by W Winters
The red dress has a deep V that ends at the woman’s navel. Which is the third color we allow and the most preferred. Red informs the patrons the woman is available for whatever the men would like.
I don’t play where I work, but I have to admit I’ve been tempted more than once, in my weaker moments. Angela is very aware I’m not interested. Just as I’m aware she is a flirt with everyone and prefers Mia to any of the men she toys with.
Whatever arrangement they have is none of my business.
“Good afternoon then,” Angela replies and I don’t miss Mia’s gaze following her ass as Angela leaves.
“Coffee, Mr. Cross?” Mia questions.
“Please.” She’s worked for me since the doors opened two years ago, as have a good number of the staff.
Everyone is replaceable, though, and multiple bodies have come and gone since then. One constant is the women. There are a number of rumors surrounding the club and the one I love the most is that the women run this place. That they have the men wrapped around their little fingers. They make the rules, and they’re protected by myself and my brothers.
We’ve proven that more than once. Of all the whispers, I prefer those the most.
Which leads my gaze to land on curves that sway with a deep red dress clinging to every inch of a new waitress. And then she turns.
“Would you like your usual as well?” she questions a patron, but I hardly hear her. The music fades to nothing as her long dark brunette hair falls down her tanned shoulders, teasing along the slender curve of her neck. Time slows as the memories come back to me.
Braelynn.
“Who’s that?” I say even though I’m certain it’s her. Her plump lips match the deep red shade of the satin dress. I knew her years ago, in a different life, although it seems both of us have grown since then. My pulse quickens as I take in every inch of her. The world around me stands still for a moment as the scene comes back to me when I first met her. Her father’s as Irish as they come. Her mother, Latina. Braelynn’s temper comes from them both, her beauty, though … her dark eyes and curled messy hair are uniquely hers. Although both seem tamed as my gaze begs for her to look back at me.
As my blood rushes in my ears, I hear her laugh at something the woman she’s waiting on says. It’s feminine and quiet but it’s her. Every bit of her that I remember.
Braelynn.
“Scarlet’s friend,” Mia says just as Angela makes her way to us once again, a drink order slip in hand.
“The new girl?” she says and follows my gaze to her.
“What’s her name?” I ask, my tone low and my question holding a demand that catches both women off guard.
“Braelynn,” Mia answers. Angela’s eyes hold a curiosity I don’t care for.
It takes a calm control to keep the statement on the tip of my tongue. I know her.
When my mother died, she was the only one to tell me she was sorry. It was barely a murmur, her hand grazing mine. And then she was gone and my life changed forever.
“Braelynn.” I speak her name out loud and nearly choke on it. All the while, she doesn’t even notice me.
The ceramic saucer and mug tink as Mia cautiously sets down my coffee on the white marble bar top.
“Tell her to come to my office,” I instruct Angela, who stares back at me with wide eyes. She doesn’t hold back her surprise. A stray blond curl falls in front of her face and she brushes it away as disappointment registers in her gaze.
“Do you have something to say?” I keep my question spoken slowly, my gaze piercing through hers. Her eyes widen ever so slightly as Mia takes a hesitant step back.
Color drains from Angela’s face as she shakes her head, gently swaying her halo of curls.
“’Cause it looks like you have something you want to say,” I add in a deadly low tone. My personal life is none of her concern.
She speaks in a single breath, her chest barely rising and falling. “Not at all, Mr. Cross.”
“Good. Send her to my office when she has a moment.” Giving the command, I gather the mug and leave. Not sparing either of them, or Braelynn, a single glance.
Braelynn
This lipstick is doing me all kinds of favors. It was worth the twenty bucks after all.
Men’s eyes slip down to look at it and women compliment me on it, and altogether it feels like I am doing all right for my first shift at The Club.
Even though this place is nothing like I imagined. Scarlet said it was like a high-end speakeasy. Like being taken back in time, but it isn’t.
It’s modern. It’s expensive. It’s like the devil designed this place. There’s a small kitchen, but the food they serve looks like it belongs in one of those fancy restaurants you see in magazines and TV shows.
All of this is so far out of my league.
My shoulders stay pulled back when Scarlet reminds me to carry myself like I belong here. And I do. It feels like I’m supposed to be here. Which doesn’t make a damn lick of sense, because a place like this is merely a dream to someone like me.
“Keep it up,” Scarlet says and winks at me as we pass each other. She’s got a martini glass in her hand and I’ve got a bill in my left.
It takes me a moment to remember the passcode and how to navigate the system. I’m slow, but it’s my first day and the bartender, Mia, she’s there to help.
It’s a bit too good to be true, but all of them point out that it gets more intense at night. Things are expected to be busier and louder, with everything moving faster. So I have about four hours to get familiar. Glancing down at my heels, I grimace. My toes curl in the tips of them. The first chance I get, I’m slipping into flats. Tips be damned.
I didn’t realize the extent of how short my dress was until I leaned down to take someone’s order and a breeze slipped between my thighs. It may have made me blush and yank the fabric down the moment I got away, but the tips, even for just five tables, have been insanely good. Scarlet wasn’t kidding about that. I’ll have that new set of sheets and new bedroom furniture in no time.
