Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Charleigh

To call the room Dominika takes me to a ‘salon’ is being ridiculously generous. It’s big enough for one padded treatment table and a bookcase filled with everything I suppose they need to ‘fix me up.’

I’ve read about ‘spa days’ and ‘spa treatments’ in the fashion magazines I occasionally buy. They seem like something affluent women do all the time, often with their friends.

I can’t imagine such an indulgence, being pampered from head to toe alongside your buddies, like you’re a freaking goddess. I wonder if afterwards, these women float through life for days, feeling important and beautiful and spoiled.

Luci and I have talked about having a spa day someday, after we finish our courses and are working women with good jobs. It’s not something we’d do all the time. Really, we just want to try it once. For a treat.

And here I am, having my first spa experience. Only not at a spa, not with my friend, and not to be pampered.

Dominika overwhelms the small room with her presence. “Give her a trim, fix those eyebrows, wax that pussy, and give her a mani-pedi,” she barks at a small woman in a white coat.

“Will do, Miss Dominika,” she says with an obedient nod.

“Hello,” the woman says to me when Dominika pulls the door shut behind her. While we’re in close quarters and need to keep shuffling out of each other’s way, I can already breathe better. “Let’s get the hard part out of the way.” She slides the robe from my shoulders and hangs it on the door.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to being naked in front of strangers.

“Lay on your back here on the table,” she says after pulling some crinkly white paper down to protect it. “Pull your knees up and put the bottom of your feet together. Like a frog.”

Gross.

I lay on the table and, in spite of the woman’s instructions, clamp my knees together tightly while she stirs something in a little electric pot.

When she faces me, she rolls her eyes. “Are you going to make this more difficult than it has to be? C’mon. Spread ‘em.”

I place the soles of my feet together, and let my knees drops to the sides of the table exposing myself in a way I never have for anyone other than my doctor.

Like a frog.

The woman grabs my feet and pushes them toward me, further spreading my legs, and I want to die from the embarrassment. But the worst is yet to come.

To my horror, with gloved hands, she roughly pulls apart my labia, spreading hot wax on one side with a stick. After a few seconds—maybe longer, I’m not sure—she removes it with a violent tug, taking with it one half of my pubic hair and I’m sure several layers of skin. I scream from a pain so intense a wave of nausea passes over me, and before I know it, she does the other side, then pushes my knees to my chest so she can get to my ass.

How will I be able to sit?

“Stop breathing like that,” she scolds. “You’ll hyperventilate.”

She puts a cool compress on my screaming crotch and lifts my head to help me take a sip of water. I want to cry over what seems like a little act of kindness, her small effort to comfort me, but the truth is the woman is just doing her job. She doesn’t give a crap about me.

This initial torture is followed by a couple hours of trimming, tweezing, filing, and painting, a breeze after my rough start. As if on cue, Dominika shows up and looks at me with some semblance of satisfaction. “Better. This is better.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I ask for another ice pack for my crotch.

The spa lady gets one while Dominika tosses my robe at me. I follow her to a dressing room with racks of what look like very skimpy clothing, and a long table lined with chairs and makeup mirrors.

“This is Stacey. She’ll get you ready for your shift.”

And she leaves me with a small, pretty woman whose hair is pulled back so she can put on her makeup.

In between applying her false eyelashes, Stacey looks at me sympathetically. I want to fall into her arms. She has no idea what it means to come across someone nice in this place.

Or maybe she does.

* * *

Charleigh

“Hey,” she says. “I’ll show you how to do your makeup and then help you choose an outfit.”

It’s all I can do not to cry. Stacey is patient and tries to make small talk, but I can only manage one-word answers. She seems to understand, and while I want to ask her if she’s in the same situation I am, I know if I start talking about it, I’ll lose my shit. I relinquish the ice pack and she helps me into stockings, a short skirt, bustier, and the highest heels I’ve ever worn. I look ridiculous. Like a Halloween costume store’s idea of a streetwalker.

She pats my arms. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to walk far in those things. All you have to do is take orders and bring the men their drinks. It’s pretty easy. Sometimes you even get tips, although we’re not supposed to accept them.” She lowers her voice. “But we all do.”

“Wait, I’m starting now? Serving drinks? It’s not even noon yet.”

She shrugs. “I know. But the club is open twenty-four hours. Members come anytime they want.”

Looking me up and down with approval, she leads me to a lounge where the light is dim and music is playing low. There is a murmur of male voices, nothing loud, just quiet chatting and occasional laughter, and leaves me there. The bartender waves me over.

“So you’re the new girl. Here’s your tray. You’d better take this notepad and pen until you’ve been at this awhile.”

I stare at him, unable to move.

He sighs deeply. “See that table on the other side of the room? The one with the three men?”

I nod.

“Okay. They just got here. Go ask them what they want to drink. It’s that easy.”

I gulp, pulling on my short skirt as if that will afford me a little modesty, and cross the room.

“Looks like someone new today,” an older man with grandfatherly silver hair says, looking me up and down.

I have a feeling I’m going to get used to being gawked at. It will be nice when I don’t even notice it anymore. If that day ever comes.

“May… may I bring you something to drink?” I ask in a trembling voice.

The younger man at the table, with a long beard, guffaws. “There’s nothin’ to be afraid of, honey. We won’t bite. Will we, boys?” he asks, looking at his friends.

“I can’t say we won’t bite. But I can say we won’t bite too hard,” the third one says, and they break into peals of laughter.

I force a smile and even a bit of laughter to ease my tension. They give me their order and I return with three bourbons a couple minutes later.

As I set the last one down, somebody’s hand finds my ass. I jump, nearly spilling the drink, and quickly back out of reach of the man with the beard.

I open my mouth to scold him, but something stops me. This place isn’t the real world, so real world rules don’t apply here. I can’t slap a man for touching me the way I can on the outside. I can’t throw a drink in his face, nor can I scream at him.

What am I supposed to do?

I slink away to the next table, and then the next, and before I know it, I am running drinks back and forth like a delivery robot. But the last straw is when some guy smacks my ass so hard, the drinks I’m carrying go flying off the tray.

I watch them tumble to the floor, ice cubes bouncing in all directions, the alcohol disappearing into the carpet.

I run back to the dressing room where I double over in tears.

Not a minute later, Dominika finds me. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I… I…” I sputter. But I can’t get the words out.

Until a sharp smack across my face forces a scream. I’m so stunned, rubbing my burning cheek, that I stop crying and look into Dominika’s dark, dispassionate eyes.

“Get it together, young lady. Or things will get worse for you.”

Worse? How could things get any worse?

“This is your new reality, and you need to accept it. Grow the fuck up. Your life on easy street is over now, little fool. You’re not above any of this and quit bellyaching like you are.” She steps closer to me and points a finger inches from my face. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a prissy little bitch. Get it together, Charleigh. So help me.”

Her eyes narrow and her lips press into a thin, ugly line, emphasizing her sloppy lip liner. I want to tell her that her lousy makeup job adds about ten years to her appearance, but I would also like to live to see tomorrow.

I blow my nose and get back to work.

What the hell else can I do?