Abby
“Come on Abby,” said my friend Jennelle. “Loosen up.”
I stood outside the club, shivering on the sidewalk in my thin jacket. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to party, but there was a niggling sense of doubt. The place itself was just a black box with no windows, totally normal for this type of venue. But something nagged inside.
“I’m not sure,” I hedged, biting my lip. “I mean, maybe we should come back another time. It’s okay, no rush.”
Jennelle huffed impatiently, tossing blonde hair over one shoulder.
“Come on!” she wheedled. “Come on! I don’t want to do this alone, and besides, it’s not like we have that much more time. Finals start soon, and then there’s break and I won’t see you for a month. Come on Abby, it’ll be fun!” she said, grabbing my wrist.
And before I knew it, Jennelle was knocking on the door, striking a sassy pose. A slot in the metal opened, scraping rustily, and a suspicious eye peered out at us. Heck, this was so old school, I thought these places had hidden cameras now to scope out any guests. But no, this was Russian mafia-style and a big brown eye literally peered at us suspiciously before a metal grating rang out once more.
And whaddya know, but the big door swung open and a dude stood there, imposing, dressed all in black. He was about the size of a bear, with the same fierce expression, and all sorts of weird bumps and lumps under his jacket. Was he armed? I swear there was the butt of a gun peeking out from under that bomber.
But Jennelle wasn’t intimidated, or if she was, my friend hid it well.
“Hi!” she said cheerily. “We’re here for the Club.”
The guy looked back at her unimpressed despite her flirtatious glances and simpering giggles. That was a shock. Most guys are drawn to Jennelle like moths to a flame, they circle around her long blonde hair and thin body mindlessly, drawn to those feminine assets.
But this guy was different. Instead, he looked down at her through squinty eyes.
“Which club?” he said carelessly, chewing a huge wad of something.
“Which club?” Jennelle parroted vaguely, trying to peer around him, craning her neck. “You know. The Club,” she said winking again. I stood as still as possible, mortified. Maybe if I made no sounds and no movement, no one would notice me, and even better, I could pretend I wasn’t here.
But the bouncer wasn’t impressed.
“Naw, no one gets in without knowing the club,” he said vaguely, face shuttered. “Scram babycakes,” he grunted, one hand already swinging that massive steel door shut in our face.
But Jennelle didn’t get to be sassy, tenacious Jennelle by giving up. Before we were pushed out of the way, she stuck out a stiletto, the heel shockingly strong despite its narrowness, and managed to block the door, hands out, supplicating.
“Wait,” she said breathlessly. “We’re willing to pay to get in,” she said like that was a massive concession.
The guard didn’t even reply, his mind already elsewhere and the door continued to swing shut.
“Wait, wait!” squealed Jennelle again. “We’ll work for it, like I said, we’ll work for it!”
This was the part that I dreaded. Because Jennelle had briefed me on our potential “work” earlier during the night, and I wanted no part of it. But how could I resist my best friend? Especially when she was being her most persuasive self.
“Oh you,” Jennelle had pooh-poohed, leaning forward to put on mascara, opening her eyes wide and staring into the mirror, nose almost touching her reflection. “Seriously Abby, you’re so uptight. It’s no big deal,” she said carelessly.
I sat on the bed, trying to pull my skirt down lower, unsure and fidgety.
“No seriously, what kind of place is this? We’re gonna get matched with guys? I don’t get it,” I bit my lip nervously.
And my blonde friend turned to me exasperated, hands on her hips.
“Abs,” she said firmly. “This place is the rockingest venue, there’s no name for it even,” she stated. “And we can’t afford the cover, it’s something like three hundred bucks.”
I nodded.
“That’s it exactly,” I said slowly. “They’re trying to keep out riffraff like us, so they charge a really high cover. It’s no problem, maybe after this summer,” I said hesitantly. “Maybe after this summer and we’ve finished our internships, we’ll have saved enough to get in?”
But Jennelle couldn’t be persuaded, and turned back to the vanity, fluffing out her hair, applying another coat of lip gloss.
