It all sounds too good to be true, but I could never imagine doing this. I get a vision of myself half naked, writhing on a stranger’s lap, and I cringe and bring the car engine to life again. I can’t do this. Who am I kidding? I steer the car out of the parking lot and pull out into the traffic. Her words run through my mind again:
Think about it, Ashley. Two and a half thousand dollars a week for one shift.
What holidays could you take your son on? What car would you drive? What designer clothes could you buy?
I blow out a deflated breath and pull into Starbucks. I need some time alone to think. I would love a cocktail somewhere, but I’m not going to a bar alone. I park the car, get out, and walk in deep thought.
“Welcome to Starbucks. What would you like to order tonight?” the young, chirpy male assistant asks.
I scan the lit up menu board behind him. “I’ll take a caramel latte and a chocolate mud cake, please?”
“Sure.”
I pay and make my way over to a table. I feel sick-partly because I know what I should do financially, and then what I know I am capable of.
Dancing naked in a whorehouse isn’t on either list.
But…
The money would make such a difference to Owen’s quality of life… and mine.
My number is called and I go and pick up my coffee and cake, then take a seat back at my table. I wonder what the girls wear for a uniform?
Nothing, you idiot. Half the women don’t even have tank tops on. I screw up my face as I imagine the boob fest just hanging out in the open for everyone to see. I wonder what the VIP girls are like. Jeez, I can’t imagine going to work and just casually fucking people as if it means nothing. But, five grand a night is insane.
The guys they fuck are probably hot, too. I smirk into my coffee cup. Imagine banging a hot, intelligent man and getting five thousand dollars for the privilege. Hell.
I wonder what they spend their money on? I get a vision of crazy expensive handbags and vacations.
Morals are overrated. I could do with an extra twenty-thousand dollars a month.
If only…
Imagine if I did do the VIP job, and then one day in the future Owen found out.
My eyes widen in horror.
How could you ever explain to your child that you were a prostitute? That you let men fuck you for money. You couldn’t. They would never understand and there is no possible excuse you could ever use, because it’s inexcusable. I shake my head in disgust that I even contemplated working in a place like that. I eat my cake and drink my coffee alone, and even though I’ve made the decision not to go in and check out the club, an annoying little voice inside is telling me it’s the wrong one.
I need money. I desperately need money. I moved Jenna all the way here to help with Owen and I have to damn well find a job that pays well.
This isn’t a club that offers slap dash women who have slept with every man in the USA. This is a club where men can come and take pleasure in looking at intelligent, untouched women-women who are putting themselves through college and doing this for their precious children. They know that every single woman here is something special.
Untouched women. Does that mean that I might meet women who are just like me and trying to make ends meet to get through college? She did say that the women who work there are all young professionals.
Women who want a better life for their kids…
I sip my coffee, deep in thought as I twist the ring on my finger. Maybe she says that to everyone who applies. The girls are probably all druggy smack heads. I can’t imagine decent women ever working there. But with that kind of money, I sort of can. I drag myself back out to my car, and then I pull out into the traffic, for some reason finding myself driving straight back to Club Exotic, where I park the car across the road in the darkness. I’ll just ring Jenna and tell her I am on my way home soon.
She picks up first ring. “Hey, how’s it going?”
“I didn’t go in.”
“What? Why not?”
I shrug. “I can’t work in a brothel, Jen.”
She stays silent on the other end of the phone.
“I’ll get another job somewhere else.”
“You said it was a club.”
“It is…” I hesitate. “But there’s this VIP section, too, so effectively it’s a brothel.”
“The VIP section is not where you are working.”
“Yes, but some men are there for sex and sex alone.”
“Okay, so every nightclub in the United States of America, actually the world, is basically a brothel, too, then.”
I frown. “How?” Trust her to be all Devil’s advocate on me when I really just need her to agree with my cowardice.
“I guestimate that sixty percent of men in nightclubs are there for sex.”
I listen in silence.
“So, do you mean to tell me you won’t go to a nightclub because men are just there for sex?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s different.”
“How? You tell me how? You need a job. You have a babysitter at night. It’s one or two nights a week, Ash, and it’s behind the bloody bar.”
“She wants me to topless waitress.”
“Just say no.”
I think for a moment.
“Go in, see what it’s about, and if you feel uncomfortable walk out and don’t go back.”
I roll my lips and think as my eyes rise to a group of men disappearing into the club.
“Look, even the bloody bar jobs pay three fifty a night. For two shifts that’s seven -hundred a week, Ash. How could you earn that money while working full time for free at the hospital?”
I run my finger over my steering wheel as I think.
“You would have to be stupid to not even check it out. Hell, I’m thinking I might apply there, too.”
I smile as I imagine her walking around topless. “Now you are being ridiculous.”
“Yes, and you are being a prude.”
“What if Owen ever found out?” I sigh.
“Found out what? His mother worked behind a bar while she was studying to be a surgeon. I think Owen would be bloody proud that his mother got a second job to put a roof over his head.”
I slide back into my seat. Maybe she’s right…
“Just go in and see what they say.”
My eyes stay fixed on the door across the road.
“You don’t know anyone here, Ash. For the first time ever you can be whoever you want to be… and if that’s a part-time nympho, then so be it. It could actually be fun.”
I smile softly.
“Go in and make some new friends. Hell, tomorrow morning you will be cooking breakfast, making beds, and scrubbing fucking bathrooms. Enjoy being someone else for the night.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Do you think I look okay?” I ask.
“Yes, smoking hot. The guys will all cream their pants when they catch sight of you.”
I laugh as I look down at the dress I’m wearing. A camel, woolen ribbed dress, fitted with short-capped sleeves, which falls to my calves. It’s tight and sexy without being revealing or cheap. I have high, strappy tan sandals on, and my honey-colored hair is down and full with set curls. Jen did my makeup, I have smoky eyes and a pink gloss on my lips.
I look good, I know I look good, but for a place like this, I have no idea if it is appropriate.
“Are you going in?” she asks.
My heart jumps in my chest. “Yeah, I guess.” I pause as 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?