The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club) (2 page)

I looked the girl up and down. “You don’t look much like a Tawny,” I said. “We need to pick a better stripper name for you.”

Tawny turned back to look at Germaine, who coughed, probably trying to hold back a laugh. I knew her pretty well after working at the club for two years. “Well,” Germaine said. “That’s certainly something to consider. Sassy, I’m going to ask you to show Tawny around. She’ll be observing tonight, and will begin dancing tomorrow. Please do your best to make her feel at home.”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s me. Homey. Come on, new girl, I’ll show you where to get ready.”

Tawny stood up and joined me in the doorway. I was glad to see she was wearing sensible shoes and street clothes. The ones who showed up ready to go on stage never lasted long. They wanted to make it a
lifestyle
, and that was the kiss of death. It was just a job.

“One other thing,” Germaine said, and I turned back to look at her. She folded her hands together on top of the desk. “The owner will be here tonight.”

Well, shit.

I led the new girl toward the back of the club, muttering to myself the whole way. Germaine was clever: she didn’t want to have to tell Poppy, so she would make me do her dirty work, and then I would have to deal with Poppy’s inevitable meltdown.

Being a team player
sucked
.

I slammed through the door into the dancer’s area. Scarlet called it the
seraglio
, and the name had stuck. She told me that it meant the private quarters where concubines lived, which I thought was appropriate. We had a pretty nice setup: a seating area with couches and a mini-fridge for snacks, nice showers, and a large dressing room with lighted mirrors. Way nicer than the last place I worked, where all the dancers shared one unisex bathroom and there were usually about five of us crammed in front of the sink trying to do our hair.

The seating area was empty, but there were enough bags and clothes strewn around that I knew I wasn’t the first one to arrive. Most of the dancers did their hair and makeup at the club, and by 3:30, everyone would be sitting around packing on eyeshadow and gossiping. I needed to talk to Poppy before that so she had some time to cope with the news about the owner, and then I needed to shower and get ready. I didn’t have time to deal with the fresh meat.

I tossed my bag on a couch and said, “Okay, new girl. Make yourself pretty. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Fresh Meat nodded at me, eyes wide. What was she thinking, calling herself
Tawny
with that hair and that skin? She looked Mediterranean as all get-out. Probably Italian. I would have to think of a better name for her.

I went into the dressing room and found Poppy in her usual spot, wrapped in a silk dressing gown and carefully applying her false eyelashes. “We need to talk,” I said.

“Well, hello to you too,” she drawled. “Is there a problem?”

I glanced around the room at the handful of other dancers working on their makeup. I didn’t want to do this with an audience. “Let’s go outside for a minute,” I said.

Poppy heaved an enormous sigh, like I was asking her to climb Mt. Everest with no oxygen, and heaved herself out of her chair. I really didn’t understand why she was head dancer. She was lazy, whiny, and not very good at interacting with the clients; but she’d been here for years, so maybe Germaine just felt sorry for her.

She followed me out into the main club, and then stopped and folded her arms over her chest. “What’s this about?”

No reason not to cut to the chase. “The owner’s coming tonight,” I said.

“Oh my God,” Poppy wailed, hands flying to her face. “Tonight?! When did this happen? Germaine didn’t say anything to me!”

“She just told me,” I said. “It’s really not a big deal, Poppy. He always just sits in the audience, it’s not like—”

“Everything has to be
perfect
,” she said, and frowned at me. “You know that.”

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t agree with her, but it was easier to keep my mouth shut. “Good luck with that. I have to get in the shower.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Poppy said, seizing my arm. “You’re going to help me.”

“I
can’t
,” I said. “Seriously, I walked here and I’m super gross. I have to get ready, and Germaine asked me to show the new girl around.”

“Ugh,” Poppy said, utterly disgusted with me for wanting to do my job. “Fine. We’ll see what Germaine has to say about that.”

“Good luck,” I told her, and headed for the back. It was so typical that she’d go running to Germaine to tattle on me. What was Germaine going to say: Oh, Poppy, you’re right, Sassy doesn’t need to do her makeup, she can absolutely go on stage looking like something the cat dragged in!

Workplace politics: even strippers had to deal with them.

Fresh Meat was right where I had left her, sitting on the couch with that deer in the headlights look. “If you’re really that terrified, maybe you shouldn’t work here,” I told her, too annoyed for tact. I opened up my bag and dug out my toiletry kit.

“I’m not terrified,” she said. “That’s just my face.”

“Your customers like you scared?” I asked. “Sweet little girl, all alone in the big world?”

“Basically,” she said.

I laughed. Maybe there was more to this girl than met the eye. “I really need to get in the shower,” I said. “Five minutes. Then we’ll talk. I’ll come up with a better name for you.”

“I’ve already got one,” she said.

“Tawny sucks,” I said.

“Not that,” she said. “I mean I’ve got a different one.”

“Okay, lay it on me,” I said.

“Tempest,” she said.

The girl didn’t look like a storm to me any more than she looked like a Tawny, but whatever. It was better than Tawny, and it hit the right note: the clients liked trashy names because it made them feel like they were doing something naughty. “That’ll do,” I said, and went to get in the shower.

I didn’t linger: a quick scrub, some conditioner in my hair, and I hopped out and pulled on my robe.

Fresh Meat was still sitting on the couch, clutching her enormous duffel bag.

“I hope you’ve got a change of clothes in that thing,” I said.

She nodded.

“Cool,” I said. “Let’s go get pretty.”

I led her into the dressing room and we sat in empty chairs at one end of the long counter. A few of the primping dancers gave us curious looks, obviously wanting to know what was up with the stranger, but I ignored them. No time for introductions now.

