“Take Lidia over there.” She gestured to a dark-skinned woman with violet hair. “She charges $2,000 an hour. What could she be giving to the guy that he couldn’t get on the street for $100, or even free from a lonely girl in a bar?”
“Uh…that is a question I would love to know too. In fact, teach me whatever she’s doing.”
Shalimar chuckled and moved us along. “Women think a whore gets more because she must be gorgeous or has a perfect body. Not true. The difference between Lydia and another, is that Lydia can look a man straight in the eye and tell him her worth. Period. And she believes that $2,000 is the price. And she finds people who are willing to pay it.”
Which is why I’m broke.
When I dated, I gave away my body and heart freely. There were no rules or holding back. I enjoyed the passion of life and there was nothing more exciting than love—new hearts beating against each other’s chest. No hundred-dollar bill could replace the scent of a man who loved me with all his heart.
Yep. This is why I’m broke.
“There are things that women in here do different. But it’s the small things.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“We practice our smiles.”
I giggled. “What?”
“There are different types of smiles. There’s the sly ones. The you’re-so-wicked ones.”
“You practice smiles?”
“You should too. Stand in front of a mirror and label your smiles.”
Maybe when I have some extra cash to stand around and do that.
“Either way, if you’re interested, let me know.” Shalimar winked at me. “Of course, your aunt would kill us, so it would be between us.”
“Which is exactly why I won’t do it.”
“Anyway, back to why we’re here.” She tossed her black hair over her shoulder. “You’ll play for eight hours each night.”
“Okay. Cool.”
“Your aunt said you had to raise some quick cash in the next two weeks, so she figured you would want to do all fourteen days.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Stay to yourself. Don’t look at people in the eyes too much. This is a world of double lives and fake names. If you’re not selling your body, then it’s best to disappear. Check with me on anybody.”
“I understand.”
“You’ll get a twenty-minute break every two hours to rest your arms. Is that good enough?”
“Yes.” I’d played back to back before, sometimes three shows in a night. My arms had worked up enough muscle to handle the brothel’s schedule.
Focus, and stay cool.
“I love your spirit,” Shalimar said. “Here’s another smart rule: stay quiet, and to yourself during those breaks. If you’re not about that life, then stay in the shadows.”
“Got it.”
The hallway opened to a massive ballroom complete with a small center stage. A woman took her time, stripping away a gown made of pearls. The carpet was plush white. Black cloth decorated the tables. Red velvet covered the chairs. It looked rich, like the sort of place billionaire men relaxed in. The atmosphere screamed money. Women were everywhere. They strolled in elegant lingerie. Bustiers and open cup bras. Lace body suits and silk thigh-highs. All wore six-inch heels, and even more were completely nude.
Men laughed and sipped wine along with the women. Tons of them. Young and old. All ethnicities. Many had the business vibe—lawyers, accountants, and techies. Most of them had briefcases and were signing papers on the table as they talked to each other. A few groups of men appeared to be on a bachelor night. They stayed rowdy in the corner, smacking the waitresses’ behinds as they walked by.
And at the table right in front of the stage, sat five men. Scary ones. Although four of them had scars on their faces, the fifth man at the center of the table appeared the most dangerous. He had styled, thick, brown hair, and no scars.
Who’s this?
I studied him through the lace mask.
He had the face of an angel that had been kicked out of heaven. That was the first thing I thought of. Face of an angel, but a barbaric one. His heavenly features boasted strength over gorgeousness. Square jaw. Full lips. Long lashes. So sexy, it should’ve been illegal. And he wore a designer charcoal suit that looked expensive and soft to the touch. The breadth of his shoulders made me want to unbutton it and discover the shape of his body.
Don’t even think about it. He looks dangerous as hell.
It wasn’t the fact that his expression remained dark with no emotion. It was those cold eyes—unfeeling and full of anger.
All the other men had been watching the woman on the stage, inch by inch taking away her gown of pearls. They even nodded in appreciation. But the one guy with the cold eyes, he glared my way. And he wasn’t even looking at me, instead he frowned at my violin case.