I move the rear view mirror to check my makeup. “God, I feel sick. I’m so nervous.”
“Just check it out. You may be home in an hour. It could be totally shit. Don’t stay if it’s seedy.”
“Okay.” I nod with renewed enthusiasm. “I can do this.”
“You can.”
“Right, wish me luck.”
“Good luck, babe.”
I hang up and blow out a deep breath. Just go in there and check it out, you can leave any time you want to, I remind myself. I gingerly get out of the car and take out the card that Eliza gave me to get into the club. I hold it in my hand and stare at it for a moment.
I feel like I’m on the precipice of going to Hell. Maybe I’m about to catch on fire.
The good girl in me is begging me to go home and get a job knitting sweaters.
The bad girl in me is daring me to go in and sex it up—show these men exactly what they can’t have.
The struggle I feel daily between my conscience and my responsibilities is real.
I put my hand on my stomach as I try to calm my nerves and walk across the road to the large, black double doors.
There are four bouncers in black suits standing around. They all look me up and down as I approach them.
“Hello…” I pause. “Eliza invited me to come tonight.”
The tall man smiles sexily as his eyes scan me up and down. “What’s your name, miss?”
Ah, shit. What is my name? I can’t go with my real one. Umm. “Vivienne Jones,” I reply calmly.
The doormen all exchange looks and smile warmly. “Welcome, Miss Vivienne.” One purrs.
I push out a grateful smile, satisfied that they fell for it. I feel a surge of excitement that nobody questioned my fake name. Vivienne Jones—that’s pretty cool to be honest. I like it.
“Thank you,” I answer nervously. He steps aside, opens the door, and holds his hand out. I tentatively walk in.
I feel the air leave my lungs as the door shuts behind me.
Uh oh.
It looks like something out of a movie. When I was here for my interview, we were taken in the back entrance and didn’t see any of this. There’s dim lighting with deep coffee coloured walls and big fancy metal cut out lights hanging down from the super high ceilings. The floor is tiered to different levels with large carpeted steps running up the center. It could be an old picture theatre or something that has been converted. Spanning the whole back wall is the most exotic looking bar I have ever seen, and the bottom level has table and chairs which are situated around a catwalk stage. Shit, I wonder what shows go on down there?
The second level has large, luxurious leather armchairs placed singularly, facing toward the stage. The next level up is full of small round high tables with bar stools. My eyes rise up to the top level—the bar and busiest level of all three. My eyes flicker around nervously as I try to get my bearings. There are about fifty men in here, although it feels practically empty. Jeez, it must hold a lot of people when it’s full. I stand frozen on the spot as my eyes scan the space. There seems to be about ten women working behind the bar. Gorgeous women, all wearing cream leather skirts that are high waisted and hang just below the knee. Wearing tops made of, what looks like, cream silk that cross over in a drape across the chest and tuck into their high waisted skirts. Every now and then, as they move, you can just see a peek of the caramel-colored lace bra they have on underneath. I swallow my fear as I watch them for a moment. They’re all attractive, and I have to admit it, they do look classy… and happy. They’re all smiling and laughing with the customers... clients… what the hell do you call these guys?
This isn’t what I imagined at all.
My thoughts are interrupted. “You must be Ashley?”
I jump in fright and put my hand on my chest. “Oh, you frightened me.” I smile, embarrassed by the kind but hot looking woman that has just approached me. “Yes, I am,” I mutter. “But I don’t want to use that name here if that’s okay?”
She smiles a knowing smile. “Of course. What would you like to be called?”