“I don’t know who you’re referring to as riffraff, but it’s not me,” she said haughtily, blue eyes blazing as she stared at herself in the mirror, determined. “I’m going, no matter what,” she said with her mouth pulled into a straight line. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want.”
And hopelessly, I sighed, picking up my purse. I couldn’t let Jennelle go alone, we’ve been best buddies for ages, and her parents would kill me if I let their daughter wander off to some random club on her own. So giving in, I collected my jacket.
“Okay, okay,” I said soothingly. “I’ll go too, but seriously, if this place seems even the least bit freaky, I’m outta there,” I warned. “I’m not into weird stuff.”
And Jennelle was all smiles again, struggling into her own jacket. I had to laugh. My friend’s dress was so small it wasn’t much more than a tiny tube of cloth, and that jacket didn’t do much to hide anything, it was a mere scrap across her shoulders, emphasizing how tiny and bony the girl was. But my friend was all sunshine and happiness now.
“It’ll be fine,” she said, grabbing her keys. “It’ll be totally fine, you’ll see. Besides, it’s almost like they’re doing us a favor. They’ll match us with guys and all we have to do is make conversation. Don’t you want to meet some hot guys?” she threw me a sassy grin. “College sucks, this is our chance to branch out.”
And I nodded. Jennelle was right. It’s not that the guys at Hudson University were so terrible, they were just blah. Despite the fact that I’d been out on a couple dates, there was no one that I wanted to see again. I dunno, the boys at school were so immature and juvenile, a lot of them with raging acne and gangly limbs, still growing into their bodies. I shouldn’t judge, I know, but I guess eighteen year-old guys aren’t my thing despite the fact that I’m the same age.
So I nodded. Although there were reservations deep in my chest, Jennelle was right, this was a chance to get away. But I still wanted to do some more vetting because this “matching” thing just sounded sketch to me. Sure, I’ve heard of clubs that have paid companions, pretty ladies who sit with male guests and make conversation, pumping up their egos. But still, wasn’t that pathetic? Wasn’t it pathetic to crave female conversation to the point where you’d pay for it? Plus there was just a weirdness factor about the whole thing,
“This isn’t a Japanese club, is it?” I asked suspiciously. “You know they have places like this all over in Japan.” As an Asian Studies major, I’d heard of outfits in Tokyo who were staffed with “paid companions,” and evidently it was the norm there. After a long day of work, Japanese salary men would converge on a bar, married and single alike, and get drinks together with attentive ladies looking on. Supposedly there wasn’t anything weird about it, it was totally commonplace, a workplace tradition that their wives and girlfriends were totally aware of. And allegedly there was nothing but talk, the girls were nothing but platonic companions, hired for their good looks and witty personalities. But still it seemed bizarre, more like an exotic, far-flung custom from thousands of miles away rather than something that’d happen right here in NYC.
But Jennelle tossed her hair again
“Of course not, we don’t speak Japanese,” she scolded. “Do I look like an Asian Studies major? Do I look like I’m into school at all?” she asked with a breezy air, shaking out her curls. “This is just a regular club with some ‘extras.’ You’ll like it, come on,” she urged. And with that we were out the door.
But now that we were standing before the bouncer, about to be pushed out, my reservations came roaring back.
“Come on Jennelle,” I said, grabbing her arm. “Let’s go, we’ll find another place. My treat,” I added hurriedly, hoping to tempt her. “I’ll pay for the drinks.”
But that only set my friend off.
“You’ll do no such thing!” she declared, jaw set, face determined. “You’ll do no such thing,” she said, shaking off my arm. “Listen,” my friend said, turning back to the bouncer. “Like I said, we’ll work for it. We’ll do your matching, we’ll do the pairing, we’ll talk to guys if that’s what the club’s looking for. So come on! Let us in.”
And something flipped in the man’s face, or more likely, a voice went off in the earpiece he was wearing. Because he stopped shutting the door, and instead, pulled it open once again, pausing as if listening.
