The Black Chapel (2 page)

He’s even more handsome up close, now that I can actually see the details of his face. I break my own rules—not Laila’s—of not approaching a customer (they’re more like guidelines at this point) and sit down on his lap. This close to him, I feel his body heat and smell his cologne. Oh, he smells so good, it’s intoxicating.

I feel myself getting hot all over, and I quickly stand up, because I’m delightfully outraged that I’m so turned on by him. He has my emotions running wild. I lay my hands across his firm chest and he laughs, his eyes dancing, yet intense and wanting. I so want to kiss him, but I don’t know how he’ll react, and it’s too rash a move even for me, even at this moment. So instead, I turn his head to the side and lick his cheek, just like
Cat Woman
would. His skin feels rough under my tongue; it doesn’t feel like he’s shaved today.

His laugh thunders through my body and I’m excited my actions appear to have pleased him.

My music is almost over, so I head back toward the stage. Even though I can’t see him, I feel Mr. Manning’s eyes on me. I blush. How is he having this effect on me? I’m completely in a trance, mesmerized by this mysterious billionaire. Walking up the stairs, my heartbeat still pounding steadily, I hear a voice behind me.

“Hey, beautiful!”

I turn around and see Mr. Manning standing there with a crisp hundred-dollar bill in his hand. I move toward him, snatch the bill out of his hand, and stuff it down into my cleavage. I feign confidence, but in reality, I’m so nervous and so spellbound by this god-like man that I’ve forgotten to breathe.

When he smiles, his dimples come out and my heart rate goes into overdrive. I pull him up the stairs with me and whisper into his ear, “Stay put.” As I finish my dance, his blue eyes study me the entire time. I feel quite awkward, because the dance has become erotic to me. It’s something that has never happened while I perform and it’s something I should at all costs try to avoid.

I really want to go over and dance with Michael, have his hands on my body so he can feel me move, but I can’t afford to cross that professional boundary. That would even be a bit too much for Laila even, especially since guests are not welcome on stage. And besides, I know I would regret it too much later once I come to my senses. Finally my music ends and I walk Mr. Manning back to his seat.

“Thank you,” I say in my disguised stage-voice and then head backstage as fast as I can.

“Wow,” Anne says when I reach the wing. She’s up next, but she has definitely seen what just transpired out there. “That was so hot. We’ll talk when I’m done,” she says, and she’s off.

Making my way through the crowded, costume-stuffed hallway, my heart is still in my throat. What just happened? I feel off kilter because I promised myself when I started this lifestyle that I’d never, ever, ever consider any man who frequented this facility, or any facility like this.
Well, he’s not been here frequent
, my alter-self refutes. I scowl at myself. “Don’t even think about it, Scarlett,” I say out loud.

“About what?” Laila says, looking up from her clipboard, her dark eyes slicing through me.

“Oh, nothing, I uh—” I say, playing innocent.

Her espresso eyes squint and she arches her right eyebrow.

“I have to go change,” I say, waving my hands. I have to forget about what just happened. Besides, it’s not really anything to forget about anyway, I tell myself, because nothing really did happen. Did it?

I enter the dressing room, and everyone is frantically getting ready for the grand finale. Boas are flying, hairspray has fogged up the room and it smells of about thirty different kinds of perfume mingled with sweat.

My last costume is
Naughty School Girl
. I get changed in less than a minute, dry my lipstick off with a tissue and apply a pale pink one instead. Then I put my heavy black-rimmed glasses on and do my hair up in pigtails. Cute.

Anne comes in. “I saw what happened out there,” she says, getting undressed. “So are you going to tell me about it?”

I frown, not really wanting to talk about it. “It was nothing,” I say as coolly as I can, but I feel my legs getting weak just thinking about Mr. Manning’s eyes on me.

Anne gives me that look. “Come on. Everyone saw it. But I promise I won’t tell a soul,” she whispers.

“He liked my Cat Woman outfit, I suppose.” I shrug my shoulders.

Anne puts her hands on her hips, and glares at me. “It was more than that. I’d be surprised if he didn’t wait for you after the show and…”

“Then I’d have to talk with Laila, because it’s highly frowned upon here at the Black Chapel. And I don’t want to break any rules,” I say.

