Hell's Belles. Jackie Kessler

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СКАЧАТЬ waiting to be used. Above hung rows of glasses, suspended by their stems. How the crystal withstood the ear-shattering decibel of the music was anybody’s guess. Numerous flat-screen televisions decorated the walls around the bar. Off to the side was a foosball table, its players standing half-cocked, just waiting to come to attention and get slap-happy.

      Mirrors winked like interactive wallpaper, reflecting the rest of the room ad nauseum. To my right, divided from the bar by a mahogany half-wall with a cutout entrance, were rows of round tables, black and cold, each surrounded by three plush gray chairs. The front tables bumped up against a white stage with a runway, the corners adorned with a low, brass rail. A slim pole at the end of the stage caught the targeted beams of multicolored spotlights, casting the silver with hints of red, green, and blue. On stage, a blond woman danced as she held onto the pole. Either that, or she had a bug in her cleavage she was trying to shake free.

      Two people were seated at a table near the stage, a man in an open-necked button-up shirt and a plump woman in a light sweater, both with drinks. The man called over his shoulder, “For God’s sake, Lyle, can’t you please lose the country shit?”

      “But I like country,” a guy’s voice boomed from loudspeakers I couldn’t see. “And you never let me play it when we’re open.”

      The blonde bumped and thrusted as Shania sang that the best thing about being a woman was the prerogative to have a little fun. My kinda gal, that Shania. The dancer wasn’t really feeling the music; she moved as if she was trying to find the groove but her feet wouldn’t pay attention to the rhythm. Maybe it was the fuck-me shoes. With stilettos that high, if she exhaled too much she’d fall on her ass.

      Hips swaying to the beat, the blonde pulled her shirt over her head, revealing a black lace bra barely containing two D-cups. Tossing the garment to the seated man, she flashed a nervous smile when he caught the shirt one-handed. A real pro, that guy.

      A grin bloomed on my face. I was in a strip club! Well, no—the decor seemed a bit too upscale for a titty bar, despite the gauche mirror-as-wallpaper motif. More like a gentlemen’s club. Flesh as fantasy. I inhaled deeply, imagining smoke and booze and sweat riding the air, hearing whoops of carnal desire over the thumping of the music. No wonder this place called to me. I might not have been a succubus any longer, but my sex radar still worked.

      Shimmying to the song, the blonde slid her miniskirt down and stepped out of it. Sheer thigh-highs clung to her curvy legs, held in place by a black garter belt. She performed a slow turn—either in an attempt to move to the beat or to avoid a wipeout in five-inch heels—broadcasting the fact that her black undies were the barest scrap of a thong. Bending over, she wiggled her bare bottom as Shania insisted we forget she’s a lady. Her head bobbing between her legs, she fumbled with her bra clasp. Finally unhooking it, she slid her bra off, then sank to the floor. Flipping onto her back, she wriggled like a hooked fish, her large mounds doing their best Jell-O impression as they shook back and forth.

      “All right, honey,” the woman at the table said. “That’s fine.”

      The blonde sat up, swinging her legs beneath her bottom. She rose to her feet, using the pole for balance. Shielding her breasts with her hands, she licked her lips and waited, shivering either from the arctic temperature in the club or from nerves.

      “Lyle,” the man shouted, “turn that shit off!”

      “Sure thing, Roman,” Lyle said offstage, and the music cut off.

      “Did I get the job?” The blonde’s voice was breathless with hope.

      “Of course, love. I’m sure when you get some real music on, your feet’ll know what to do.”

      The older woman sighed, throwing the man a disgusted look. “You did fine, honey. You’ve got a lovely body, and that’s what the customers want to see. If you get nervous before your set, knock back a drink for some liquid courage. You’ll be terrific.”

      The blonde smiled her relief.

      “But honey, no throwing your clothes to the customers. You’ll never get them back. And I’m guessing you don’t want to buy a new outfit for every show. First time dancing, right?”

      Her breasts jiggled in time with her nodding head.

      “You’ll start on the early shift, then. Ease you into things. We open at five, but I’d want you here around four to go over the rules and fees and such like.”

      “Fees?” The dancer’s face scrunched in puzzlement. Man, she was fabulous at playing a Dumb Blonde. I bit back the urge to applaud.

      “Momma here’ll explain how Belles works,” the man said, tossing the shirt back to the sweet young thing. “We’ll see you around four.”

      She gushed her thanks as she collected her clothing. Dressing quickly, she prattled about how thrilled she was, how this was so exciting, how she’s always wanted to dance.

      If what she just did on stage was dancing, then I needed a new definition for the word.

      She carefully stepped down the stairs on the far left, a touch wobbly in her heels. Sauntering up to me, she gave me a thumbs-up sign. Up close, I saw she was blond by way of Clairol—platinum all around except by her roots, which threatened to sprout brunette. “Roman and Momma are really nice,” she said, motioning to the two seated at the table.

      I glanced over at the man and the woman, who were bent together, speaking softly. They were nice in the way that diamondbacks were pretty—you still didn’t want to get too close. He looked like he was aiming for Mafioso Chic, while she was pushing the boundary on All-American Mom. I didn’t take either at face value.

      “I was so nervous!” the blonde confided. “But Momma let me have a shot of whiskey before I tried out. That helped, but I was still afraid they would think I couldn’t dance. And I really need this job. I got lucky!”

      This girl with her Marilyn Monroe hair wore naivete like jewelry. I was willing to bet one of Caitlin’s credit cards that dancing ability was the last thing an exotic dancer really needed. Low body fat and a ready smile were probably more valuable than high kicks. And I wondered whether Roman thought he’d be getting lucky with the new blood later tonight.

      I said, “They wouldn’t have hired you if they didn’t like what they saw.”

      Gah. There I went again with the nice shtick. I didn’t want to be nice. Bunnies were nice. I wanted to be less like Thumper and more like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

      A fluttering smile played on the blonde’s face. “Thanks. My name’s Jennifer, but I’m going by Jemma here.”

      “I’m Jesse.”

      “Nice to meet you. I’d stay to cheer you on, but I’ve got to get an outfit for later. Good luck, Jesse!” With that, she tottered down the hall and out of sight.

      “Hey, love,” the man at the table called out, “you here to audition?”

      It was a moment before I realized he was talking to me. “Audition?”

      “Christ, not another one who doesn’t speak English. You know, to try out? Dance?” He made a waving motion with his hand.

      Ooh. Me, an exotic dancer? Why not? I needed a job. Caitlin’s credit cards wouldn’t last forever…especially not СКАЧАТЬ