“Fine,” he grunted. “This way,” he said, pointing to a velvet curtain.
And I goggled. What the hell? What was with the switcharoo? But more likely what had happened was that he was supposed to turn away randoms, but Jennelle was too cute. The invisible eyes took one look at those big blue eyes and tiny dress, and we were in. So it probably didn’t matter anyways, once again, my friend had gotten by on her good looks, dragging me along for the ride.
And Jennelle wasn’t losing an instant.
“Thanks,” she said breezily, striding through the velvet. “Let’s go Abby, it’s time to party.”
Reluctantly, I tottered in after her. It was so dark inside that I couldn’t see anything at first, eyes adjusting. But slowly, the gloom came into focus and I realized we were looking at bushes. Yep, big bushes shrouded the interior and I turned to my friend once again.
“Um, is this an indoor garden or something?” I asked. “I didn’t know we were here to look at plants.”
But magically, a woman appeared, hair swept into a tight bun dressed in a black cocktail dress, looking very competent and business-like.
“Welcome,” she said smoothly, “I understand you’re the new girls.”
Before I could say anything, Jennelle piped up.
“That’s right, that’s us,” she chirped. “I’m Jennelle and this is my bud Abby.”
I gaped, mouth opening and closing silently. What had happened to our fake names? My friend was supposed to be Candy tonight, and I was supposed to be Barbie. What the hell, she’d just given away our real names, and I groaned internally, shaking my head. If we’d gotten off to a bad start, then this was only making it worse. I’d never be able to live this down if word got out.
But it was too late because the woman nodded, writing something on her clipboard.
“Well you’re just in time,” she said, “because we have some guests waiting. Let me take you to your first assignment.”
She turned, both of us trailing in her wake. But before I took two steps, the woman in black spun back to look at me.
“I’m sorry, this is for your friend only,” she said smoothly. “Only the blonde.”
I stopped, gaping. What? We were supposed to stick together, this nightmare was only getting worse. It was one thing to be matched with guys, it was another to be separated from the only person I knew in this place. My warning bells went from ringing mildly to a five-alarm fire, going off in my head like siren’s wail.
“Um no,” I said quickly. “I’ll go too, I can meet the same guy.”
And Jennelle for once, agreed.
“Two for the price of one!” she piped up. “It’s his lucky day!”
But the woman shook her head again, expression cold.
“I’m sorry, only one customer per companion,” she said. “You’ll have to stay here,” she said again, looking at me pointedly.
I’m not one to be cowed easily, but her expression was so sharp and definitive that I faltered.
“Um okay?” I asked hesitantly. “You won’t be long, will you?” I asked my friend, pleading a little.
And for the first time all night, Jennelle looked a little hesitant. I could tell this was spiraling out of the blonde’s comfort zone as well, throwing her into the deep end. We’d counted on being placed as one, there was so much comfort in having a buddy with you, we’d be okay if we stuck together. But now, we were being separated and it was like getting doused with ice water, the reality of the situation hitting us full in the face.
“I guess so,” she said slowly, trying to smile. “I won’t be long, will I?” she asked the woman in black.
But our handler was vague.
“Every client is different,” she said smoothly. “Every customer has different needs.”
And that just made the alarm bells go off even louder in my head. Needs? Clients? Customers? These were words that had connotations of something darker, tinged with desire and the illicit. Suddenly, it didn’t sound so platonic anymore, the situation didn’t sound like it was limited to snacks and drinks with a random guy.
But there was nothing we could do. We were already inside, the door clanking shut behind us, the darkness overwhelming. I guess we could have turned and tried to bolt, to fight our way back to the sidewalk, but it seemed impossible. There was the bouncer, looming and large, and even more, the icy glare from this woman was just so scary. I thought I was a feisty, take-charge type of girl, but clearly, there was confident, and then there was downright intimidating.
So nodding hesitantly, Jennelle turned bright eyes to me.
“Okay, well bye for now,” she said, trying to sound cheery, giving me a small wave. “I’ll catch up with you once all this is over, okay Abs?”
