Craved (Twisted Book 2) (9 page)

‘Have you spoken to Mom?’ I pour two cups, add some milk and go to sit at the table.

‘Yes.’ Natalia starts unpacking the shopping bags into the fridge. ‘We had a long conversation. She thinks we should sell the salon. Even if Dad recovers, it'll take months or even years. She physically can’t do both.’

‘It’s probably not a bad idea.’

‘Yeah… in time it could become even more of a burden financially. Instead of making money, we'll lose it.’

‘It would be easier if I were there, but right now I am needed here more.’

‘I know you wanted to leave,’ Natalia finishes unpacking and drops in front of me, ‘but without you we wouldn't be able to manage. I am so sorry you've got stuck here.’

‘Don’t worry about me. It’s all relative. I am definitely in a better situation than a year ago, or than our dad.’ I smile reassuringly. ‘How is he?’

‘The same. The doctors are taking him off those last meds that caused the fluid to build up again. Hopefully he will be able to go back home soon.’ Natalia sighs. She looks tired too.

The door to the kitchen flies open.

‘Oh God. I am so glad you girls are here.’ Lena rushes in. ‘I have some news.’

‘You are pregnant?’ Natalia and I say in the same breath.

‘How did you know? Have you spoken to Mark already?’

Natalia and I high-five each other.

‘No, he didn’t tell us. We just guessed.’

‘You know what that means? I’m going to get married!’ I’ve never heard Lena so excited. ‘I will have to stop working and become a full-time housewife,’ she says dreamily, then quickly adds, ‘But don’t worry, girls. Mark promised to contribute towards Dad’s medical bills as much as he can.’

‘Congratulations Len.’ I get up and hug her. ‘So happy for you.’

Natalia joins our hug. ‘Oh Len… your big dream is happening! You will finally become a Mrs... um… What’s Mark’s surname?’

‘Smith,’ Lena chuckles in her excitement.

Natalia goes back to her chair, ‘I told you girls that coming to South Africa was the right decision!’

‘Sure, Natalia wouldn’t miss a chance to remind us that she is smart and always right!’ I comment, and we giggle.

16

It’s weird to see the club brightly lit and most of the girls without make-up. Two days ago the club’s management announced a meeting for the dancers. It was surprising, since we had one a week ago and they’re usually scheduled only once a month.

But, here we are, irritated, and burdened by being in the club outside of working hours, about to get another lecture.

As always, Alan, our general manager, leads the meeting. The unfading dark grey suit contours his V-shaped torso and long strong legs. His young face is focused and underlined with a stubborn chin. Just like last week, he thanks us for coming to the meeting (
as if we had a choice
) and again begins with the rules of the club.

‘Girls, we want you to look your best. Taking care of your nails, hair and outfits is your duty. Our responsibility is to keep the place clean and appealing, advertise and bring in as many people as we can.’ He runs his stare over us, making sure we are listening.

‘Our job is to bring the clients in, yours is to make them stay. We do our job, you do yours.’

He goes on and on in his usual calm manner, and a wave of yawns runs through the crowd.

‘We had a few unacceptable incidents again last week,’ Alan continues after a short but weighty pause. ‘One of the girls was trying to convince the manager that her client, who’d run out of money and couldn't pay for the dances he’d enjoyed, would leave his car keys and bring the payment “in a couple of days for sure”. First of all, when there is a problem like that, it’s not yours any more. You have to notify one of the managers as soon as possible. Second of all, we don’t accept payments in jewelry, cars, clothes or any other items.’ All the girls look at each other, trying to find out who is the hero of the incident. He waits for the laughter to settle. ‘Please restrain yourself from meddling, regardless of the stage that your relationship with the client has reached.’ More giggling. ‘Next time I will fine the girl who creates an argument or interferes with the work of a manager on the floor.’

‘Then,’ Alan carries on, ‘there were a few girls who were less fortunate and did get fined. I remind you. No kissing or touching is allowed.’

‘Finally, a new girl decided that our rules are not for real and gave,’ he clears his throat, ‘full satisfaction to the client. The dancer decided it was okay to please a client and hand-jobbed him right in the private room. I want you to remember that this is prohibited by the rules of this club and punishable by high-price fines.’

