Beautiful Failure (8 page)

“Yeah, that’s me.”

He looks me up and down. Then he circles me, smiling. “I’m Mr. Watts, but you can call me
Michael
. Have a seat at the desk.”

I walk towards the chair and sit down, watching as he adjusts a wall painting before sitting across from me.

He stares at me a while—tapping his chin, not saying anything.

Reaching into a small wooden box and pulling out two thick cigars, he sighs. “Do you smoke?”

“I’m trying to quit.”

“Fair enough.” He nods and drops one back into the box. “I’m sure you know what type of business this is, so I’ll spare you the introductory bullshit and get straight to the point: If I
choose
to hire you after your audition, I expect you to give a hundred and ten percent every day. I don’t care why you’re here and I don’t give a damn about whatever sob story you may tell years down the line. This is a
business
, and my clients want to see women who actually
enjoy
what they’re doing. If you’re the type that’s going to cry every night because you’re ashamed to dance, get the fuck out of my office right now.”

I don’t move. I sit still and watch him light his cigar.

“There are several rules you’ll need to learn, but we’ll get to those in a minute. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Why is the club hidden?”

“
Hidden
?” He furrows his brow. “I believe
secluded
is the word you’re looking for, because people do know that the club exists. We moved last year and simply changed the name.”

“Why?”

“How inquisitive. We needed more space, and we wanted to step things up a notch.” He puffs a wisp of smoke across the air. He’s being incredibly vague and for once in my life I actually want the details.

As if he can pick up on my hesitance, he leans forward. “You can walk out of this room at any time. The last thing I need is a woman who is unsure of herself. Insecurities aren’t welcome at The Phoenix.
Ever
.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I see that. Do you have any more
questions
before we start the official part of the interview?”

I shake my head.

“Okay.” He leans back and sets his cigar down, letting the smoke unfurl in slow spirals. “Show me your tits.”

“
What
?”

“Show. Me. Your .Tits.”

I’m blushing right red. I can feel it. “Now?”

“Yes.
Now
.” He looks at my chest. “You think I’m going to let you hit the stage or dance for my clients without knowing if you have something worth seeing? Take your shirt off.”

I swallow and move my hands to unbutton my blouse. Once I reach the last button, I slip my hand around my back and unsnap my bra, letting my C-cup breasts fall free. I shift in my seat and stare into his eyes, realizing that he’s looking at me as if he’s incapable of turning away.

“Get up and stand by the bookshelf,” he commands.

I do as he says and keep my eyes locked on his.

“Your pants...” His voice is hoarse. “Take those off.”

I unbutton my jeans, aware that he’s watching every single movement I make. I take my time unzipping my fly, and push the pants to the floor. I’m now wearing nothing but a heart necklace and a lacy black thong.

He stands up and walks over to me, circling me slowly. He sighs and gently touches me, trailing his fingers against the tattoo that’s etched onto my left shoulder.

“You’ll have to cover that up,” he whispers, and then he rubs the other tattoo that’s on the back of my neck. “This one too...”

I nod and he runs his fingers through my hair from behind.

“I don’t hire nervous girls,
Emerald
...”

I stiffen. I never told him my name. I’m about to turn around and ask him how he knows it, but he wraps an arm around my waist and holds me still.

“We ran your plates the second you pulled into the parking lot.” One of his hands is still in my hair. “Nothing that happens here is mentioned outside of these walls. Understand?”

I nod, but he spins me around.

“I need you to
say
it.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Put your clothes back on.” He clears his throat and watches me again.

When I’ve re-buttoned my shirt, he tilts my chin up and looks into my eyes. “Do you know how to dance?”

“Yes.” I lie.

“In six inch stilettos?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You get two weeks to shadow your future coworkers and train and then you’ll audition. After that you’re on your own. The first three rules are simple. Rule number one: Don’t fuck the customers. Rule number two:
Don’t fuck the customers
. Rule number three—”

“Don’t fuck the customers?”

“
No
. If you choose to break rules one and two, I’m not responsible. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“What would you like me to call you?”

“What do you mean
call
me?”

He smiles. “No one here goes by a real name. While the majority of my clients are businessmen and high level executives who fly in from bigger cities, we do get a few strangers here or there and we don’t need anyone knowing who you really are. If I offer you this job, and you choose to take it, the day you bring your license and social security card will be the only time your real name is welcome here.”

“Does that mean I’m temporarily hired?”

“No,” he says flatly. “It means it’s time for me to take you on a tour.”

He slips an arm around my waist and leads me down another hallway and through a small metal door. Behind that door are two short flights of steps, and the sound of thumping music which is becoming louder and louder.

As we approach a velvet curtain, I can smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke. And sweat. 

“Stay close,” he orders as he pulls it open and pushes me into a dark room. “I want you to leave the very second any of this feels uncomfortable.”

My eyes take several seconds to adjust to the darkness and the haze, but when they do, I have to literally pinch myself to make sure I’m not hallucinating. 

There are five huge poles in the room—each one surrounded by its own circular platform stage. The one in the middle stands a little higher than the rest and is clearly the main draw, but all of them feature the same pretty prize: a half-naked woman clad in only lace panties, swirling around in confidence.

“We’ll come back to the standard things...” Michael shows me into a dimly lit hallway. There are doors on each side, and their windows are all tinted.

Despite the privacy, I’m pretty sure there are moans coming from the other side of those doors. And not the fake kind.

“We fulfill fantasies here,” he says calmly. “A man divorces his wife and wants to relive his glory days? Fine. Someone gets off by being beaten and tied up? Done. And if some of my girls choose to break rules one and two to earn triple of what they would make on stage?”

He doesn’t say anything further.