I nodded dumbly, my throat stuck. Holy hell, what was happening to us? Suddenly this whole thing seemed like the delusional adventures of two teen girls who had no idea what they were doing. Because in a matter of minutes we’d gone from sassy and confident to completely overwhelmed, out of our depths, paddling with sharks. But it was too late, so I just tried to look confident and positive.
“Sure,” I replied, trying to keep the waver from my voice. “See you soon.”
And with that, my friend and the woman disappeared around the row of bushes and I was left on my own in the narrow hallway. What the hell, what the hell. I stood there, stock still for a moment, cold as ice. The corridor was so dim, and all I could see was a purple wall along one side, and then those damn bushes. It was like my friend had been led into a maze, a labyrinth from which escape seemed unsure. It was scary, downright frightening, and I bit my lip, unsure again.
But suddenly, another middle-aged woman materialized, this one also with a tight, painful looking bun and a black cocktail dress, her expression just as smooth, just as robotic. What the hell, were these ladies clones? Or was it actually the same woman, save for a few tweaks here and there? I stared hard in the dim light, trying to make a decision, but it was no use. Between her stiff expression and the heavy make-up, I just couldn’t tell. They could have been sisters, twins, clones or maybe even totally different people. It was that hard to tell, given her robotic look.
But there was no need to give away my nervousness, so I took a deep breath, trying to appear calm.
“Hi,” I managed, voice steady. There, that was a good start. Not exactly poetic or take-charge, but “hi” is always a good way to begin a conversation.
The woman merely nodded, checking something off on her clipboard.
“Abigail?” she asked, voice smooth.
I bit my lip, nodding again.
“Come with me please,” she said, voice placid. “The client is ready.”
And I hesitated, hearing that word again. Client. Why were they calling them clients? Wouldn’t customer or guest be more appropriate? It was weird, downright bizarre, and I hesitated.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized quickly. “But I just wanted to know what this is about? I’m here to talk with guys right? To make small talk, get them comfortable, make sure they have a good time?”
The woman looked at me, an eyebrow quirked.
“Yes, you’re here to do as the client requests,” she replied. “Not more, not less.”
That made me jump again. Not more, not less? What happened to employee protections, to make sure nothing crazy happened?
“But that’s it exactly,” I rushed. “Is there more? Is there, you know, like more? Kissing and stuff?” I blushed, the words were so juvenile but I had to know. I couldn’t go into this with my eyes closed, if we’d indeed signed up for something extreme, it was better to know now. At least I could put up a fight now before heading into the wilds.
But the woman didn’t give anything away. Instead, she merely repeated her words, a robot again.
“You’re here to do as the client asks,” she said vaguely. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
I bit the inside of my cheek then. This was so goddamn frustrating and getting scarier by the moment. I understood if she couldn’t tell me anything, a lot of jobs prevent you from speaking for the company, there’s a strict corporate message. But here, sticking to the script was downright chilling because of what was at stake. It wasn’t just an hour of my life, it was the prospect of kissing a man, of tasting a man’s lips on my mouth, of doing more. And suddenly I was up in arms. Could I handle it, if there was more? Could I, Abby, a virgin, take it? Or what if I couldn’t perform, what if I couldn’t make myself kiss some old guy? What if he was creaky and wrinkly, smelling like menthol? Oh god.
But instead of focusing on the what-ifs and what-could-bes, I got myself in hand, taking a deep breath. There was no sense in psyching myself out when I just didn’t know what would happen. Maybe it’d be inane, maybe it really was just conversation and some smiles, all the while popping warm nuts and champagne. Or maybe there were a few kisses with a couple frogs. So what? I’d live, princesses have to kiss multiple frogs to get to their prince.
So I put a smile on my face and straightened my shoulders.
“I’m ready,” I said with what I hoped was a cool, confident air. “I’m ready.”
