblers, the gaming tables?”
“Beyond that closed pocket door at the rear of this room. My private accommodations are located upstairs. This is a public space I use for entertainment. If you take the hostess position, you would be seated beside me at the table while dining at functions. I entertain foreign dignitaries as well as cowboys from out west here. Both groups are avid gamblers.”
On the toes of my ruined ballet slippers, I spun in place, the short skirts of my cancan costume twirling, my stiffened petticoats frothing. “What is that over there on the liquor cabinet?” I pointed – only later cringing in memory at my gaucheness in doing so. “See? Directly in front of that stunning mirror, the tall canister with the pretty green liquid inside.”
“Are you familiar with the Green Fairy?”
“No. Is it a hard spirit?”
“Yes. Very expensive. And to some – highly addictive.”
Living dangerously, I asked, “May I try it?”
“Certainly. There are no taboos here – save opiates. All our offerings are personal choices.”
After pouring a generous amount of that highly addictive green liquor into a lovely cut glass, he passed me the drink. Transfixed by the color of the concoction, and of course by its whimsical name, I merely stared at the two-fingers of liquid sloshing about in the oversized glass tumbler before holding it up to the sparkling prisms of the crystal chandelier.
I held a small fortune in my hand, all of it spent in the interests of intoxication, which would explain why I had never indulged, myself. I was unable to afford such luxuries and so no liquor had ever before passed my lips.
Until this evening.
I took a large and noisy swallow, coughing and sputtering at the end. In no way did that stop me from refilling my glass. Why not get rip-roaring drunk?
I courted forgetfulness like a lover. Would this drink make my bad memories disappear? Or, at least, fade? Make me feel less the failure in my own eyes?
“We serve Green Fairy quite frequently here at the den,” my rescuer said softly. “Many of our clientele fancy themselves bohemian types. Artists, especially writers and painters, make this their drink of choice. By the way – lest you later accuse me of trying to put you in a more agreeable frame of mind by plying you with liquor – please recall I poured you a sample at your request. Everything that happens to you here will be the same – done at your request.”
“No need to hit me over the head, Matthew. Why the warning?”
The very picture of masculine sincerity, he said, “I think we are developing a rapport between us. I would not have a misunderstanding ruin its start. Familiarity is much overrated. Let us continue our previous formality, shall we? If you would – please continue calling me either sir Or Mr. Simmons.”
The arrogance! Did he think one sip of Green Fairy would make me fall head over heels in love at his feet?
Feet of clay, no doubt.
Was finding him out why he insisted we stand on ceremony with one another? Or, I should say, I stand on ceremony with him. He no doubt would call me by my first name.
Too late for such concerns. I already had fallen for him, feet of clay or not.
I set the glass back down on the liquor stand without tasting it. “I think I should leave…”
“And go where?”
That was the question. But why bring logic into an argument I had been itching to start all night?
“I have plenty of places to go. Do you hear me? Plent-y! How dare you insinuate otherwise?” I cried, striking him full-on, a slap so sharp and vicious, I saw myself flinch in the mirror.
Not him. As a thin river of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth to dribble off his chin, his impassive expression never changed.
Telling me, his face was no inroad to his thoughts. I would need to find another way, a duplicitous way, to understand what went on behind his carefully controlled features.
Chapter Six
“Go on,” he said amicably. “Take your anger out on me. Although, if speechifying comes next, I must warn you – my attention span is brief. Can I convince you to slug me instead? Not a slap. Roll your hand into a fist and let me have it.”
A more welcome invitation I had never received.
The mirror in front of me reflected a raging shrew, hair mussed beyond repair, face crisscrossed with black and red streaks – half kohl, half rouge – the stage makeup running together to form a mask similar in appearance to candle wax melted on a white linen tablecloth. The costume’s low bodice barely contained my heaving bosom, the imported French design made for the daintier curves of Parisian cancan artists.
“You know what you are, sir?”
“Christ. This is one of those rhetorical questions, right?”
I tossed my head. “A wolf in sheep clothing is what you are.”
“I will accept the wolf characterization, but when did I represent myself as anything but what I am? As to the rest – your unstated accusation – I told you, nothing would be forced upon you. What you decide to do, who you decide to see, is up to you. And point of fact – I stand entirely naked before you as far as truth goes, not in any sort of clothing whatsoever. See me as I am, Emma, which is bad enough already, without inventing anything worse.”
I huffed and puffed, then heaved, “Liar! “
“I never lied to you. Your position here would be to class up the establishment. Mingle. Socialize. Converse about the arts. Talk about dance. Food. You would be right at home, what with all that French baking you have in your background. These men are all educated, all cultured, all connoisseurs in some fashion. They come here to relax. You would never find them at Milton’s place. Ballet, not the cancan, is more to their liking.”
