The Black Chapel

The

Black

Chapel

by

Marilyn Cruise

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First edition January, 2014.

ISBN-13: 978-1494377915

ISBN-10:1494377918

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I never thought I’d take such a degrading job.

Well, degrading doesn’t even scratch the surface of how mortified this job makes me feel. Quite frankly, I’m disgusted with myself. And once I reveal my job, you probably will be too.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a regular saint, by any means; I can’t even remember the last time I went to church, or prayed to God. Not that I don’t believe in Him, it’s just I haven’t made the time for Him in my life. But nevertheless, I’m here. And it’s just, I never thought I’d end up here, at The Black Chapel, of all indecent places.

When I was twelve, I dreamt I would become a respectable prima ballerina and that I’d meet a really nice guy, get married in a church and have three or four kids. Instead, here I am, fresh out of college, having just lost my mother in a car accident, struggling to make ends meet, and supporting my sick dad.

When I first started this lowly job, I promised myself I’d only stay here until I found a better one, and told myself it wasn’t
that
bad. But if I’m truly honest with myself, I’m sickened, knowing if my mom had been alive and seen me working as a stripper, she’d be mortified.

The Black Chapel is really hopping tonight. The about twenty girls working here are yapping and laughing, and the air is inundated with hairspray and rich perfume.

I apply my make-up, heavy glitter around the eyes, black eyeliner and crimson red lipstick. My first outfit tonight is Foxy
Little Red Riding Hood
. I moan inwardly as I feel those familiar butterflies flurrying in my stomach, like they always do before I perform.
Just don’t think about it, Scarlett. Just do it.

The good news is that my income has doubled since I arrived here six months ago, which is great. Though I can’t exactly jump for joy, because I’m still struggling with paying my parents’ mortgage, my mountains of student loans, my maxed-out credit cards, all the while saving up for my dad’s chemotherapy treatments. It’s going to take a lot more to dig myself out of these vacuums of debts than my current income.

“You’re up soon, Samantha, in twenty,” Laila yells in my direction. Samantha is my stage name. My real name is Scarlett. Laila’s the owner here, and has more balls than any man who’s ever set his foot into her strip club. She’s tall, voluptuous and feisty, and always has her black hair flatironed to perfection. “Don’t be late, you hear? Last time there was an awkward pause before you took the stage.” She peers over at me—a dagger-like stare.

“I just wanted them to be even more excited about my arrival,” I say cheekily, dabbing some more sparkly ruby-red lip-gloss onto my full lips.

Laila huffs. “Well, the gentlemen in here pay a hefty price to see your performance, and you don’t wanna disappoint any of them, you hear? Disappointment leads to loss of income for the club, and loss of income to the club leads to job loss.” Laila is a businesswoman first, and an entrepreneur second. If you follow her rules, you will be treated with respect and she’ll even go so far as to show you some kindness. But never too much, and always at arm’s length.

“Yes, Laila,” I say. I desperately need this job, so I follow all her rules to a T.

Laila purses her lips and flips the page on her clipboard. “After Scarlett, comes Anne.”

Anne, AKA
Wonder Woman
at the moment, nods. Anne is my best friend, and the one who got me the job in the first place. She’s worked here for three years, and doesn’t mind it one bit. Or at least that’s what she tells herself and everyone around her all the time.

I tie a red cape around my shoulders, put my red mask on and do one last check in the mirror. I look skinnier than before because I had to go to the doctor last month, having contracted bronchitis. We don’t receive any health insurance here at the Black Chapel since we’re considered Independent Contractors. And since I’m still trying to pay off all my college debt and my parents’ mortgage, I’m basically half a million dollars in debt. So this month instead of buying food, I’m paying down the ER bills, which are steep, and a hell of a lot too many.

I should have gone to medical school instead of majoring in Humanities. A degree in Humanities is a useless degree, I’ve learned, especially when it comes to finding a decent paying job.

“You look super sexy,” Anne says to me.

“Thanks,” I reply. “If only sexy equaled three billion dollars, I’d be happy.”

She laughs. “No, seriously, that gold glitter really makes you brown eyes pop.”

I’m not so certain, but I do think the fiery red against my black wavy hair looks pretty striking.

“Coming to church with me tomorrow?” Anne asks, her perfectly arched eyebrows rise.

She always asks if I’ll come to church with her on Saturday night, and of course I always refuse. It’s like our religious ritual.

“No, thanks, I’m good.” I’d feel too guilty sitting in a pew next to a real saint.

Anne is an enigma. She’s a stripper, but goes to church. She’s a huge supporter of animal rights, yet she loves to eat veal and lamb, and she refuses to spend money on lattes, says it’s wasteful, though she splurges on getting her nails manicured every single week. But she’s a dear friend, and I love her no matter how many quirks she has.

“Hey, isn’t Wonder Woman supposed to have dark hair?” I smirk.

“This Wonder Woman is blond. Besides, haven’t you heard that blonds have more fun?” She adjusts her Wonder Woman crown.

“I never heard that,” I say. “And here I am thinking that brunettes have all the fun.”