And with that, the woman led me past the row of hedges, along numerous corridors, all of them dark, dim, and opulent. Bu even with the low light, I could see ornate mirrors on the walls, straight from Italy, along with gilded wallpaper, gleaming and elaborate. And as we passed one doorway, there was even a fountain in the adjoining space, tinkling lightly in the huge ballroom.
So it couldn’t be that bad right? What had looked like a box on the outside was actually luxe and elegant on the inside, even though there were no windows. This place couldn’t be that terrible if they could afford such luxurious furnishings, even an interior fountain. I took a deep breath, getting some real oxygen, directing myself to relax.
And finally, we came upon a large seating area. Just like the rest of the place, it was dimly lit and luxurious, a huge wooden bar running along one side, the wall backlit, highlighting all sorts of top-shelf liquors. But the space was unique because there were topiaries and potted plants everywhere, as well as those damned hedges. It sounds odd, but the plants actually made it tasteful and elegant, each seating area shielded with vegetation so you couldn’t quite see who was sitting inside.
But judging from the voices, there were perfectly coiffed men and women making conversation inside. I could overhear the deep rumble of male tones, accompanied by the light laughter of women, high-pitched and flirtatious. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god, this didn’t sound crazy at all, just another cocktail party, complete with the tinkling of wine glasses and people making small talk. Perking my ears, I listened for Jennelle’s voice, the singsongy way she had of speaking. Was my buddy here somewhere? Was my friend sitting in one of these enclosed areas, sharing witticisms with a handsome man?
But I couldn’t distinguish her voice from the murmurs, and besides, it was too late. My handler had led me to a parting in the vegetation, and I looked in at a square seating area, not too big, maybe ten by ten, with plush couches surrounding a varnished table, secluded and dimly lit.
“Abigail,” the woman intoned smoothly. “I’d like you to meet Harris.”
I almost giggled then because all my fears of being intimidated, of being out of my league evaporated in an instant. The guy sitting inside was a total nerd, dressed in a brown suit with a checked shirt underneath. His comb-over was scrawny and sad, thin strands of brown lightly skimming his bald pate like delicate spider webs. And yet the guy couldn’t have been more than thirty. Suddenly, I felt totally in charge, like this was going to be a breeze, boring even. So I sat on the couch opposite him, crossing my legs decorously, and smiled.
“Thank you,” I nodded at the woman, who disappeared briskly, before turning back to the man. “Hi, I’m Abigail. You’re Harris?”
The middle-aged man nodded furiously.
“Ye-yes, people call me Harry sometimes,” he stuttered. “You can call me Harry too.”
I smiled kindly again. There was no sense in picking on the weak, and despite the fact that he had a dozen years on me, clearly I had the upper hand due to my youth and confidence. I’ve never been a bully, so might as well do my best by this client, right? I smiled again encouragingly.
“Great,” I murmured. “Happy to call you Harry. You can call me Abby.”
Harris nodded furiously again, his head bobbing up and down like a buoy in choppy waters.
“Thanks, thanks,” he rushed. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know girls like you worked at the Club.”
Thoughts spun through my mind. What to say? That I’d been roped in by my best friend, that we had no idea what was going on, and I was relieved to discover that he was a loser? The fact that he was obviously so nervous and ill-at-ease made me comfortable because suddenly I knew I could handle the situation. So I just smiled and nodded convincingly once more.
“A friend introduced me,” I said glibly. “A friend convinced me to come, and I figured it was no big deal, I’m all caught up with work so I had some free time.”
Harris nodded fervently again.
“Oh you work?” he asked. “I’m a car salesman myself,” he said eagerly like a puppy seeking my approval. “I sell mostly minivans and station wagons at the dealership.”
I nodded, it wasn’t surprising to find out that this guy sold family cars, he hardly looked like he’d be the right dude to push Lamborghinis and Maseratis. But then again, a job well done is a job well done, even if you’re marketing the most boring products. So I nodded encouragingly.
“I’m sure you must be very good,” I cooed a bit, smiling. “You must be very good.” Maybe I was taking it too far, maybe this geisha act was ridiculous. But again, a job well done is a job well done.