Slips are returned, orders paid, new guests are seated and greeted. Everything is fairly comfortable and easygoing. The other women are kind. The men in sharp suits who stand at the front … they’re intimidating until they look at me. It’s all polite smiles, but there’s no doubt in my mind they can be brutal.
I don’t know all their names yet, but I know the bartender is Mia; there’s a man in the kitchen named Benji and the other waitress working right now is Angela. The best way to describe her is that she’s an assassin with long, curly blond hair. She moves faster than Scarlet and me combined and she’s already nudged me to let me know if I fall behind she can help. Her experience is obvious and a number of the men seem to know her by name.
Maybe in that way it’s like a speakeasy. There are quiet conversations but most of the people here know everyone by first name.
Maybe … I shake my head, unsure of myself. It’s an odd mix and it’s hard to put my thumb on what exactly is throwing me off.
By two hours in, I’m starting to feel a little surer of myself. At four hours in, it’s slowed down a bit. Mia assures me as I walk off with a round of shots for two men in the corner, that it’s the eye of the storm.
“Get ready, the intensity is about to pick up.”
One deep breath in, and I tell myself I can do this. I am doing this.
Slipping out my lipstick, I touch up the color and then I spot Scarlet off to the side talking to Angela. Their heads are together and when they see me coming, Scarlet nods to her and approaches me.
“Hey,” I start, “I think things are—”
“Mr. Cross wants to see you in his office,” she says as soon as she’s close enough. Scarlet holds a black tray close, flat against her body.
The air leaves my lungs. Cross. There’s a faint numbness that goes to my fingers. I knew the Cross boys. I knew of them. And Scarlet told me they own this place. Everyone knows of them, or at least the word on
the street is that they run this entire town.
“Mr. Cross?” I question and if I had more strength, I’d ask which one. My heart races and my blood chills.
“Yes.” Scarlet nods once, her gaze staring at mine as if I’m being slow. “He wants to see you in his office.”
Which one? The question begs to be asked, but it stays at the back of my throat, choking me. Standing there expectantly, she doesn’t seem nervous in the least.
“Is everything okay?” I question and she lets out a laugh.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she answers and that’s not reassuring even a tiny bit. My pulse picks up, nervousness pricking along my skin.
Which Cross brother is it?
That’s not the question that comes out. “Where is his office?”
She gestures at a nearby matte black door. It’s disguised into the wall, the knob of it cut glass. It’s expensive, just like everything else in this place.
And it leads to him. I stop myself right there, breathing in deeply. It leads to a Cross brother. It doesn’t mean him. He probably won’t even recognize me. He didn't know me then. He sure as well wouldn't know me now.
“Through there and down the spiral staircase. There are some rooms down there for … certain things.” Scarlet shrugs, blushing. It throws me off-balance to see her face go red like that and I’m thankful for the distraction.
She knows this place, so whatever goes on down there must be shocking even by her standards.
“Certain things?” The question falls from my lips eagerly in my rush to think of anything other than a boy I once knew. Still, I’m taken aback at the color in Scarlet’s face. She’s hiding something from me. “What certain things?”
Scarlet glances around us, checking to see if anyone is listening. She leans in close to me and drops her voice. “Look, some of these guys … they’re hot. And they’re willing to pay for other things, you know?”
Heat rushes to my face. Oh my God. I must be as red as she is. My imagination spins through all the possible scenarios of the rooms downstairs. “Certain things” sounds illicit and maybe illegal. The question comes out in a hushed whisper as I grab her arm, pulling her in closer. “You sleep with them?”
“Not all of them. Some of them I like to … enjoy, and I do.” Scarlet glances around the club, taking in the women laughing over their wine and the reclined men in expensive suits. Her gaze lands on a couple across the room. They can’t take their eyes off each other. “Sometimes couples come, and we … take them down there to enjoy themselves. Sometimes they want company, sometimes not. There’s also the entertainers.” Scarlet straightens her back. “This is a judgment-free zone. If you want to do something here, you do it.”
My immediate response comes out in a single breath. “Well, I don’t want to.” Is that what they expect of me? “This isn’t what—”
Her hand lands on mine as she reassures me, “Relax, it’s not … it’s not required. It’s just something that happens sometimes.”
“I don’t want to—”
Again she cuts me off. “You say that now,” Scarlet murmurs, a smile playing at the corners of her lips, “but when it’s late, the liquor is flowing, and these men look at you like they’ve never wanted anything more … sometimes it’s tempting.” She shrugs and adds, “If we want something, and they want it too …” her words drift off as her gaze lands on a man in a gray suit, seated by himself. Her tongue sweeps across her lower lip and she says, “All I’m saying is,” it’s then her eyes meet mine again, “don’t knock it ’til you try it.”
“I’m not judging, but if I still don’t want to?” I question although I can’t get the rest of it out. My mind is spinning and I can barely focus on anything. I need to know whether she’s telling the truth. If it’s a requirement that I sleep with men … or couples … in those rooms downstairs, then I have to find another job.
