Deadly Desire (24 page)

I snorted softly, but let him get to it, watching him work through the mirror he'd propped in front of me.

The result was surprisingly sexy. The chocolaty brown played against my own natural color, setting it off rather than clashing, and it contrasted nicely against the warm gold of my skin. The green eyes looked startling, and although I'd feared my hair being cut, all he did was give it some shape.

It was me, and yet not.

“Okay, modulator time,” he said, picking up the little plastic bag.

“Damn, I was hoping you'd forgotten about those.”

“Jack would have my hide if I did. Open wide, darling.”

I did, and winced as he inserted the extremely thin plastic chips in either side of my mouth. The surface of the modulators were supposedly covered with an analgesic that deadened the skin as they went in, but it always felt like he was ripping out teeth rather than shoving in plastic. Although at least once they were positioned inside my cheeks, I couldn't actually feel them. I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies.

“Why do those stupid things always hurt going in?” I asked, only to be a little startled by the sound of my new voice. It was more husky than raspy, and had a deepness that suggested it was coming from the depths of my toes. Calling it sexy was something of an understatement.

“Why do you always complain about the same damn things when you already know the answer?” He
handed me a folder, and the twinkle in his silvery eyes grew. “Meet your new identity.”

I opened the folder with some trepidation. The Directorate had come up with some pretty stupid cover names in the past. And, as it turned out, this was no different. “CC Buttons?” I looked up at him. “They are kidding, aren't they?”

He smiled. “CC is your stage name. Your actual cover name is Cecily Berg.”

“Well, at least that's a
little
better,” I grumbled, scanning my history quickly and memorizing it. Luckily, I had a pretty good recall for this sort of stuff. “These are actual clubs, I gather?”

“Yeah, but all but one have folded. And the owner of Lulu's is a good friend of Jack's, and owes him a favor. She'll rave appropriately about your performances.”

“It's a wonder they let me leave,” I said, reading through the more personal history. CC was an orphan and former street kid. How surprising. “You know, just once I'd love to have a nice family history for one of these jobs. I mean, it's not like there aren't strippers with happy lives and supporting families behind them.”

“Yeah, but it's easier to keep the background contained with an orphan.” He slapped my shoulder lightly. “Go get changed. Your interview clothes are on your bed.”

I grinned as I dropped the folder onto the table. “Am I going to like them?”

“Oh, I think you're going to love them,” he said, looking smug. “So scoot.”

I did. My outfit turned out to be a wickedly small
black skirt, a hot red singlet top with the words “Werewolf Babe” emblazoned on the front, and matching red stilettos with a heel that reminded me of a glitter ball. There was no bra, but I guess the whole point of the outfit was to let it all hang out.

I dressed and strolled back out to the living room. “So, do you think I'll get the job?”

Liander looked me up and down, then nodded. “I think the word here is ‘hot.’ And I can safely say that if I were a hetero, I'd certainly want you doing a private dance for me.”

“I'm sure you can convince Rhoan to give you one.”

“Yeah, but his legs are too hairy to wear that skirt.” He glanced at his watch. “You'd better get going. The train leaves in ten minutes.”

“What, the Directorate isn't even spotting me a car?”

“Nope.” He picked up a large red purse from the table and handed it to me. “I've shoved some costumes, G-strings, and toiletries in there, as you'll probably be asked to try out tonight. Now get.”

I got. Catching the train again after having a Directorate car for so long really sucked. Luckily, it wasn't rush hour, but the carriages were far from empty and they reeked of humanity, perfume, and sweat. As ever, it left me wishing my olfactory senses weren't quite as keen.

I got off at the Southern Cross station and caught a tram up to the Lonsdale Street stop, then walked up toward King Street. A surprisingly discreet sign pointed me in the right direction.

The outside of the club was nondescript—just a
plain, brown brick building with demure lighting and signage. A red-and-gold-clad doorman was the only indication of the opulence that awaited inside.

