Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(78)

He eyes my knees and rubs his chin thoughtfully, and I know just by looking at him that he is going to ask me to take more lessons or something in that vein.

‘Please,’ I urge. ‘That was my first time. I was just nervous. I can do this.’

‘Look,’ he begins more firmly, but he is interrupted by his mobile ringing. He takes it out of his pocket, glances at the screen and looks surprised. He lifts one finger at me in a gesture that tells me to wait, presses his thumb on the answer button, and puts his phone to his ear.

‘Yup,’ he says after less than a few seconds of listening to someone speak, and terminates the call.

He turns his attention back to me, but his eyes are now speculative and assessing. ‘Good news. You’ve got the job. You can start whenever the swelling’—he nods toward my knees—‘goes down. Arrive at five thirty p.m. with a photo ID, proof of address, and your National Insurance number and report to the House Mother. Her name is Brianna.’

For an instant I stare at him speechlessly. My knees are throbbing like crazy by now. ‘I’ve got the job,’ I repeat stupidly.

‘Looks like it,’ he says with a grin.

‘Thanks, Mark. You won’t regret this.’

‘No problem,’ he replies casually, and losing interest in me turns toward the blonde Barbie. ‘Want to show us what you’ve got?’

As I hobble away from the stage, a slight movement in the far shadows catches my eyes. I turn my head and at the dim edges of the club I see the glint of snakeskin as Jake Eden quietly slips out of the black and gold doors. And I know without a doubt: North London’s most illusive gangster, Jake Eden, has just hired me.





TWO


For two days I hobble around my flat, eat junk food, and endlessly replay my disastrous reaction to Jake Eden. Could it have been some sort of freak overreaction caused by nervousness about my impending audition? On the third day I convince myself it must have been, and slapping a bit of concealer on my knees I make my way back to the club.

To my surprise the House Mother is a female version of my bank manager: forties, a sleek helmet of strawberry blonde hair, and a dark blue suit with a classy fitted top underneath it. Then she goes and does what my bank manager never does: she flashes a genuinely warm smile and I know we are going to get on just fine.

‘Hi, I’m Brianna.’ She extends a hand. ‘Patrick told me to expect you.’

Her grasp is warm and soft.

‘We’re all known by our stage names here. Thank God. I’d go bonkers if I have to remember two names for all my girls. Do you have one?’

‘Jewel.’

‘Jewel. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that stage name.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, I’ve been in this business for twenty years, you know. And I danced for the first ten.’

She was so respectable and ‘establishment’ it was hard to imagine her on a pole. ‘You did?’

‘I sure did. A part of me still misses the attention and the money, but I’m married with kids now and I wouldn’t exchange that for the world. Besides I love being House Mom here.’ She smiles charmingly, but her next words are a smooth shift into her business mode. ‘About a hundred and twenty girls work at any given time and it is my job to ensure that just the right amount of redheads, blondes and brunettes are on the floor, so that all my girls make good money.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘You have a very exotic look. Unusual. Your eyes are slanted, but so blue.’

‘My grandmother is from China and my grandfather was Nordic,’ I offer reluctantly into the expectant pause. I don’t ever want to talk about my personal life to anybody here.

‘Ah! That will explain the amazing cheekbones too.’

‘Thank you,’ I accept politely, but my stiff expression closes off that avenue of conversation.

‘Right. I expect all my girls to be able to do at least three shifts a week. If for any reason at all you can’t make it, you’re ill, you’ve got your period, or you’ve got a mother of a hangover, just let me know so I can cover my ass. Be honest with me. I expect straight talking from all my girls and I’ll do the same with you. Understand?’

I nod quickly.

‘It is also my job to act as the buffer between the customers and the dancers so no matter what troubles you find yourself in you can always come to me.’

‘OK.’

‘Good. Let’s get the house rules out of the way. The most important one is: the punters aren’t allowed to touch you and you aren’t allowed to touch them below the waist. Break that rule and you’re out. If the security cameras ever pick up a girl touching a man’s groin with any part of her body that girl never dances here again. Understood?’


‘Understood.’

‘Now, it’s pretty standard that while you are dancing for a guy he will have a semi happening in his pants. At that point it is exactly the same with all men. They’ll look at their crotch meaningfully and ask you to touch them.’

My belly churns with disgust, but I fight hard to keep my face neutral, and I must have succeeded because she carries on without batting an eyelid.

‘They’ll plead with you, offer you money, and some of them will even tell you they are friends of the management, and that it’ll be OK for you to “help” them. But if you do touch them and they turn out to be undercover officers from the licensing department at the Council or the police, the club will be closed down within the hour.’