And Harris’s chest literally puffed like a bullfrog, smiling proudly as he took off his glasses and wiped them on the hem of his shirt. The lenses of his glasses were so dirty and cloudy, it was incredible he could see, and the rubdown on the plaid fabric only made it worse, like he was looking through goggles. But I guess he wasn’t bothered, because he popped the heavy frames back onto his nose and stared at me once more, face eager.
“Oh yeah, I’m real good,” he bragged. “I got the job because my uncle owns the dealership, but now I’m the number one sales guy!”
Something told me that his uncle was fudging the numbers to give Harris a boost to his self-esteem, but this wasn’t the time or place to say anything. Instead, I just nodded again.
“That’s wonderful,” I complimented, nodding pleasantly. “Really wonderful.”
And from then on out, I didn’t have to say much except for a couple more “wonderfuls,” “amazings,” and “wow, that sounds great.” Because Harris was so starved for female attention that he lapped it up, rambling on and on about himself for fifteen minutes straight, my smiles and occasional murmurs enough to keep him going. The man blabbed on and on about the car dealership, his job, his customers, his home life, and his eating habits.
“Yeah, I like to eat healthy,” he proclaimed proudly, chest puffing out. “I’m a fruitarian.”
I almost laughed. Wasn’t that where you only ate fruit? How did people survive, there was no way to get enough nutrients right? But no wonder Harris was so spindly and thin, his frame like a bendable Gumby.
“That’s great,” I murmured appreciatively. “Fruit is so nutritious, lots of vitamins and minerals.”
Harris’s chest puffed out even more, that narrow cavity expanding.
“That’s right, and not just any fruit,” he corrected. “Only fruit that’s already fallen from the branch.”
I scrunched my forehead for a bit.
“But I don’t get it,” I asked. “How do you know if it’s fallen from the branch? I mean, when you go the grocery store, they don’t exactly indicate that, right?”
And Harris nodded proudly.
“That’s right, so I have to scavenge. I walk around the city most days, looking for fruit that’s fallen on the floor.”
I was nonplussed. We were in Manhattan, which is a great place, but still, it’s the city. Where in the world did fruit trees exist? This was a grey town, filled with towering skyscrapers, people rushing by to get here and there, barely stopping to breathe. Where in the world did this guy find ripe fruit on the dirty concrete sidewalks?
But Harris had evidently answered this question before because he nodded proudly again.
“Sometimes I go to the dump,” he stated. “If I can’t find fruit on the floor, I figure the dump is just as good because it’s fruit that’s been discarded. Waste not, want not,” he said, wagging a finger at me.
And I almost choked then. So this guy was scavenging at the local landfill for food? On the one hand, I got his point. He wanted to be environmentally friendly, and certainly picking up discards from the scrapheap minimized your carbon footprint, you were consuming what had been thrown out by others. But that was the point. This was food that was other peoples’ rejects, fruit that was probably molded and half-eaten, nibbled on by rats, and this guy was telling me that this was his norm, that this was what he consumed on a daily basis.
So I smiled weakly then, trying not to look revolted. I love people who champion a cause, but sometimes, it’s just not for me. I support these folks, their fervor is impressive, but I can’t eat rotted food from landfills, it was too much. So I smiled weakly, unsure what to say, and Harris sensed my unease.
“Would you also be a fruitarian?” he asked sternly, eyes blazing at me. “Would you go with me to the dump to forage? You know, we’d be saving Mother Earth, making the most of her bounty.”
I swallowed again. How to answer this diplomatically? Should I lie? Should I let small white lies roll off my tongue to please the client? But I couldn’t, this was too weird, and the whole thing was just spinning out of hand. I had to say something and be diplomatic about it.
“Um, I think what you’re doing is amazing,” I murmured appeasingly. “I mean, eating only fruit must be really hard, do you get enough calories each day?” Probably not, judging from his wasted form, but I desperately wanted to avoid his question.
But Harris couldn’t be deterred, he merely fixed his eyes on me again, this time insistent.