Was that a backward compliment to my choice of dance technique? Did he believe appealing to my snobbery would succeed where argument had failed?
I was not a violent person. Argumentative yes, but not given to physical assault.
Making an exception here had seemed warranted.
As did slapping him again, this next time bloodying the left side of his sensuous lips. Why not even him out so he matched? He spoke out of both sides of his damn mouth after all…
“Oh, I know how this would go,” I cawed flippantly. “Upon hearing that ballet was in my background, these customers or clients or whatever you wish to call them would expect me to dance naked for them. A private show, no doubt. An audience of one. I would use exotic veils and fans and such to maintain their attention.”
“Pardon? No! Where do you get these ideas?”
“Books. I read up on the subject of concubines in ancient Babylonia. Also Japan and their geishas, and France and their courtesans. America has no real equivalency. Whores are not the
same.”
He appeared taken aback. “Who said so?”
By now, I had worked up a full head of steam, and a full head of steam always brought out the talker in me. “Madame Madeline – the French pastry maker I spoke of. She was beyond knowledgeable about such matters. Sophisticated in outlook, one might say. She was the one who pierced my breasts. If that sort of thing, the geisha thing, is what you have in mind for me, then you, sir, are barking up the wrong fucking tree.”
In the mirror, I saw my hand cover my mouth. “Oops! You expected cordiality from me, did you not? Is that answer too, too terribly unpleasant for you? Am I letting my sewer upbringing show?”
After my sarcastic tirade, I was surprised he stayed. But the owner of the gambling den did indeed remain in place, retaining a stoical silence while allowing me to freely express myself in any manner my disillusionment dictated.
My disillusion dictated I make up for years of lost time.
I raised my fancy-pants tumbler to my reflection in the mirror. To hell with abstention! Here was to burying my troubles in a bottle became my unspoken toast before draining the two-fingers of highly addictive alcohol in my glass right down.
I helped myself to more, downing that pretty green liquor and the next jigger too.
Too far away. The decanter of Green Fairy was too far away from my reach.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the disheveled woman in the mirror grab the slender bottle from atop the liquor cabinet and clumsily move it closer, the cut glass, most likely priceless, decanter nearly falling in transit. After that scare, I took the liberty of refilling my glass in ever quicker succession. Funny how the more I poured, the thirstier I became…
Who needed Mr. Matthew, pain-in-my-arse, Simmons anyway?
Not me. I could get a whore’s position any damn place I chose. And if I chose here, it would be my decision, uninfluenced by either my unwise attraction to my rescuer or any bloody thing he chose to say.
My head growing dizzy, the floor rolling beneath my ballet slippers like the deck of a ship during a hurricane, I poured and gulped. Poured and gulped. False courage required constant replenishment…
What I had been missing in my abstention! As it turned out, the world was so much nicer when one was schnookered.
As I wove back and forth on my feet, a fair-haired dandy wearing a red paisley waistcoat with a shawl collar appeared at the partially open door. He waved a deck of cards at us – in greeting, perhaps? – before saying, “Are we having that hand of poker you promised me, Matt, or not?”
My rescuer first addressed me:
“And here is my appointment now.”
Then he addressed the newcomer to our private party:
“Late as usual, Gilbert.”
My tongue felt too thick to speak. But what could I do? Ignoring the dandy at the door would have been the height of rudeness. As I was never rude, a welcome of some kind must be extended.
Giving a drunken giggle, I slurred across the room to the stranger at the door, “Please excuse the owner of this establishment. As you can see, he is otherwise occupied at the moment. With me, his new whore.”
I shrugged energetically, done for theatrical effect, and my costume’s shoulder straps plummeted to my elbows, taking the majority of my bodice with it.
Fine by me if the two gentlemen were now better acquainted with my stylishly pierced, and oh-so-sophisticated, sticky-up nipples.
The wobbly step I took in Gilbert’s direction was a cross between a wiggle and a swagger. “Care to join us?” I gave a slow wink. “The more the merrier, I always say.”
Never in my entire life had I cause to utter that particular phraseology. But I could play a whore when the situation warranted it. I was good at improvisational acting, no lines required to memorize. A good thing, as I was feeling a little fuzzy at the moment. I would just make up my part as I went along.
The wearing of a can-can costume was not an everyday occurrence in most settings. For that reason alone, Gilbert should have appeared nonplussed by my outfit. How was it he took my costume in stride?
Asking Mr. Simmons was out of the question. He had made it amply clear I alone was in charge of my own fortunes here. Not that he was unduly unsympathetic to my plight, only that he was treating me as an adult by leaving me to my own devices. As to my altered mental state – he had not poured the absinthe down my throat. Just as I had done with Milton, I had brought this circumstance on myself.