“Ha! I’m sure Laila would make an exception for Michael Manning,” Anne says loudly.

“What type of an exception?” Laila says, impatiently. She’s snuck up on us.

There’s an awkward pause. Anne and I both look at her and then at each other and then continue to finish getting ready.

“Nothing,” Anne says. She’s a great liar when she has to be.

Me—not so much. I glance nervously up at Laila.

Her eyes are serious. “No private interaction with our patrons, you understand?” Laila looks from me to Anne and back to me again.

“Yes, understood,” we say in unison.

I take the stage one last time, and I immediately notice that Mr. Manning’s chair is empty. I’m somewhat disappointed, but breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I can fully perform my dance now without the distraction of his intense eyes, and without the distraction of me being turned on.

But right as I’m about to finish, I see him over by the stage entrance door talking with Laila. My heart misses a beat, or two, and somehow, I manage to nearly fall flat on my face. I think quickly and decide to make the fall a part of my choreography and lie down on my stomach, my head propped on my hands and my ankles crossed behind me. The audience cheers, and I hurry and stand up and run backstage. I feel clumsy.

“Are you all right?” Anne whispers, waiting in the wings. “It looked like you took a tumble there.”

“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m not fine. I’m mortified, and I think I twisted my ankle, because it hurts. I limp back to the dressing room, passing all the girls heading for the stage for the finale, and decide to ditch it. No one will miss me anyway as it’s a very loosely choreographed group dance, not a solo. I sit down in my booth, roll my ankle a few times and am relieved to find that it doesn’t really hurt as bad as I had initially feared.

That was the most embarrassing moment of my six-month strip dance career. I bury my head in my arms on the counter and sigh. The finale music starts playing in the background.

Laila clears her throat behind me and I look up. Oh no, she’s probably here to tell me I messed up and that I should be on stage with the other girls.

“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up.

“Quiet.” Laila has a way of talking that makes me feel like I’m a five-year-old again and in big trouble. My face draws a blank. I don’t think I made another mistake tonight, did I? Maybe she had a complaint about me from Mr. Manning? Was I too forward? My throat feels suddenly very dry, and I try to paste on a smile.

“I don’t know what happened out there. I think I twisted my ankle,” I say unconvincingly.

Laila’s eyes intensify, but now she seems slightly amused, which I think is a very odd reaction to me mentioning that I might have hurt myself.

“I’m here about something else.” Laila sits in Anne’s chair. The woman has never approached me like this before, and I get the distinct feeling that she wants something from me. She’s smiling, and I think, holy shit, this woman actually smiles?

Then she says, “Mr. Manning came to me and said he would like your personal information so he may contact you outside of work.”

My eyes pop wide open. ”But the rule is that we never engage with our patrons outside of the club,” I say, quoting what she says every single stinking day before the show starts.

“I think we can make an exception for Mr. Manning, don’t you?” She smiles again, looking excited.

I’ve never seen her look excited either, so this must be big. I hesitate. “I don’t really want to be in a relationship right now,” I say feebly, remembering the last loser I had dated. “I just don’t want to deal with all the drama and all the pain.”

“This wouldn’t require a relationship. It only requires you making Mr. Manning happy. Stoke his ego a bit. Give him something to smile about.” Laila scoots closer to me, and I can tell she really wants this. It would probably mean big bucks for her and her club.

I don’t dare say anything, because I’m afraid that if I refuse, I’ll lose my job.

“Listen.” Laila’s eyes go soft. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. It just means a lot of money to the club
and
to you. Think about it for a few days, and get back to me. And please, keep this confidential, Hun, will ya?”

I nod, but still get the distinct feeling that if I don’t comply with Laila’s terms, I’ll be out of a job.

Laila stands up and as she exits I see Anne standing by the door. Then the rest of the girls rush in from the finale.

“What was that all about?” Anne asks, as she sits down in her chair, removing her very large cubic zirconia diamond earrings.

“Laila was just worried about my ankle. I thought I twisted it pretty bad, but it’s fine now,” I say. Anne nods, but I can see that she isn’t buying my story – at all. I’ve never been a really good liar, and Anne can smell my phony words a mile away. But Anne doesn’t push it. Being my best friend, she knows I’ll break down and tell her sooner or later.