He simply leads me back out into the main room where a new group of girls have taken their places on the poles.

I’d thought that coming to a strip club in the daytime would mean the place would be empty, but it’s not. Far from it. 

There are several men—all dressed in designer suits, sitting at the base of the stages. They’re lounging in the luxury booths that line the far wall, and I see a couple of them walking out of what appears to be a private lounge.

“Hello, Michael.” A woman steps in front of us and extends a tray of shot glasses. “Is your new friend enjoying the show? Does she need a drink?” She smirks, and I realize she’s wearing nothing but a white thong and matching pasties.

I don’t answer her. I let my eyes continue to roam the room, watching as the women gracefully contort their bodies around the poles—as they make the men squirm and lose control over what they’re able to do.

One man who’s sitting in front of the center pole suddenly stands up and approaches it. He reaches into his breast-pocket and pulls out his wallet.

The dancer wraps her legs around the pole and tilts her upper body backward so he’s standing right above her face.

My vision isn’t the best, but I’m pretty sure he inserts two hundred dollar bills into her mouth.

While still hanging from the pole, she extends her arms and touches him, running her hands against the large tent that’s formed in his pants.

“You can touch them, but they can’t touch you.” The shot glass woman follows my gaze, and then she whispers into my ear, “Unless you
want
them to that is...It’s more money if you do.”

I swallow and look away—letting my eyes settle on a pair of doors to my right. A half-naked woman and a suit are stumbling through them, and he’s definitely
touching
her—
kissing
her. I know she’s going to do more than dance for him behind those walls.

I want to ask Michael a number of questions, the main one being “How the fuck is all of this legal?” but I don’t want him to think I want to back out.

After we watch a woman descend from the pole in an effortless flip, he shows me to the bar that extends against the entire back wall. 

Behind it, women are dressed in shiny gold bras and black cut off shorts that could reveal everything with one slight tug. Standing tall behind them is a massive wall of lit glass shelves that hold every brand and flavor of alcohol.

My mouth waters just looking at them. It’s been a long time and I figure one shot won’t hurt anything. I can easily drive home after just one.

“We pulled your record from your license plate too.” Michael hands me a bottle of water. “You’re
banned
from the bar. I’ve got legal issues of my own.”

I sigh.

“If any of the cameras,” he says while pointing at the black orbs that hang down from the ceiling, “or any of my security guards catch you even
looking
at a drink, I’ll turn you in to the state personally.
Clear
?”

“Clear.” I unscrew the bottle and slurp as much of it as I can.

He looks at his watch and quickly shows me the DJ booth, the private dance-rooms, and the private “bachelor pads” that feature their own poles. He says a lot more about The Phoenix as he leads me back upstairs, but I only catch bits and pieces.

I’ve been to strip clubs before—a couple ones with Leah and one with Parker in college, but The Phoenix is
not
a strip club. I don’t know what the fuck it is.

My car is where I left it outside, and when a black Jaguar suddenly pulls behind it I feel embarrassed and out of place.

“For future reference,” he says as he opens my car door, “the employee parking lot is straight ahead and through that black gate.”

I nod and slip inside, twisting my key into the ignition. “How much time do I get to think about it?”

“Friday. Five o’ clock.” He steps away.

I drive off, completely dazed by everything I’ve just seen. I don’t think about the boring country fields or the stupid cows that block the road on my way home. All I can think about is The Phoenix and whether or not I should consider it. 

T
hree days. Three days to think about The Phoenix and I’m sitting in a bookstore dreaming about things that will never come true.

Every morning for the past six months, I’ve been coming here as soon as the doors open.

I take my seat near the windows in the back, open my laptop, and let the words for my latest story flow freely. Every time I come here, I tell myself that this story is
the
story, the one that will have the New York publishers calling my phone and begging me to sign with them, even though I know it’ll never happen.

“Still working on your book?” A coffee barista sets my drink on the table.

“Yeah.”

“Are you on a lunch break from work? I never see you here this late in the afternoon.”

“I don’t have a job right now. I’m unemployed.”

“Oh...” He runs a hand through his hair. “You know,
we’re
hiring. Management is pretty lenient and they’d probably let you work on your book during the slow days, especially if you worked in the book section.”

I smile, thinking that maybe
this
is where I should be working—not in some sweat and smoke filled strip club.

“There are good benefits too,” he says, taking a seat. “You get two free books a month, free coffee during your shift, and you get to read a lot of the books before they hit the shelves.

“Is it full time?”

He nods. “If that’s what you want.”

“How much does it pay? If you don’t mind me asking that is.”

“Of course not.” He smiles and crosses his arms. “It’s a pretty good hourly rate. It’s eight fifty.”

Did he just say eight fifty? As in eight dollars and fifty cents an hour?!

“What do you think?” He smiles. “Sounds good, right?”

Welp...There goes my need to “think” about working at The Phoenix.

“Yeah, sounds amazing. I’ll get an application on my way out.”

He looks overjoyed as he stands up, as he looks over his shoulder and smiles while walking away.

I shut my laptop and pull out my notebook, scribbling a few things I need to address:
How the hell will I hide The Phoenix from Virginia and Henry for the long term? Will this shit be worth it? Do they really expect me to be able to learn how to strip in two weeks? Why did I lie about knowing how to dance? I only took three semesters of ballet in high school and I was average...

When my list of questions reaches the number twenty, I drop my pen.

Half of them don’t have any answers because I won’t know unless I take the job...

I
t’s Friday. Four thirty in the afternoon.

I’m pulling into the parking lot of The Phoenix—telling the security guard, once again, that I have a reason to be here.

He waits for me to park my car, and then he personally escorts me inside. As if he’s annoyed with my presence, he tells me to wait for someone named Robyn before he disappears.