With the satin slipping through my fingers, I take in the deep red. The dress is a dark, dark red. Shivers run up and down my arms at the feeling of the fabric. This dress is my uniform for the evening.
It makes me feel like a different woman. I turn in front of the mirror, letting the cloth drape down my body. It makes my dark hair stand out, and I get a thrill of pride that I managed to make myself look like this. Sexy and mysterious and in control.
They’ll never know how scared I am, deep down. No one will ever know. Because I’ll put on a smile that goes with this dress. That reminds me of the lipstick. Scarlet inspired me to get it. She told me red is a confident color. Perched atop the worn wood of my dresser is a little striped bag from Sephora. A spray of tissue paper pokes out of the top and nestled inside is my new lipstick.
I take it back to the bathroom mirror and apply it.
The shade of the lipstick matches the dress perfectly. That’s the last piece of my uniform and I did it exactly right. It’s hard to match colors so exact, so the forty-five minutes I spent in the store going back and forth between different shades is paying off. I stare at my own face in the mirror until I look like a stranger. A beautiful stranger who could be anyone she wants to be.
My phone vibrates on the bedside table out in the bedroom, and I go back out to see who messaged me.
* * *
Scarlet: How is everything going? Just checking in …
* * *
Braelynn: I’m all ready. Heading out soon!
* * *
I can’t help the feelings that come over me. It’s comforting to have someone who’s concerned about me like Scarlet is. Gratitude is overwhelming. We’ve known each other for years, but only recently got as close as we are. Since everything started breaking down with Travis, she’s really been there for me when I needed it.
* * *
Braelynn: See you soon.
* * *
One last stop at the mirror. I’ve made myself as perfect as I could for this. Perfect red dress. Perfect lipstick. It’s the lipstick, most of all, that gives me courage. I’ll fake it ’til I make it. I’ll fake it until every dark thing that’s ever happened to me is far away in the rearview mirror. I’ll fake it until there’s more happiness than pain in my life.
Blinking away every insecurity, I focus on the comic relief: I’ll fake it until I get that new set of sheets.
With a roll of my eyes and a huff of a laugh, I focus on that one small goal to send me on my way. It’ll feel good to have those new sheets, and better to sleep through the night without worrying.
The woman in the mirror is who I’ll be when that happens. No more Braelynn who cried all the way home to her mother’s house. No more Braelynn who doesn’t want to face the day and lets her lover treat her like a doormat.
No more Braelynn who’s so afraid she can’t even sleep at night.
Declan
The office door shuts with a quiet thud and I lock it as I always do. The keys clink as I test the lock.
It’s only as I turn that I realize I’ve forgotten my tie on my desk. Pausing, I gaze down at my attire: gray slacks, a black leather belt that matches the onyx of my oxfords and a burgundy button-down. The din from up the iron spiral staircase tells me The Club is already bustling with clients.
Fuck it.
I drop the keys into my pocket and then run my hand along my jaw. Stubble lines my chin, but that’s how I prefer it. I’m not interested in the typical dick-measuring contests men tend to have at nightclubs. Every other man who walks through those doors can feel superior behind the closed doors of this establishment. The liquor flows for them in the private dining areas. Women dance in burlesque shows and provide … other entertainment.
Most importantly, they’re comfortable conducting business here. Upstairs is for deals. Handshakes are exchanged, money is passed under tables. All arrangements are dealt with discretion.
And we remain aware of every business transaction and affair that matters in this city and the four corners beyond it. Ever since Marcus left, we’ve taken the role of providing communication efforts for men in our profession. With the clank of my shoes smacking against the iron, I peek down the hall from my office.
If everyone knows upstairs is where major deals on the East Coast are done, they know downstairs is where people go for not holding up their agreements. The private rooms are mostly furnished for all manner of sin. If ever the police raided, which they have before, there are plenty of women who escort the men in here to testify that they enjoy their partners in the privacy of those rooms. In fact, there are only two that are concrete from wall to wall with a drain in the center of the room.
As I push the door to the main floor open, I smirk, remembering the latest officer’s brow cocking as I described what “water sports” were and that our club doesn’t judge kinks so long as men clean up after themselves. Every so often the cops make a pathetic attempt at shutting us down. As far as the authorities are concerned, I run a gentleman’s club with playrooms in the basement. Everything is consensual and the books are clean. The numbers are balanced when it comes to what we show.
It’s easy to pass money through, moving around whatever amounts are needed for certain deals. The devil is in the details, as they say.
The majority of our guests are on the up-and-up. There may be whispers of what occurs, but they’re all rumors. The most perverse allegations that have been proven are politicians who’ve brought their mistresses to The Club. There is no exception to what manner of debauchery we allow, so long as phones are left at the door with their coats and every check is paid.
The Club is my creation, my contribution to my family and the only way I’ve been able to stay on top of things while my brothers have stepped back.
They’ve moved on in life in a number of ways. They have children and lives I’ve never imagined for myself, let alone for them. I’ve taken on more of their burdens and more of what comes with this line of business.
Even Seth, my best friend, is no longer available like he used to be. His son is almost two now. My godson.
I do every damn thing I can for all my family, including maintaining our ruthless reputation.
The music is alluring, a downtempo mix that offers the same ambiance as the dim lighting and lit candles on every table. The white wax provides a stark contrast against the black linens.
From this entrance, the stage, which is empty at the moment, is to my right. In front of me are the folding seats, separated into isolated sections, with the bar behind it. The hall leading to the entrance is to my right. It’s private and discreet, although the tables are full of unsuspecting patrons at the moment.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cross,” Scarlet greets me, tipping her chin down as she passes by. Her lips pick up into a simper, but her eyes don’t reach mine. As she slips past, balancing the silver tray in her left hand with empty wineglasses and stacked plates, I peer across the room.
There are a dozen tables filled, another dozen empty. A few tables consist of men in sharp suits toasting, while a few have groups of women, dripping of wealth in designer dresses and handbags. Most tables are occupied by couples, though, preparing for a night out and having chosen this destination, more than likely, for the rumors of what’s happened behind these closed doors.