After I’ve showered and gotten dressed into my regular clothes, I count out my money and split it in two. Half goes to Laila, half to me. 569 dollars to each. I smile. This is the most I’ve ever made in one evening. I place Laila’s share in an envelope and hand it to Sue as she makes her rounds. I pocket my portion of the money and pull my ivory Calvin Klein Cashmere wool blend coat on.

“Don’t forget your scarf,” Anne says, handing it to me.

“Thanks.” I wrap my red scarf around my neck, expecting it to be quite cold this December evening in Portland. Anne and I walk out together to our cars and say our good byes.

What a night. I wonder what will come of Mr. Manning. Maybe he’ll be offended that I rejected him, so I’ll probably never see him again. It’s for the best, I figure, because I have so many more important things to focus on than finding another boyfriend that will soon be on the list of guys I’ve dated.

On my way home, I stop by The Mirabella Assisted Living Facility. The place is small, but they seem to do a good job taking care of their elderly and ill residents. The glum-looking nurse behind the white counter sees me and buzzes me in.

“How’s he doing?” I ask.

The nurse shakes her head. “Your father really needs cancer treatment, or I’m afraid he’ll keep getting worse.”

I feel guilty and like a complete failure. I can’t afford my dad’s treatments, and that fact is killing me. “I know. I’m working on it. Thanks,” I say, heading for his room. Once at his room, I open the door and tip-toe to his bed. He’s sleeping so peacefully. He’s lost a lot of weight, and it breaks my heart that he’s suffering so.

When my dad lost his job ten years ago, he was never able to find work again. That’s when my mom and dad were forced to take out a huge line-of-credit on their mortgage so they could survive until times got better. Unfortunately, times never got better, only worse, and their debt only grew with each passing year. Now I owe more on the mortgage than the house is worth. It’s insane.

When my dad was diagnosed with liver cancer, the hospital refused to start treatment because he didn’t have health insurance. And after my mom died in a car accident last year, he took a turn for the worse. I couldn’t take care of him anymore, because I had to work overtime just so I could keep up with the mortgage payments and other debts. And to make matters worse, last week I lost my other job as a waitress, so now I’m trying to play catch up at the Black Chapel.

My dad moans in his sleep. I sit down next to him on the bed, stroking his full, more salt than pepper hair. He’s in pain, and there’s nothing I can do to help him. He’s always been such a great dad, and I feel I owe him so much. I feel the tears pressing behind my eyes as I see that the future holds nothing better for him or me, and probably only holds much more sorrow and heartache than I am prepared to endure.

In the back of my dream, I hear the doorbell ringing. I don’t want to wake up. Then it rings again and I’m thrust into wakefulness. I stumble out of bed and throw my black silk robe on. Who on earth could be bothering me at this early hour on a Sunday morning? I frown as I hop down stairs. Then I see Anne through the window, standing there all too chipper in her Sunday dress.

Upset at her already, I open the door. “Why are you here so early?” I say, seeing that it’s hardly even light out. It has gotten real cold over the past few days, too, and I shiver.

Her big blue baby doll eyes are desperate. “I really want you to come to church with me today. Please?”

“No, I don’t go to church, remember?” I say, yawning and upset that she’d wake me up just for this.

She huffs. “I’m singing in the choir, and I really wanted someone to come hear me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this last night?” I sulk.

“I didn’t find out about it until this morning.” Anne says as she scoots by me, making her way inside from the cold.

I close the oak door behind her and sigh. I really don’t want to go, but feel like I should go. Anne doesn’t have very many friends. And it’s not like her parents would come; they live on the other side of the country. And they don’t even know she’s living this double-sided life.

“Fine,” I say, knowing I’ll regret it when I’m stuck in a pew next to a snoring grandpa, or some kid who’s pulling my hair. But I’ll do almost anything for Anne. “How long do I have to get ready?”

Her eyes light up and she jumps up and down. “Oh, thank you, thank you! Twenty minutes. Is there anything I can do to help you get ready faster?”