Time to rid myself of my old life. That was what my costume signified – my naïve past. Time to be a bad girl for real, not just a pretend bad girl up on stage.
Due to the inconvenience of my basement dressing room, I had become adept at the quick changes required of me between sets. In less than the requisite three minutes at Milton’s place, I was naked.
Save for the droopy feather still decorating the top of my messy chignon.
No oversight on my part. In my disjointed thoughts, the prop added a certain dramatic flair to my new role of seductress.
Even in my inebriated state of mind, one blurry-eyed look at my rescuer’s scowl told me I had gone the teeny-tiniest bit too far for my new position of hostess. But how to gracefully retreat from the invitation I had only just extended, an invitation the dandy at the door had already accepted with an enthusiastic nod of consent and a step in our direction.
There was none. No graceful retreat. No cowardly backing out now.
It had been a very long and eventful night. Mistakes had been made. And sink or swim, I alone was responsible for untangling myself from my present predicament.
I would make no bid for leniency from either man. I had made my bed and now I must lie in it. Although, seeing the room contained no bed, I would have to make do with the floor.
Hysteria taking over, I giggled at my jest.
However, the naked girl in the mirror looked all set to cry.
Under no circumstances must I give away to tears. No huddling in on myself in humiliation. No covering of private parts with arms and hands. Although, what I would have given to pull a set of oversized fig leaves out of thin air.
The dandy stepped further into the room. While eyeing the shiny gold hoop swinging ever so demurely from my left breast, he said, “New girl, eh, Matt?”
“Up to her if she is or if she is not,” Mr. Simmons replied. “I have no say in operations outside the gambling end of things in the house.”
Both my nipples peaked some more, and I shivered uncontrollably. Losing sight of the naked whore in the mirror, I arched my throat as the stranger reached for me. He tweaked the hoop in my nipple.
No suitor had held my hand before tonight. Now I was naked with two men, one of whom was playing with my naked bosoms.
Was nipple plucking done?
I should never have gotten them pierced. Ringed breasts gave the wrong impression. Though I supposed taking off all my clothing had given a worse one.
Sounding a million miles away, Mr. Simmons said, “Gil, I thought we were playing poker.”
“Poke her? Now there is a thought. Let me at this beauty. Our game will have to be postponed, Matt. Got me a feeling, this fuck will not be a quickie.”
“You know house rules, Gil. Generally speaking, I stay out of these types of negotiations. All is allowed under this roof – so long as the girl is willing. Her inebriation makes for a complication here.”
“Hey, the girl is still standing, ain’t she? And on her own two feet. No help from either one of us. Right, Matt?” Gilbert replied. “A little tipsy ain’t skunk drunk. And clearly she wants it. Am I reading you right, honey?”
“I like to read, sir.”
“I bet you like doing a lot of things, huh, honey?”
With that friendly remark, the stranger’s free hand crept onto my bottom, the buttocks firm and round from dancing. The fullness of my backside made the wearing of bustles redundant, a fashion faux pas that caused me endless chagrin.
Especially when Gil chimed in with:
“The scenery back here is right invigorating. How about we share, Matt? That way, you can keep your eye on her the whole time from the front while I close my eyes and have to at the back.”
“Sorry, no. House rules are house rules. All members abide by them or lose their key to the front door. And you, my friend, are standing too close. Back off from the girl. She is too drunk tonight to know her own mind. Ask her again when she sobers up, maybe tomorrow. I shan’t stand in your way if she agrees then.”
“You invited me in, right, honey?” Gilbert asked me.
“I…I…”
Mr. Simmons shoved the member of his club away from me with an easy force.
After almost falling over, like a wily coyote on the prowl, Gilbert eyed the gambling den’s owner. “Little wonder you need no bouncer to keep order at the house, the way you throw your muscle around, Matt. Enough to know you used to be a circus strongman with Ringling Brothers without regular reminders.”
“No point having rules unless someone enforces them. That someone is me,” my rescuer drawled.
“Yeah, yeah. The fucking rules,” Gil complained. “Ah, well. No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings. As a matter of fact, how about this, Gil? Your first fuck tomorrow is on me. It comes out of my pocket, not yours. With her or with anyone else.”
“With her! A free introduction? Hmm. Tempting.”
“Yep. On the house.”
“Considering my inconvenience, that seems fair. Very well. I agree to wait ‘til then.”
Gilbert put some additional distance between himself and me. Not a great deal, but enough to place him outside touching range.
Still, prudence guiding me, I moved closer to Mr. Simmons, near enough so my breasts were flattened against the front of his white dress shirt when facing him.
The crisp starchiness of the linen excited my nipples even more. As did his size. As did his hand, the fingers spread protectively on my bare lower back, a small distance higher than where Gilbert’s hand had ingratiated itself before. Still a most improper contact, but it was not aggressively so.