The foyer was large and warm, thanks mainly to the richness of the red carpet and the dark gold walls. A redwood paneled counter dominated the far end of the foyer, and the woman standing behind it gave me a warm smile of welcome as I entered. I returned it, but continued to look around as I walked toward her. There were several couches lining the other walls, and a couple of potted plants adding greenery. The biggest indicator of what this club was about were the two nude statues dominating the far corners, and the erotic paintings hanging on the walls.

“Can I help you?” the woman at the counter said. She was tall and auburn haired, and wearing a green dress that made the most of her figure without revealing a whole lot. She also had what looked to be a nanowire around her neck.

Which was interesting. The wires were a nanotechnology development that guarded against psychic intrusion. The only things I knew about them was that they only worked when the two ends were connected, and that it was somehow powered by the heat of the body. They stopped most of the vampire population, but I knew they didn't stop Jack, and they could no longer stop me—although it took me a little more concentration and effort to get past them than it did Jack.

What was interesting about
this
woman wearing them was the fact that they weren't actually available to the general public yet, although of course—and despite
the Directorate's best efforts—they were readily available on the black market.
If
you had a lot of cash behind you. If all the workers here were wearing them, then someone had a
whole
lot of money to play with.

“I have an appointment with the manager at six,” I said, and glanced at my watch. It was five forty-five. “I'm a few minutes early, though.”

Her expression changed from politeness to real warmth. “You here about the dancer job?”

“Yeah. I've been in Melbourne a few weeks, and money is getting short.”

She pressed a button, and behind the door to my right, a buzzer sounded. “It's a nice place to work. Money's good, and the clientele are usually well behaved.”

“Do you dance much yourself?”

She nodded. “Mainly just on the weekends. The clients tend to be more cashed up.”

The door to my right opened before I could say anything. A short, thick-set man in a blue suit gave me a polite nod, then said, “Cecily Berg?” When I nodded, he added. “I'm Matthew. This way, please. First door on the left.”

He opened the door wider, and stepped to one side. The hallway beyond was long and narrow, the plain beige carpet matching the walls, and both of them in need of a little loving care.

The first door on the right was a security room, lined with cameras and several burly guards who were keeping an eye on things. The next two doors were closed. The first door on the left led into an office area. As soon as I walked in, I felt the magic. It was only faint, little
more than a pinprick of energy that swirled across my skin ever so briefly, but it was there nevertheless. And it felt
bad.
Just like the stuff in the murdered vampires' homes.

A brown-haired, green-eyed woman looked up as I entered, then gave me a polite smile and rose.

“Cecily Berg? Hanna Mein. I'm the manager here.”

And one of the owners. But while the scent of roses and bad magic might cling to her like a barely there cloak, she
wasn't
the woman who'd been in the warehouse with the hellhounds or who'd sent the zombie after Joe. But her scent
was
the same as the one in the homes of all our vamp victims.

And like the woman at the front desk and the security guard who'd escorted me here, she was wearing a nanowire.

I took her outstretched hand and shook it politely. Her skin was cool, her grip neither firm nor weak, but somewhere in between. Which—according to the Directorate psychobabble they occasionally like to lob on us—meant she was a woman confident in herself, and not needing to prove anything. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, have a seat.” She indicated the comfy-looking chair on the right, then sat down and picked up some papers. “You have excellent references.”

“That's because I've worked at some excellent clubs.”

“We did check your reference for…” She paused and glanced at the paperwork “… Lulu's. She said you don't do pole work.”

I hesitated. “To be honest, I'm just not very good at it.”

“The owner did say you were in demand for both lap and private dances.”

“I'm a werewolf. It's a rarity in a strip club, and Ms. Vanderberg did play that angle up a little.”

Hanna smiled, but her green eyes were neutral. I was getting absolutely nothing from this woman on either a sensory or an emotional level. Nothing except that swirly magic that itched at my skin.

“So tell me, why does a werewolf become an erotic dancer for mainly human clubs?”