I smile to myself, remembering how I first heard about the new girl and the hand-job. It happened on Monday night. The funny part is that as soon as I heard the first rumor I instantly thought that she must have worked somewhere in Europe before. An hour later, when I bumped into Veronica, the girl I’d worked with in Luxembourg, I knew she was guilty of this ‘outrageous’ incident.

‘Oh my gosh, Veronica!’ I had exclaimed when I bumped into her at the bathroom, ‘I can’t believe it’s you! But on the other hand, who else would it be? Only the veterans of Luxembourg.’

She had hugged me, then rolled her eyes. ‘You heard too? Shit! I’ve just arrived and they’ve fined me R5 000. Can you believe it?’

Veronica would never pass up an opportunity to make money, no matter how twisted the offer. She has two kids and a useless husband to support back home.

‘Well, you scared this conservative crowd with your European manners! I wonder how you found the guy, on your first day, who asked you for a hand job instead of a lap dance?’ I had laughed even louder, still in disbelief about how right my suspicions had been.

‘He didn’t, I asked him myself!’ she had pouted. ‘Stop it, Jul! How was I to know that this place is for fucking saints? When they gave me the printout of the rules, you know, I thought blah-blah-blah again. The same no-sex club as in Europe. Damn it! Who would have thought there were cameras! Hopefully Alan will change his mind. He promised to think about it when I switched the waterworks in his office.’

‘Why are you smiling?’ Natalia whispers, bringing me back from my flashback.

‘It’s Veronica. She is one crazy woman. Shame she got into trouble,’ I whisper back.

‘I was just thinking about the same. But she’ll be fine. She has the most skillful way to adjust. Remember her lesson in the kitchen back in Luxembourg?’

‘When she gave her famous tutorial, “How to hand-job the client at the bar and not get caught”? That was the funniest shit ever.’

‘Move only your wrist. Keep your elbow relaxed. Only your wrist. Only your wrist.’ My sister mimics Veronica’s businesslike but thick speech (the latter was still drunk from the night before) and the repetitive movements that supported the tutorial.

‘And now about the reason why I asked you girls to get together today for this meeting.’ Alan raises his voice, and glances towards our side. We both cover our faces, still chocking on the laughter.

‘The club has decided to add another type of dance. It’s called a fantasy dance. It’s going to be like a lap dance but the client is permitted to touch the dancer from waist up. The price will be a thousand rand and the length will be 15 minutes.’ He waits for the stormy reaction to pass and resumes when the emotional whispers hush between the girls. ‘Please remember that touching is limited to the top part of your bodies. It’s going to be strictly monitored. Don’t think you can push it, girls.’

‘The fantasy dance is still a dance. It doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. The cameras are still working. We will rigorously punish anyone who crosses the line. I repeat: the clients are allowed to touch your breasts, and the top part of your body. Touching of the bottom part, kissing on the lips and taking genitals out of pants are still strictly prohibited and will be fined.’

I wipe the tears of joy off my eyes and touch my foamy bra.

Oh crap…

17

I head towards the stairs. Although it’s three in the morning, and we are about to close, my purse is shamefully burdened by only R400. The first floor is still swarming with clients. All the girls but me are making money – even the ugliest ones in the club. I tried. I pushed as hard as I could, smiling and cottoning on to these drunken fuckers, but the only result is my legs shaking from tiredness and freaking R400!

Damn! It’s a Saturday – it's supposed to be a good night.

I prefer to work downstairs, away from the VIP area. The whole ‘special clients’ story drives me crazy. The minute these bastards pay extra to become VIPs and their asses hit the leather seats on the upper floor, they turn into complete jerks. They feel so exceptional, that they demand more attention.

As if blue blood has started running through their veins.

I lose patience even before we get to know each other’s names. What’s more, for the last few weeks with the new boobie dance on the menu (which the club has offered to the VIP clients only, hoping to increase the sales of VIP passes), I’ve been trying even harder to stay away from upstairs. I don't think I could handle these bastards’ comments about my flat chest.

I stop. Holding the steel railings of the staircase, I fight the desire to quit for today, go into a corner and complain about the unfairness of the world. But I sigh and wearily make my way up.

A quick check, then I’ll call it a night: enjoy a cup of tea in solitude, and beat myself up for being such a useless stripper.

The mezzanine is busy too, but all the clients are taken. No surprise – the last hours of the night are usually the most fruitful for the girls. The clients reach the stage of drunkenness in which they cannot resist. The girls, using the intoxication advantage, mop the legless clients up.