I opened up my makeup kit and slathered lotion on my face. “So, Germaine already covered the boring money stuff, I guess.”

Fresh Meat unzipped her duffel and took out a small zippered case, which she opened to reveal a butt-load of makeup. Good. “She explained all of that to me, yes.”

I rubbed on a thin layer of primer and dug out the rest of my makeup while I waited for the primer to dry. “I’m assuming this isn’t your first time stripping.” Nobody worked at the Silver Cross without at least a year of experience on stage.

“I was at White Elephant for a while,” she said.

“Not bad,” I said. “You’ll do fine, then. Same clientele here, basically. Some of them are a lot richer, but they don’t flaunt it. The only difference is—”

“The private rooms,” she said. “Germaine told me. I’m on board.”

“Decide now what your limits are,” I said. “Not when you’re already in there with a client.”

She turned to face the mirror, using a sponge to apply her foundation. “What are yours?”

“Anything they want, as long as they keep their pants zipped up,” I said. “Works for me.” I used my fingers to apply my own foundation, blending carefully along my jawline so that it looked natural. “You can do whatever you want on stage. Pole dancing is fine if you want to do that. I don’t. You’ll watch tonight and see what the other girls do.” I set my foundation with powder and started on my eye makeup. “What’s the first rule of stripping?”

“Don’t get involved with the clients,” she said.

Our eyes met in the mirror, and I smiled. “You’re going to do just fine, baby.”

The rules of stripping were flexible, and every dancer had her own list, but the first rule was always the same: don’t get attached.

My list went something like this:

Rule 1: don’t get involved with the clients.

Rule 2: don’t get involved with the clients.

Rule 3: do not, under any circumstances, get involved with the clients.

Some of them didn’t make it easy. They were rich, charming, handsome—everything a girl could ask for. But we were just bodies to them, and forgetting that was a quick road to heartbreak and sucking at your job. Better to stay detached, and make them keep it in their pants.

We finished doing our faces, and then I opened one of the cabinets under the counter and took out my wig.

Sasha Kilgore had boring hair: dark brown, straight, nothing to write home about.

Sassy Belle had hair like Marilyn Monroe: perfectly blond, perfectly curled and styled. The clients loved it. I had spent a lot of money on that wig, and it was worth every penny. Most of the dancers had lean, athletic bodies, but not me. I had the breasts and hips of a ‘50s pinup model, and there was no use in fighting it. Go big or go home.

Fresh Meat watched as I settled the wig on my head and tugged it into place. “Don’t you worry about it falling off?”

“Maybe if someone grabs it and yanks,” I said. “Otherwise it’s not going anywhere.”

“Hmm,” she said.

“You don’t need one, your hair looks great,” I said. Wig in place, I applied my lipstick, and then sat back and examined myself. Perfect.

Fresh Meat looked pretty good, too. I was always dubious about the new girls, but Germaine was no fool. She wouldn’t hire anyone who wasn’t up to snuff.

“Should I change clothes, too?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Nah. You don’t even need the makeup, I just wanted to see how you would do it. We’re going to put you at a table in the back with one of the busboys and the two of you can pretend you’re on a hot date.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said. “Now I’m all dressed up with no place to go.”

I winked at her. “Live and learn.” I glanced at the clock. Still half an hour to opening. “Come on, I’ll show you around the club.”

We left the seraglio and I gave her a brief tour of the club: the bathrooms for the waitresses and clients, the storeroom and kitchen, the locker room where the other employees kept their things; and finally, the series of private rooms where clients could enjoy the more…
intimate
attentions of a dancer of their choice. For a price, of course.

There were two types of private rooms. The first kind, the ones that opened off the main room of the club, were designed for private parties, and had sofas and tables. Some of our clients liked to entertain friends and business associates, and I had been to plenty of totally innocent parties where the clients drank and talked about stocks and didn’t touch me at all.

The other kind of room lined a corridor running back into the recesses of the building, and those rooms were blatantly about sex. They had beds and enormous soaking tubs and were designed to be private, intimate, and luxurious.

That was the secret of the Silver Cross Club: wealthy men, if they passed the application process, could have anything they desired, and be assured of absolute discretion.

I took Fresh Meat into one of those rooms and watched as she looked around. I couldn’t read her expression. “You don’t have to do any of this, you know,” I said. “The sex. There are plenty of dancers who only dance and never go into the private rooms at all.”

“I know,” she said. “But the money’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, and shrugged. None of us would be doing this if it weren’t for the money.

We went back to the seraglio. It was almost time for the club to open, and most of the dancers were hanging around in the dressing room, gossiping and putting the final touches on their makeup. I cleared my throat loudly, and when that didn’t work, clapped my hands together. Everyone turned and looked at us.

“Ladies, we have fresh meat,” I said into the sudden silence. “This is Tempest.”

“Hi, Tempest,” they chorused obediently.

“She’s going to be watching tonight,” I said. “And then—”

That was as far as I got before I was interrupted by Poppy, who appeared at my shoulder like a specter of impending doom. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and said, “WHY are you all still SITTING AROUND when The Owner is going to be here ANY MINUTE!”

I cringed away from her and fought the impulse to cover my ears. I could never figure out why Poppy had to be so
loud
.

“We aren’t open yet,” Xanadu called from the back of the room, and I smirked. She and Poppy got along like two cats in a bag.

“We’re
almost
open,” Poppy said. “Germaine wants EVERYONE to be on her BEST BEHAVIOR tonight. We wouldn’t want The Owner to be disappointed!”