If I’d known places like this existed in real life, I might have considered a different career than mafia assassin. Not that it’s stopped me from becoming a master of lap dances, but still. It’s always nice to get paid for something you excel at.
I’m so distracted by taking in my surroundings, it takes a minute before I notice someone talking to Colm. It’s a beautiful woman, who could be aged anything between my age and her fifties, with one of those faces preserved by a combination of good genes and tasteful makeup. And maybe filler, but it’s also tasteful if it’s in there. I’ll never let someone get close enough to me to inject my face, but I can certainly understand the impulse, and sometimes I feel like I’m already in mourning for the day my looks start to fade.
They let me get away with so much. Thank fuck I still have my status as a psychopathic murderer to keep the people around me in line.
Colm is giving her his total attention, and it doesn’t take me long to realize my little torture victim isn’t playing 100% for team homo, the way I initially read him. Interesting. I had him pegged—no pun intended—as someone rigidly repressed and closeted, totally gay and unwilling to admit it out loud. Perhaps he’s more fluid than I first thought. The subtle cues in how he’s holding himself toward her isn’t something you can learn, it’s inherent in most people.
My internal monologue flirts with the idea of getting jealous. She’s beautiful, with a salacious figure, long, thick brown hair and the body language of a Domme. But the flicker or jealousy is extinguished pretty quickly, when I remember that I don’t get fucking jealous, because that would require caring about other people.
And if I did get jealous, it still wouldn’t matter, because Colm’s been more fixated on me all day than a sight hound on a bird. He won’t admit it, but he’s absolutely terrible at hiding it, so it doesn’t matter.
The woman turns and gestures to follow, Colm trailing her and me trailing him. She hasn’t acknowledged my presence yet, but I don’t really care. I’m still drinking it all in.
We head through some corridors with another couple of security guards dotted around, taking a couple of turns until we end up in a spacious dressing room half full of dancers. They all look like they’re getting ready, but with the absolute lack of haste that tells me opening shift on a random weekday isn’t exactly like performing for Cirque du Soleil.
Most of them glance up when we walk in, but don’t look surprised. I guess if you work for a strip club run by the mafia, you’re used to random guys traipsing in and out of here.Colm’s still focused on his conversation, completely ignoring the women around us, while I feel quite entranced, but not for the reason so many men would be.
It’s just all so sparkly. Bright but flattering lighting, big mirrors over dressing tables lining the walls with a classy, wooden version of a locker next to each. And between all the girls are racks of wigs, costumes, and bottles of things I couldn’t even begin to guess at, I feel utterly relaxed.
I want to pick up everything in here and look at it, but I’m vaguely aware that would be frowned upon.
“Fallow,” Colm says, possibly not for the first time. “Are you listening?”
“Not even a little bit. What can I do you for?”
I know I told him I would behave in front of other people and I swear I’m trying, but he’s too far under my skin. It’s difficult not to purr when I speak to him, just like it’s difficult not to notice the subtle flush that hits his cheeks.
“Are you okay to wait here for a minute? I need to talk to Kaitlyn in her office.”
The woman—Kaitlyn, I assume—is looking at me for the first time and gives me a thorough once over. A small smirk hits the corner of her mouth, but it’s difficult to tell if it’s a smirking at me vs smirking with me situation. I don’t really care.
“Sure thing, boss,” I say, leaning on the rack of clothing next to me. “I’m sure these lovely ladies wouldn’t mind keeping me company for a few minutes, right?”
This gets addressed to the room as a whole. And while my natural speaking voice isn’t exactly dripping with heteronormativity, I make sure to crank up the ‘gay voice’ to its maximum setting, so the girls don’t read me as a threat. I probably need to befriend them if I want to explore this room and all its treasures with impunity.
The collective response from them is some variation of a cock of the head, like I’m not what they expected, and some of them saying “sure” or “no problem”.
Colm looks around them nervously for a second, although I can’t tell if he’s scared I’m going to be violent with them or try to fuck one of them.
Joke’s on you, rabbit, it’s neither.
I raise an eyebrow at him, but he can’t seem to give voice to whatever worries him, so he turns to go without saying anything.
Once he’s disappeared through a door at the other end of the room, I look away to notice every single person in that room staring at me like a novelty.
“Alright, who’s going to let me borrow some makeup while I’m waiting?”
It didn’t take longto go from cautious strangers to friends. At first, a couple of the girls lit up at the idea of doing my makeup. Some people will always get excited for a new toy, even if the rest mostly carried on as they were. I explained that I don’t like people touching me, but I would love to sit with them and share their goodies, and the reception I got was better than expected.
Now I’m sharing a bench with Madison, and I’m not quite finished but I already look phenomenal, if I do say so myself. There’s a contented sort of chatter going on around me, and even though I’m generally solitary, this is the kind of company I occasionally appreciate.
It’s probably my favorite thing about groups of women. All you have to do is convince them that you’re not a threat for sexual assault, and they’ll generally welcome you in with open arms. The bar is in hell, guys. I’m literally a murderer.
“Do you guys like working here?” I ask, for no reason in particular.
“It’s alright,” Madison says. “Not exactly what I dreamed of my whole life, but the money’s good and security does their fucking job, unlike some places I’ve worked.”
“Speak for yourself,” someone—Destinee?—interrupts. “All I wanted to grow up to be was a stripper. I might not have understood all the ins and outs when I was little, but it’s still the dream. I get to dance for a living; that’s a shit ton better than most of the options around here.”