I smiled. “Because I'm only half wolf, and because it's a damn good way to make money—as long as you work for the right establishment.”

“And you think Meinhardt's is one such place?”

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't.”

She nodded again. “We never employ people without a night's trial. Are you willing to work tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Excellent. There are no house fees. We simply work on an eighty-twenty split here—in the dancer's favor—which as you'll know is rather generous. Bar receipts are not included in your take, however.”

Which is probably why they could afford the generous split. From the little background included in the file Liander had handed me, the bar—or rather, the overpriced booze—was where a lot of money was made.

“We run a main bar, a showgirl's bar, a sports and billiards bar, and the fantasy rooms,” she continued,
“and our dancers rotate between all of them except the showgirl's room. Only our most experienced dancers entertain there. We expect two on-stage performances if you're in the main room, and lap dances outside those times.”

“Do you have privacy booths or rooms?”

“Certainly. We call them the fantasy rooms. Our patrons seem to prefer the various fantasy settings.”

“And security?”

“All rooms are monitored. There's a strict no-touching policy in the main room and the show room. Casual contact is allowed in the sports bar, and in the fantasy rooms the option is yours. There is, however, a strict rule about no sex and no drugs of any kind. Participate in either of those activities on these premises, and you will be marched straight down to the local police station and charged.”

“Warning heeded.” I hesitated. “What about the dress code?”

“Costumes on stage, G-string for room work. In the fantasy rooms, we allow full nudity if the customer is paying for it.”

“Sounds good.”

She rose and offered her hand. “Good luck tonight, then.”

I rose and clasped her hand. The tingly magic I'd been feeling all the way through the interview rose sharply, crawling across my hand and up my arm like a thousand biting insects. As I resisted the temptation to rip my hand away, the wristband Marg had given me suddenly got hot and the biting sensation abruptly fled.

Hanna released my hand quickly, and just for a moment, surprise and curiosity flitted through her green eyes. Whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen. “Matthew will give you the tour and show you where to change.”

“Thank you.”

The blue-suited man appeared in the doorway. “This way, please, Cecily.”

“Call me CC. I prefer not to use my real name at work.”

He nodded and motioned me into the hallway. I walked out, oddly relieved to be out of that room and away from Hanna Mein. She wasn't a threatening or intimidating person in any realistic way, and yet there was something about her—something other than her magic—that made my skin crawl.

Maybe it was simply that blankness in her eyes.

The rest of the club turned out to be a larger echo of the hallway, at least when it came to color and feel. The main room was dominated by a large stage that reached into the center of the room, lined with several rows of chairs. Tables and chairs were scattered around the rest of the room, and a large redwood bar dominated the far end. There were a few customers scattered about, some being tended to by dancers, some watching the blonde on the stage, and others standing at the bar getting drinks or talking to the waitstaff. The sports bar had billiards tables and a huge TV that dominated one wall. There were G-string-clad ladies here, some playing pool with the customers, others simply sitting down and chatting. There was no stage here,
and no lap dancing happening. Some of the women were even wearing sporting-type tops—although they were skintight, and barely covered their breasts.

The show room was smaller than the main room, and it had no tables. Just a large stage surrounded by seats, all of which were empty.

“Shows don't start until ten,” Matthew said, obviously noting my surprise. “We don't start getting the main crowd in here until at least nine, so it's not worth the expense of opening this room until then.”

“Do the dancers here make much money?” I didn't really care, but it seemed the sort of question someone like CC would ask.

“Plenty. A lot of men prefer the titillation factor of flesh glimpsed under clothing over full-view flesh, and they are prepared to pay big to get it.”

He led me into another hallway, this one larger than the one off the foyer. Half a dozen doors led off it and each one was labeled—schoolroom, Arabian nights, boardroom, and so on.

“The fantasy rooms, obviously,” Matthew said. “These are all prebooked, so if a customer wants a private dance, he has to go up to the bookings office to get the room and dancer of his choice.”