Page 14 of The Silver Spider
“A touch of modesty is just the thing, darling,” her supervisor had told her. A slick, well-coiffed woman likely around her mother’s age, but with the skin of someone, who’d never once left the Dome. “But we’ll have to work on your demeanor. This isn’t the appropriate club for dark and broody.”
So, Serephone wound up practicing her smile for two hours before she was even allowed on the floor, and then a demure dip of her lashes followed by a hair flick when turning. High heels had been easy enough to master—she already possessed both strength and balance. It was the deliberate hip thrusting from side to side that tripped her up, until she’d learned to simply walk to the beat of the music.
But she was becoming impatient. Her original plan had been to skip out on the job, until it occurred to her that this kind of establishment would traffic gossip and information as well as flesh and fine wines. There were all kinds of ways to execute a hunt. And the reality was she needed information more than she needed to be aimlessly prowling the streets.
One of the experienced girls approached Sere in between music sets. Dancers in expensive lingerie and glittering jewels performed sleek, sensual numbers on a small, round stage. No full nudity—that was saved for elite clientele. If a patron wanted a common stripper, he could visit one of the lower-class districts.
“One of my customers is asking about you,” Amalie whispered in Sere’s ear. The girl’s golden hair was slicked in a classic chignon and she wore the same provocatively coy dress as Serephone, but in white to suit her fair coloring.
“Why?” Serephone asked, irritated. She had enough to do keeping up with her own section. This brief minute of rest was the first she’d gotten in hours. If they didn’t want drinks, they wanted finger foods. Waiters served dinner, but the girls were expected to pass out tidbits—and feed a patron if he so desired. Which meant she’d spent an hour having her hands done as well, and been told in no uncertain terms that she might be young, pretty and ‘innocent’, but she still had the palms of a country wench.
“He likes new faces—especially brunettes,” Amalie said. “Don’t worry about it. If I don’t bring you, he’ll just move to your section. We’ll split the tip?”
“That’s fair.”
Amalie nodded, blue eyes relieved. Then they narrowed, shrewd. “Don’t try and sound too polished, if you know what I mean? He likes them fresh from the farm.”
“It’s a mine, technically.”
“Even better. He can imagine you in a bath, washing away all the black sludge to reveal soft, white flesh underneath.”
Serephone would never understand men or their fantasies, but she understood they existed, and were big business. That was enough. Skimming a critical eye over her section to ensure no one was beckoning for her, she slinked after Amalie. They approached a smaller couch with a round table in front, and a man reclining with a companion at his side.
“There aren’t many clubs here that cater to discriminating clientele,” he said, not looking at Serephone. “So, I am able to spot a new face right away.”
She studied him since he wasn’t looking at her. The kind of lean body coupled with too smooth skin and manicured hands that spoke of someone whose physique didn’t come from honest work but a hot house fitness salon. She’d seen his type pass through town before—usually younger sons seeking adventure or a few days slumming it in a quaint town while journeying to California. Since its annexation by the Aztecs, leaving only the San Diego and San Francisco Domes as American property per the terms of the treaty years ago, it was considered the new, wild west.
He turned his head finally and looked at her. Serephone bowed as she’d been taught, in the Oriental style, her feet in a ballerina’s third position—all the better to show off legs shown to advantage by the high heels.
She’d been told she was just a cocktail waitress. But the emphasis on her value as a fresh, country bumpkin alluded to the truth. Her employer was simply waiting for the right offer—and Serephone, in the meantime, was on full display. She figured after three or four weeks of softening her up, the club mistress would approach her with the real deal.
“I’m new in town,” she said, voice soft, eyes lidded because she hadn’t quite mastered the insipid look.
“You look familiar. Your face—I’ve seen it before.”
It could be a line, or it could be a clue. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that her face might be her best tool to seek out Ruthus’ patron. Ma had assumed the miscreants had flashed pictures of her and her sisters to shop them around. If he’d toured the upper-end clubs in order to secure a patron in advance—the ‘right’ patron might very well have seen her before. In a photo. And one of those patrons would be Ruthus’ backer.
“Maybe I look like someone you used to know.”
“I don’t think so.” He glanced at Amalie, and flicked a finger, dismissing her. “Have you been fully trained?”
Her neck stiffened from the emphasis on the last words. “Still learning the floor,” she said, struggling to keep the growl out of her voice. She was just a shitty actress.
“Well, take my drink order.”
She smiled, hiding a desire to introduce him to her spiders, and fetched his drink like a good girl. Another music set began, a dark-skinned dancer with something sparkling studded in her tight curls, took the stage to perform. Serephone spent the next hour running between her section and Amalie’s patron, glad that at least the men were apparently well-bred enough not to pat asses or try and cop boob feels.
She’d been twelve the first time she’d had to slice a man for trying to stick his hand up her skirt—while his eyes were on Persia as well. Ma had been furious. They’d been tall for their age, and Persia had talked her into putting on makeup. Not that it made them look any older, but she knew now that it made them look appealing to a particular kind of predator. The ruckus after that had been real. Between the man almost bleeding out on Stella’s floor, Ma threatening to have the place put out of business for allowing underage girls to sneak in, and the sheriff trying to win Ma’s favor by fining Stella double—Serephone grimaced, banishing the memory.
By the time the evening was over, and her feet were cursing gutter profanity at her, she’d stopped struggling to pretend to be anything other than disdainful of her customers, and couldn’t even fake the start of a smile.
Amalie’s patron looked at her, amusement on his face, and beckoned. Serephone clomped over, jaw stiff. “Yes?”
The music shifted to a soft, instrumental number, lights transitioning from the dark and exotic to a subtle glow imitating the approach of dawn—a visual cue for guests to get the fuck out and go home.
After tipping their servers.
She stared at him. He’d better tip his server.
The man wasn’t stupid. “Thank you for indulging me—new things are always a treat in a world gone so blah lately.” He tapped a finger on a small purple envelope. “I know you’ll share it with my Amalie—there is extra.”
Patrons didn’t usually discuss tips so freely. Either he was baseborn, or too rich to care about aping stupid manners that stated the wealthy class had to pretend money bloomed in rose gardens and just, lo and behold, appeared when needed.
“Thank you,” she said.
He rose, picking up dark gloves from his seat. “I believe I know where I’ve seen your face before. I hope I’ll see you again this evening.”
Serephone didn’t follow him because he left with a clear air of dismissal—and she’d rather corner him and pound out any information while her supervisor wasn’t looking. He would definitely be seeing her tonight.