Like adders, these girls wait for their venom to start working, then, unhurriedly, swallow their prey whole.

I take a walk around and notice two gents sitting in the back corner. Nikita is talking to only one of them.

I approach.

‘Hello guys, may I join you?’ I give my bestseller smile.

‘Yes, of course, dear! Would you like to have a drink?’ the one with Nikita replies with a heavy British accent, which, with his looks, and the overt displeasure on his face from Nikita’s brothel-like pressure treatment, leaves an aftertaste of snobbery. Regardless of his attempts – the expensive, vernal suit and the hair dyed to conceal the grey – he still falls into the seniors’ category. The other one is a very attractive, very drunk young man. From the not-so-trendy clothes of the youngster and the fact that Nikita is not sitting on his lap, I deduce that the senior is paying.

I drop, offhand, on top of the young one and take pleasure in feeling his athletic body.

‘My name is Freddy and this is Mr. Brown,’ he mumbles timidly, while not so timidly sliding his hands under my skirt.

‘Nice to meet you. I am Julia’. I catch his hands a second before he gets under my panties, ‘You are not allowed to touch there.’

‘Call me Jonathan. How many times have I told you tonight?’ the senior reacts loudly, grimaces and brushes Nikita’s hand away off his ear.

‘Okay, this is Jonathan, my boss.’ Freddy leaves his hands under my skirt, now gently cupping my thighs.

‘Let’s order more drinks,’ Mr. Brown pats Freddy on the shoulder. ‘Today we are here to celebrate Freddy’s promotion. He is a promising and very hard-working young man. I value workers like Freddy and want to make it a memorable night for him.’ He turns with admiration to his employee, slides his hand around the latter’s neck and squeezes it.

This is quite normal. We often witness these corporate nights out. The ‘happy’ boss ‘encourages’ his ‘hard-working’ employees with a generous splash-out in a strip club.

‘So, Jonathan, you are his boss,’ Nikita changes the strategy, trying to butter up Mr. Brown. ‘You are a lucky man, Freddy, to have a boss like this.’

I jump in, knowing the night is about to end.

‘You know that our job is to give lifetime memories. Tonight, this precious item goes for only R2 000 – nothing compared with what an amazing time we’ll give you if you join us for a private fantasy dance.’

The waitress brings three double shots of tequila and a glass of Coke for me.

‘To our bright future! To the younger generation!’ Mr. Brown lifts the shot, takes a small sip, and puts it back onto the table. Freddie picks up his glass, wrinkles his brows at it, then takes it in one gulp. It’s obvious that the youngster is too drunk to enjoy it any more, and is doing it to be polite.

I am so happy I no longer drink. How sick he is going to feel tomorrow morning.

‘I am not sure about a dance. I was thinking more of…’ Mr. Brown stretches his lips. ‘Ladies, this young man deserves a real treat. Why don’t you join us at my place?’

‘Sounds great,’ Nikita responds first, ‘but it will cost you ten grand.’

Mr. Brown pulls out a shiny American Express. ‘Go and change, girls. The car is waiting.’

We settle the payment, get changed, and all four of us walk out of the club. The car, a glossy black limo with beige leather seats facing each other, and a minibar built into the armrest, looks very VIP-like.

‘David, take us home’, Mr. Brown orders the driver.

‘Damn it! We should have asked for more money,’ Nikita whispers as we take off.

We stop at a double-storey mansion. The well maintained palatial villa is on a cliff overlooking the glittering city. It screams ‘I am rich and I love it!’ even louder than the limo.

As we get inside, Mr. Brown walks through the wide lounge with its heavy, expensive furniture, straight to the frameless glass doors. He folds them open without effort onto the huge patio. ‘Let’s get the booze and jump into the Jacuzzi!’

‘Yes to the Jacuzzi but I’ll pass on the booze,’ Freddie staggers outside. Mr. Brown laughs and walks to the back of the house. We undress and merge into the hot poppling tub. The oldie comes back naked with a pile of fresh folded towels, a few glasses and a bottle. ‘Come on, Freddie! You have to try this one. It’s Johnny Walker Blue Label King George V! This is one whisky you don’t pass up.’ He climbs in too and settles between Nikita and Freddy.