Chapter Two: Bazinga!

Mr. Armani didn’t show up at any of her performances that night. Pearl’s stomach remained perpetually knotted as she waited to see the slim, dark figure whenever she spun around her pole.

But although the seats around her dance floor filled up, none of them were Mr. Armani. By her last performance, she’d almost forgotten about the stranger and his creepy gift and his sleek business card. Right until someone walked into the Red Room; someone that, for a moment, looked just like him.

Pearl, at the time halfway through a complicated maneuver, almost cracked her head open. There was a gasp from the assembled crowd, so loud that she could hear it through the pumping music, but she quickly recovered. Staring out over the heads in front of her, Pearl searched the Red Room for that figure. It turned out not to be Mr. Armani, but a guy with a similar build wearing slacks and a dark golf shirt.

When she retrieved the box from her locker later that night, it had grown heavier. She avoided questions about it as she lugged it out of the club, throwing Cheryl a warning glare as she passed. She hailed a cab, sitting with the box on her lap the entire way home.

She’d promised herself she wouldn’t, but she did anyway.

Pearl stood in front of her spotted, cracked mirror, studying herself.

The dress clung to her like a greedy lover. It caressed every curve of her body, reflecting various monochromatic hues when she turned and twisted. It did something to her complexion that made her blue-gray eyes pop like cloudy sapphires, and her red hair — despite being overdue for a wash — glow blood red.

It gathered on the floor, brushing the linoleum when she stood on tiptoes. She always wore heels, so to expect the guy to correctly guess her height was asking a bit much.

Pearl ran her hands down her waist, took a deep breath that did impressive things to her breasts, and then ripped the dress off as quickly as she could without damaging it.

Shoving it back into the box, Pearl left the shameful thing on her dresser and tried to sleep.

Three days later, Pearl caved. Maybe, if she hadn’t slipped into that dress every night after coming home from The Doll House, she could have kept her resolve. Pearl phoned Mr. Armani that Thursday night, using the club’s reception phone while Cheryl kept a look out for the boss.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hello?” answered a woman with the hint of a foreign accent. Russian? German?

“Uh… I think I have the wrong number,” Pearl said, but knowing she didn’t.

“This is Pearl?” the woman asked. Yup, Russian. There was no mistaking the way the woman rolled her r’s. “Please hold. I will transfer.”

So Pearl held. She held onto the counter with the tips of her fingers as if letting go would mean falling over. Her heart was beating an unpleasant tempo in her chest that she could feel vibrating all over her skin. There was a faint click, another, and then the sound of someone inhaling.

“It looks ravishing, doesn’t it? The dress? I sincerely hope the tailor didn’t make it too long.”

Pearl blinked. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she could rally a response.

“Uh… no. It’s fine. The dress is fine. But I can’t—”

He interrupted her so smoothly that she still said a few words before breaking off. “You know of the Plaza Hotel?”

Mr. Armani also spoke with the hint of an accent. It might have been European too, but it was too faint for her to be sure.

“The Plaza…” she repeated like an idiot.

She’d been right. Paid sex. Her hand trembled around the receiver as she tried to force herself to slam the phone down.

“You will meet me for dinner tomorrow night at eight. Give me your address and I’ll send my driver to collect you.”

Seconds went by while Pearl wrestled with her tongue.

“I’m not giving you my address,” she managed, even injecting a tiny measure of defiance into her voice.

“Then I shall meet you at the Plaza, Friday night at eight. I look forward to seeing you in the dress. Do not wear makeup.”

The line went dead.

Pearl put the receiver down, turning on stiff joints to face Cheryl. The girl had both fists clasped to her throat, her wide eyes begging for a full retelling of the conversation.

“What a creep.” Pearl shoved past Cheryl.

“That’s it? He’s a creep?” Cheryl followed her a few steps, but the evening rush had begun and she couldn’t abandon her post. “Pearl!”

“Later,” she called over her shoulder. Adding a, “Maybe,” under her breath.

She kept telling herself that she wouldn’t go. Why would she, after that phone call? The way Mr. Armani just assumed that she was available. That she would show up wearing that ridiculous dress at some super-extravagant hotel where he obviously planned to bang her.

Except…

His voice haunted her. It woke her up from a tattered dream early Friday morning when she was supposed to be sleeping.

How had he known she had Friday off? It wasn’t usual for her to take a Friday off, but she’d been planning to watch a movie with Cheryl. Plus, it was the last day of the damn Game of Thrones theme, and the boss had planned a whole bunch of geeky games for the night.

But Mr. Armani couldn’t know that. Which meant he thought that, not only was she interested in his yet undeclared proposition, but that she would put off earning good money to see him.

Entitled much?

But that voice…

She imagined someone who owned a company — several companies — spoke like that. Someone who lived in a mansion and owned a yacht. Who was married to a woman who owned one of those handbag dogs. Oh God… not only would she prostituting herself, she’d be committing adultery.

Wait, when had she decided she would go?

