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“He” is the same man who has been coming in every Tuesday for the past five weeks. The same man who books a private room for six hours.
“We’ll see,” I say, brushing blush across the apple of my cheek once more before turning and standing. Today’s outfit is outlandish and black with red piping, something I never would have worn in a past life even in private, but something about it makes me feel strong.
Powerful.
This whole journey—for lack of a better word—has been an exercise in power.
That power runs through my veins as I walk steadily in six-inch heels, heading toward the door that leads the dressing room.
I am power.
I am fierce.
I am revenge.
The words have become my mantra, the way I leave my own head when I need to focus. When I need to put up that wall between my subconscious that hates the idea of dancing for tips and the part of me that does it to advance my plan.
In my mind, that wall is constructed from the bricks of the tower I once was hidden away in.
But before I can step into the actual dressing area, I’m stopped by Marco.
Marco is a giant of a man, never looks happy, and always wears dark sunglasses. Once, I asked him why, and he told me because he has no eyes. At least I know he has some sense of humor, even if it’s a very strange one.
He’s also my absolute favorite person here at Jerzy Girls.
“Lilah,” he says, his voice deep, and even though he doesn’t speak loud, I can hear it over the sound of the thumping bass.
He’s a bouncer at Jerzy Girls and, from the gossip in the back room, a high-up member of the Carluccio family. Possibly the right hand to Junior Carluccio, the next in line to head the family once Carmine passes. It was a fact I greedily took in and saved for later when the girls whispered it in the first few days after I started here.
I smile sweetly, continuing the friendship I’ve formed with the man.
“What’s up, handsome?” He doesn’t smile at my words.
Again, Marco never smiles. It’s not his way.
“You have a request.”
“Let me guess, six hours?”
“Mr. Romano is in room three. I’ll walk you there.”
“What a gentleman,” I say with a smile, then I put my hand on the crook of his arm.
This has been going on for five weeks, nearly every Tuesday. The mysterious man hires me for six hours, the max allowed in a private room, taking up a good chunk of my eight-hour shift.
I’m thankful, of course—the break means less time shaking my ass on a stage while men whistle and shout and I risk breaking an ankle, but it’s . . . strange.
Strange in that I was only here for five days before the private sessions started.
Strange in that, from what the girls tell me, he only ever comes in on Tuesdays.
Strange in that the girls have never heard of this happening before.
Strange in that the expectations while I’m in the room aren’t what you’d . . . expect.
Marco leads me to the back of the club before unlocking the unmarked door, the same one he always takes me to, then walking me in. Soft music is playing, and I smile at the man in a chair in the shadows before me.
Mr. Romano.
