Lipstick Money

Chapter Twelve

The rest of my shift followed the same pattern. I had barely stepped out of the private booth before another client was at my side, attempting small talk only to be met by my blank stare. Every time they would try and fill the awkward silence with a request for a private dance, skipping over the usual flirtatious banter that was usual and that I'd come to expect. If I'd known all I had to do was glare at these foolish men to get a private dance instead of sitting through tedious conversation I would have done it from my very first night. But I knew that wasn't really why I was so totally in demand. It was because every single one of the men who approached me thought they could tame me. They were all wrong.

Once or twice clients protested at the price I told them for one song.

"The other girls don't charge that much," said one.

I shrugged, uninterested. "Go and get a dance off them then," I said, already bored.

"But I want you," he said, giving me a hopeful look. What did he think was going to happen? Was he expecting a discount?

"¥15,000," I said. "One song."

"You just said ¥10,000 a second ago!"

I shrugged again. "The extra ¥5,000 is for the time you've tried to haggle with me like we're standing at a Bali market stall," I said. "Take it or leave it."

He took it.

The other girls were mostly busy with their own clients, but now and then I saw them glance in my direction. They were figuring out something had changed and I was cleaning up as a result of it. It was academic interest, I realised that. Only Sasha looked over with worry in her eyes.

Sasha, and strangely enough, Brandi.

Some time later it was time for my stage show. I had shown off my new outfit often enough in the private booths, but I knew that the Willow stage was not the place to show it off again. I ducked backstage to change into a more appropriate lingerie set. Still sexy of course, a little racier than what I usually wore, but nothing out of the ordinary.

I had just slipped out of my dress when Brandi came in. She saw my outfit of vinyl and satin and whistled.

"You look like a Christmas ham," she said. It was a typical Brandi comment, but something in her tone was missing. I didn't care enough to wonder why. I ignored her, and slipped out of the bra, putting on a lacy black set in its place.

"Good idea," Brandi observed dryly. "Tom will be pissed if every client has a stroke one after another. How will he earn his precious commission then?"

I looked at her then, my eyebrows raised.

"Did you want something?" I asked, not in the mood to exchange barbed remarks.

Brandi looked at me. "Yeah," she said finally. "I wanted to check on you."

"You wanted to check on me?" I repeated. "Sure, okay."

"I'm serious," said Brandi, shortly. She still didn't attempt to sound friendly, which I respected. She knew I'd call her out on it. So why this sudden concern? I shook off wondering about it. Who knew what went through her head.

Brandi let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh my god, Jade, can you just... I'm just checking on you because you're acting like a fucking sociopath, okay? And I felt like I should just make sure you're not going completely psychotic because I'm the one who has to share a bloody bedroom with you. So if this—" and she gestured generally at me, indicating my unforgiving eyes, fuck me hair, and the stance of someone who didn't give a shit about anybody. "If this... murder rampage look you've got going on means you're going to kill me in my sleep, well then I want to know about it."