I can serve drinks and take orders, I can flirt even and have a good time in that regard, but I draw the line there. Even if Scarlet thinks I might like more.
Scarlet puts her hand on my arm in a comforting gesture. “If you still don’t want to, you don’t have to. But you do need to go to the boss’s office.”
Fuck. Heat rises to my cheeks hotter than before. I swallow hard. “So why does he want me to go down there?” I nearly choke on the question and again, a little voice whispers in the back of my head. Which Cross brother?
“That’s just where his office is. You’ll see. It’s straight ahead once you get down the stairs. His door is the red one.” Her eyes dart to my lips then back up to meet my gaze. “It matches your lipstick.”
“Does he expect me to sleep with him?” If his office is downstairs, with all those other rooms, then …
“No.” Scarlet shakes her head. “No. Mr. Cross doesn’t … he keeps his dick off the table.” Her arms cross over her chest as she makes the statement, giving her cleavage an added boost.
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know.” Her answer comes out with less patience than before. Scarlet takes a few steps to the bar and stacks her tray there. She’s always taking inventory of the club, making sure no one needs anything. “He doesn’t usually ask for anyone, but maybe it’s just ’cause you’re new. I’ll watch your tables while you’re down there.”
With her easy tone, I give her a short nod and take in an uneasy breath. Faux courage all the way.
“Okay.”
Time slows down as I open the door, and when I close it, the world that feels like something else is muted and I’m met with only descending stairs and silence. Taking the steps one at a time, I go down the staircase. It’s heavy iron in a spiral shape and my heels seem to wobble with every step. At the bottom is a hallway. Expensive paneling lines the walls. It’s not like a basement. It’s less like a fancy speakeasy that the upstairs resembles and far more like private property. It feels like someplace you’d need a password to get into. A passing thought is haunting. If the devil owned real estate on the East Coast, and a sinner perished, I imagine this could very well be the modern gates of hell. Sconces line the walls, the pattern mimicking the spiral staircase. Every small detail drips of wealth.
I swallow thickly and head toward the dark red door near the end of the hall. My heels click in the quiet hall in a menacing way. The echo mocks my racing heart.
Again I wonder which brother I’ll see. Vaguely, I imagine it’ll be nothing like the dreams I’ve had occasionally for years.
The door is in front of me before I know it and I hesitate, my nerves churning in my gut. I knock as confidently as I can.
“Come in.” His voice is deep, his command firm and my body obeys.
The glass knob is cold as I open the door. The door swings easily, not protesting what feels like a sinful act. My dress has ridden up from walking down the stairs and I tug at the hem as I walk in, thankfully hidden by the door. I take a quick glance down to make sure my hem is in place, then look up to see the man at the desk.
My heart skitters, forgetting its beat when his eyes find mine.
I know him. A chill runs down my skin and time pauses, only for a moment.
It’s the youngest brother, Declan. I’d recognize his eyes anywhere. The curve of his jaw is sharper and lined with a five-o’clock shadow.
He’s no longer an impoverished boy with dark clouds in his eyes.
The man looks more expensive than the office, and this office … Dark wood gleams underneath framed prints of cityscapes, and all the neutral colors work together to highlight the man at his desk. He stands up from his seat, revealing a tall, muscular body in a tailored button-down. He strides slowly around to the front of his desk and leans against it. Heat crawls down the back of my neck. I knew him before, but this isn’t the person I knew. This man is radiating power and control.
He looks me up and down. “It’s quite a short dress.”
“Declan—”
“Most go with Mr. Cross.”
“I’m
sorry.” My lips feel oversensitive, almost numb. I can barely move, let alone control the words tumbling from me. Intimidation does not at all do this moment justice.
“Don’t be.” His eyes roam over me, undressing me. “If that’s what you want to call me.”
I flush violently. I’m as red as my dress now. Gathering my composure, I remind myself that I’m working. This is a job. A loud tick reminds me that time continues on. It moves and so should I. “You wanted a drink?”
“No.”
My fingers lace between each other in front of me as I stand just in front of the doorway, the light from the hall still filtering in. Please don’t ask me to close it. That's all I can think. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I were locked in with him.
I question with my tone relatively even, “Is there something I can do for you, then?”
“I’m sure there is.” His fingers toy with something on his desk. A small metal die, I think. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I stepped into the room. Everywhere his gaze lands, it burns my skin. “You just started today?”
I nod, clearing my throat.
“You have questions.”
“I just started so there are some, but I’m learning quickly.” It’s so quiet between us, I’m certain he can hear me swallow.
“Scarlet referred you?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Did she suggest you wear red or did you decide that on your own?”
I’m overheating in his presence. It would be rude to look away from him, but he’s so striking that I want to close my eyes. Simply glancing in his direction gives him some kind of power over me.
Even worse, my mind keeps trying to compare him to the boy he was, but it’s impossible in the face of the man he’s become. His question hangs in the air between us. It wasn’t as casual as he made it sound. I know that much, at least.
“Scarlet said I could wear red or black or white.” I don’t want to say anything to get Scarlet in trouble. She told me the colors to choose from, and I chose. Although she told me I looked best in red.
