premises. The music’s never so loud that you can’t hear your customers talking to you. Our waitresses know better than to hustle drinks, and God forbid the bartenders screw around and water things down.”
I had no idea what the “funny money” comment meant, but I just smiled like I understood and nodded my head. When in doubt, pretend you have a clue.
“Okay, let’s discuss your role. You’ll do a minimum of three shows a night, three songs per show. We don’t require lap dances, but you’ll probably want to work the floor. That and the VIP room’s where the money is.”
I nodded again, filing away her advice for later use.
“We’re a medium-mileage place for lap dances. The customers know there’s no touching your breasts or genitals, ever. You, on the other hand, can touch the customers however you want, just not their crotch. Feel free to grind, if that’s your pleasure.”
Hmm. Get them all hot and bothered, with no follow through. Maybe the place should be called Blue Balls instead of Belles.
“Fees are pretty good, all things considered,” Momma said. “Only a forty-five dollar stage fee, but it’s more if you’re late. Roman’s a bit of a dick when it comes to that, so do yourself a favor and show up on time.”
“Noted. Thanks.”
“There’s no cut for table dances, which usually go for twenty bucks for three minutes. If your men want privacy, there’s the VIP lounge upstairs with couches, and the VIP room itself. Ten dollars of every thirty-dollar couch dance goes to the house. VIP room’s two-fifty for a half hour, with fifty going to the house for a room rental fee. What you arrange for dances in the VIP room is up to you. No fixed salary, of course. All we have here are house dancers. Features are prima donnas, and they mess up the rotations and put the house girls in bad moods, so we don’t book them.”
My head was spinning from all the information. What was the difference between a table dance and a couch dance? And what were the prima donna features? Ah, screw it. I stretched my “Yes, I understand completely” grin from ear to ear. I’d figure everything out on the job.
“You’ll do the last shift, nine to three. Long dresses required before ten. Short dresses from ten till midnight. Then it’s lingerie and bikinis from twelve until closing.”
Mental note: Go on shopping spree.
“Like I said before, we’re about quality here. We don’t want Neanderthal asshole customers, so we expect our staff and dancers to follow certain rules. No hustling drinks; wait for a customer to offer. No hustling private dances. You tell a guy you’ll see him in the VIP room, you make sure you show up. Don’t have one of the other dancers entertain the customer while you take your time, then show up and force the guy to tip you both. We ask our floor girls to follow tip-rail etiquette—no hitting up the men by the stage for dances when another dancer’s performing her set.”
Holy fuck in Heaven, there were as many rules here as there were in the Pit.
“And last thing,” she said as we got to the front door. “Tipouts. You want to treat the DJ and the bartender right. Don’t go any less than ten, unless you want to dance to Enya on stage and get completely snorkered when your men buy you drinks. Some girls tip the doormen and VIP host. Me, I recommend it. A girl can’t have too many friends.”
I knew a hint when I heard one. I opened my wallet and produced a ten, handing it to Momma. “Thanks for all the info.”
“See that?” she said, beaming proudly. “I knew you were a natural. You keep us happy here, and we’ll keep you happy in return. So what should we call you, honey?”
I grinned. “Jezebel.”
It had to be the rush of hormones. I would never have been that stupid if I were still a creature of the Abyss. Sure, I walked, talked, and smelled like a human. That didn’t mean I should all but advertise what I really was. But I was high on life, so I trusted Caitlin’s magic to keep me safe. I was Jezebel.
Pleased with all of my accomplishments so far, I opened up the door to room 217 and threw the shopping bags to the floor. I dropped my purse to the carpeted floor and kicked off my sandals. In my first day as a mortal, I had a body, a job, and a possible love interest. Not too shabby. Now all I needed was to find an apartment and a couple of pairs of killer shoes.
Humming the tune “Home” under my breath, I turned on the light as the door slowly swung shut behind me.
“Hello, Jezzie.”
My heart stopped as the voice hit me, and the melody died in my throat.
Fuck.
Swallowing, I turned to see one of the seven most powerful entities in all the planes seated in the large art-deco chair near the small table. Her eyes gleamed as they locked on mine.
I stared into the face of my best friend, the Fury Megaera.
Chapter 6
Then: A Client’s House/Periphery of Hell
The man rolled off of me, a look of extreme contentment on his face as he stretched his long, muscular body. “Darlin’, you’re the best lay I ever had. Some of what you did—man, you took my breath away.”
Way more than his breath, but why spoil his afterglow?
I touched my tongue to my upper lip, then gave him a huge smile. That had been his particular Hook: The smile. For some men, it was the eyes. For others, legs. Tits and ass were right up there too. But my current paramour was all about the smile. I had a particular talent for recognizing Hooks. Hot damn, I loved my job.
“Glad you enjoyed, sweetie.” I put a purr in my throat, just the way he liked it.
“Enjoyed? Darlin’, words can’t describe how I feel. That thing you did with your toes? No one’s ever done that to me.”
That’s probably because the act was illegal in his home state. My voice flirty as I wiggled my toes, I said, “So you could say that I was your first?”
“You bet. Ahhhhh.” That was in response to my fingers lightly tracing patterns just over his pubic hair. The abdomen is particularly sensitive after a climax, and I wanted him to sink into the last bit of pleasure from our short time together.
“That’s so sweet,” I said, sucking in his bliss. His emotional reaction was a physical delight for me, and I lapped up his ecstasy like a child slurping an ice-cream cone.
“Man, I’m spent.” He tried to chuckle, but he didn’t have the strength to do more than chuff out a weak laugh. “Feel like I could sleep for a year.”
“Actually,” I crooned, kissing his belly, the outline of his ribs, his nipples, “you won’t be getting any sleep in the foreseeable future.”
He was feeling the effects from our sex play, but even as his body started shutting down, his mind didn’t comprehend what was happening. That’s usually how it went, assuming my paramours didn’t simply fall asleep and wake up dead. He blinked sleepy eyes at me, an exhausted smile lingering on his face. “I’d love another go, but I just don’t have the energy.”
“I