“Only in the real world, darling.” Anne kisses me on both cheeks and I’m off to the stage. I pass a few girls on their way back from performing. “Is it a good crowd tonight?”

“Oh, the best,” Gina says. “Wait until you see who’s out there.” She giggles.

I’m curious now who she means. I arrive in the wings and wait for my cue. The lights dim. It’s time for me to get into performance mode—my alter-self mode. I’d never dare perform if I couldn’t conceal my identity. Thankfully, I always wear a mask when performing, so I don’t have to be afraid someone will recognize me in here or on the streets. That would be humiliating.

“Please welcome, Little Hot Red Riding Hood,” Jim says over the speaker.

I sigh. He got my name wrong - again. Oh well. No one will notice, I’m sure.

Jim is Laila’s husband, and a very kind man. Not that Laila isn’t kind, it’s just she wears the pants and the tie in that relationship. But their relationship works, and we love them both dearly, well, at least from a distance.

I walk onto the black lacquer-looking stage. The lights are a dim red, and I get into my opening pose. Slowly, the lights come up and my music,
Lady in Red
, comes on. I perform my pre-choreographed moves and I take each article of clothing off very slowly. The crowd is indeed very energetic tonight, and I hear whistling and whooping through the packed audience. I do my least favorite, but most popular move: face the back curtain, straddle my legs wide, and lean forward.

The audience cheers for me. Of course they love it, but inside, I cringe. I just hate everything about this job, since it makes me feel like I’m an object to be had and not an individual with value.

Standing up straight, I pull my bra off, making sure I don’t rush. I’ve learned you need to draw the audience in and make them anticipate the final reveal. That’s where the magic is—make them go crazy as you take your own sweet time. I despise it.

At the end, I’m left standing in nothing but my red and black lacy thong, a couple of sparkly red dots covering my nipples, and my stiletto heels. Applause ensues, and I’m relieved to have the first of three numbers completed.

During the dance, I’ve managed to collect several twenty-dollar bills and I smile, knowing this will be a great night as far as money goes. Part of these bills will go to pay for my dad’s chemotherapy, part to pay my parents’ mortgage.

There’s only one new face in the crowd, a man, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties. Was that who Gina was talking about? He’s got cinnamon, messy hair, the intense blue eyes of Tom Cruise and the lips of Brad Pitt. Wow, he’s handsome! My stomach flutters. My stomach hasn’t fluttered since—at the moment I can’t even remember. He is really good-looking. Our eyes connect for a brief moment, and for a moment, it’s like time has suspended. But his gaze becomes so intense I’m unable to hold it and look away. I think I see him smiling out of the corner of my eye. Taking my bow, I get a few more ten and twenty dollar bills before I leave the stage.

Who is that guy? I wonder. I take another look at him from behind the wings, and my heart begins to hammer—fast. I really want to know who he is; there’s just something intriguing about him. But I shouldn’t waste time; I have another costume to get into. And besides, Laila wouldn’t be happy to find out that I asked about him, so I decide to forget about him. I make my way back to the dressing room.

When Anne is done performing, I’m already in my next outfit:
Cat Woman
. The audience always loves
Cat Woman
. The black shiny vinyl unitard is, of course, to my great displeasure, skintight. I pull my black mask on, secure my cat ears and then reapply some more ruby red lip-gloss.

Anne returns and smiles at me. “Great audience tonight, huh?” she says, halfway undressed already. “Did you see Michael Manning out there?” Her eyes are big and bright.

“Who?” I ask, almost ready to go out again.

“Michael Manning, the billionaire?” Anne’s jaw drops open. “Please tell me you’ve heard of him?”

I shake my head almost unnoticeably.

“Come on, you know, the handsome young real-estate guy who owns like tons of major hotels on the west coast?” Anne says. “The most eligible bachelor in all of Oregon?”

“Oh,” I say, not really sure I have heard of him. Should I have heard of him? Yes, the answer comes.

“Never mind. But he’d be a fine catch.” Anne sprays some more hairspray in her already stiff hair.

I shrug my shoulders and decide to just forget about the handsome Mr. Manning. I’ve had so much trouble with men that I don’t want any more of them. My last relationship ended when the guy I was dating beat me black and blue. I reported the incident to the police, and the guy was arrested and thrown into jail. I am so done with men!

I take the stage again, and of course, against my better judgment (which is basically missing at this stage in my life), I take one more look at Mr. Manning.

My heart starts racing. Why is my heart racing? It’s not like I’ve even spoken a single word to him. But there’s just something about him. He smiles at me across the room, and despite my reasonable self now yelling at me to stop this insanity, I go to get a closer look at this highly coveted Michael Manning.

Stepping down the stairs, I cat-walk between the crowded tables and chairs. Michael looks like he’s with a buddy and is sipping his beer. It’s really dim in here, but there’s enough light for me to see his sculpted body. Our eyes connect and now my heart starts pounding. What is it about him that makes my heart go wild? This has never happened at work before, me being attracted to a customer, me wanting to find out more about a guy who likes to frequent strip clubs. Ugh! I don’t really want to get to know a guy like this, do I? Yet something invisible, but oh so forceful, draws me toward him.