Pearl threw back her covers in disgust and went to shower. She tried on the dress — it had become a ritual after every shower — and stashed it back into its box at the bottom of her cupboard.

Absurd; she didn’t even have shoes to go with that ridiculous thing.

But Cheryl did.

“Took you long enough,” Cheryl said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pearl glanced through her dingy window, cellphone pressed to her ear. Even with the window closed, if she stood this close she could pick up the faint scent of piss from the alley below. And not cat piss, either.

“You phoned him on Wednesday. Never told me what he said, just that he was a creep, and now you’re canceling on me?”

“It’s not… I just…”

“Where are you meeting him?”

“Ugh,” Pearl squeezed the bridge of her nose. “If I tell you, promise me you won’t say or do anything weird?”

“Promise. And I just crossed my heart since you refuse to go on facetime when you phone.”

“Data costs money, Cheryl. I don’t have either.” She took a deep breath, knowing she would regret telling Cheryl but this way, at least one other person in the world had to know where she was going tonight. It made sense.

More sense than actually going.

“The Plaza Hotel. I have to meet him at eight. He wanted to pick me up—”

“The Plaza?” Cheryl breathed into the phone. “Bazinga!”

“Whatever. Look, can I borrow those silver shoes of yours?”

“Sure. Should I drop them off or—”

“No. You’re on the way. I’ll come fetch them.”

Cheryl clapped her hands. Pearl drew her ear away from the phone until the noise stopped.

“— wearing the dress?” was all she caught of Cheryl’s babble.

“You sound like a ten-year-old.”

“You’re not even a little excited? I mean, this guy’s loaded, Pearl! You could charge him just for showing up! People do that, you know. Women escorting men around like arm candy and stuff.”

Pearl lifted her eyebrows. She hadn’t even considered that. It would definitely be the lesser of two evils.

“I mean, he didn’t even touch you or tip you when you were dancing, right?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

“And you told me he was super good looking.”

“Serial killers can be handsome too, Cheryl.”

“Mmm…”

“Ugh. I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking right now.”

“No,” Cheryl agreed with a laugh. “You definitely don’t.”

“I have to get ready. See you later, you perv.”

She hung up while Cheryl was still letting out an excited squeal, wiggling a finger in her ear. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Definitely a dancer’s body: long legs, firm thighs, a flat stomach, and toned arms. Most of the definition came from pole dancing six days a week, three shows a night. The first few months had been absolutely punishing, but she was used to it by now.

Pearl studied her selection of underwear. Nothing seemed to suit the dress, and almost everything would show under the slinky fabric. Commando then. She showered, washed and styled her hair, and hesitated in front of her makeup bag.

Don’t wear makeup.

That command almost made her want to tip out her makeup bag and beginning slathering on cosmetics until she looked like the Joker… but she never wore makeup on her night off anyway, so what was the difference? She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her lips were light pink, her eyebrows, naturally thick, framed her blue eyes enough that they still popped without mascara.

She climbed into the dress, hitched it to her shoulders and did up the zipper by contorting her arms into several awkward angles.

Another look in the mirror.

God, it was sexy.

Taking a deep breath, Pearl turned to the door and froze.

Nope. Not going to happen.

She sank onto the edge of her mattress. Then she slid out of the dress and laid it on her bed. Pearl went to her cupboard and drew out a scarf she almost never wore, except when she went out and felt like being fancy. She wrapped it around her hair, lit another stick of incense, and rested her leg on the windowsill while she took a deep toke of what was left of her joint.

The alley was dark. A few of the windows opposite her were lit up, but no shadows moved beyond them. They never did. For all she knew, the apartment block next to hers held nothing but automated lighting. Maybe it was used as some kind of undercover hideout. Or a drug dealer’s hangout. That was more likely.

She took a last hit from the joint and blew the smoke through the window crack. Her nose wrinkled; the incense did little to disguise the stink filtering in from the alley below.

As Pearl reached up to grab hold of the window sash and drag the window down, she spotted movement. Her eyes swiveled, a cold worm of realization already burrowing into her spine.

There, four windows across and two down, a man leaned out of his window, investigating the alley below. Well, he had been investigating the alley below, now his head was tipped up and a pair of large brown eyes studied her instead. Stared, really. His mouth was even open a little bit.

Pearl squealed in the back of her throat and slammed the window closed. And then jerked the curtains closed. She stumbled back a few steps with a hand over her heart.

Then she laughed, pressing her eyes closed with the tips of her fingers as she bent over and wheezed.

His face.

She washed her hands, brushed her teeth again, and maneuvered herself back into the dress. It took a few minutes longer than the first time, but soon she was standing in front of the mirror again. She managed a determined nod, whipped the scarf from her head, straightened her hair with her fingers, and grabbed her purse.

Her clunky boots — the only shoes with heels high enough for this dress — looked more than a little odd with the slinky fabric.

The sound of her door slamming closed reverberated through the empty hallway.

Pearl shivered, glanced around, and hurried toward the stairs.