“So what do you say?” he pressed. “Could you live the fruitarian lifestyle? The real deal, eating produce that’s already been dropped from the tree?”
I swallowed again. I wasn’t going to be able to dodge, I wasn’t going to be able to get away with a few vague “ahs” and “ums.” So slowly shaking my head, I let my true views out as gently as possible.
“Again, I really admire what you’re doing,” I murmured. “But no, I don’t think I could. It’s not that I don’t believe in what you’re doing,” I rushed, trying to be conciliatory, “but it’s just not me. I can’t eat from the dump, the stuff there must be way past its due date. And I think if we buy responsibly and support local businesses, we’re doing our part to further the movement.”
But Harris was immediately turned off, sniffing and looking away.
“That’s what you think,” he said accusingly. “But you’re just a cop-out. Real environmentalists go to extremes because it’s not extreme,” he added haughtily. “Besides that shit at the grocery store is all wax and dyes, you think you’re buying a Red Delicious? Honey, those apples are actually green on the tree, machines color them red.”
My client’s attitude was insufferable, but again, I wasn’t in a position to disagree.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed soothingly. “I’ll never buy a Red Delicious again because it should actually be called Green Delicious.”
But despite my best efforts, Harris was done. He turned his narrow chin away, refusing to look at me anymore, like I hurt his eyes.
“Handler!” he called out to the air, raising his voice slightly. “Handler!”
And immediately the middle-aged woman in a cocktail dress appeared once more, nodding deferentially.
“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” she asked. “Another drink perhaps?”
I looked at the table. Harris hadn’t even bothered to order a drink for me, his pink cocktail sat on his side of the table, a wet ring of water staining the wood.
“No thanks,” he said frigidly, still not meeting my eyes, that pointed nose turned away. “I’m afraid this young lady and I aren’t a match,” he said frigidly. “I’ll need a new girl.”
I flushed then, cheeks going hot. I shouldn’t have cared what this guy thought, it shouldn’t have mattered, he was such a foppish, frippery prick. But at the same time, I’d done my best to be nice, to be mild and accommodating and yet here he was, acting like the Queen of England.
“But- but,” I stuttered.
It was too late. The woman fixed me with a frigid glance, directing me to get up before turning back to Harris subserviently.
“Of course, sir,” she murmured dulcetly, bowing her head and nodding once more. “Of course, we’ll find someone new for you. Product is always renewable at the Club.”
And I goggled at her. Product? Renewable? What the hell, was she referring to me? It was so degrading and debasing, like I was a commodity, something that was easily replaceable, just another girl to be traded.
But it was too late because with an icy glare, the woman nodded for me to follow her, Harris waving a slight bye-bye with his hand.
“See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya,” he whined musically, voice trailing as I headed back out into the maze of topiaries. And I wanted to ask the woman what was going on, why this was happening, but no answer was forthcoming. So as I trailed behind, I actually grabbed a skinny elbow, sharp and pointy.
“What was that?” I demanded. “I mean, I know I’m here to make conversation with customers, but they can’t all be like that. That dude was so strange, did you see? Did you hear him talk?”
The woman glared at me then, expression forbidding.
“We are here to serve the clients,” she bit out. “Stay here, and I’ll ask management what’s next for you.”
Because we were now in a sitting room, the walls velvet, equipped with a huge TV and a mini-bar on one side. And seeing no other option, I sat gingerly on a plush purple ottoman, shaking my head.
“Fine, but I want out,” I said sharply. “And I want to find Jennelle, where’s my friend? We both want to leave.”
The woman didn’t even answer, spinning on her heel and shutting the door, the unmistakable snick of a lock sounding behind her. I gasped, shaking my head. What the hell was going on? Why in the world was I locked in a room, god knows where, separated from my friend? Why in the world had I just spent fifteen minutes talking to a complete loser, a total weirdo of a guy? All that was certain was that I wanted to get out of the Club, bad. And yet … I had no idea how to make it happen, locked in a room with no place to go.