((There is no sex in this chapter))
Chapter One:
The battered, rusted Nissan coupe pulled unimpressively around the circle drive, making itself increasingly well-known among the higher double and triple grand vehicles with each indignant putt of the engine. I sighed in a familiar, defeated way, putting the clutch in neutral and shutting it down before climbing out.
I tossed the keys grudgingly to the smirking valet and tried to gather my dignity back with each step to the entrance. No point there though considering what I was here for, I quipped venomously to myself.
I'd heard about the rather infamous Basement club from a friend of a friend of mine who'd slyly encouraged me to look into it once he realized I'd been scrounging to find a job after quitting my last. Basement was a prestigious boys only club that was based in the Kovsky Estate, boys only besides the female staff. It was twenty-one plus for all members, for obvious reasons.
Tonight was their first annual convention of the year, where they would recruit new members and new staff. The friend of a friend, who wasn't really my friend, was a club member already, named Damian. With his connections to Basement, he'd set up an appointment and reserved a place for me tonight before I had barely uttered my agreement.
I waited patiently in line before I reached what looked to be a posh bouncer with a clipboard who stared me down intimidatingly.
"Morgan Allistor?" I tried, the statement coming out more of a question than I intended.
He made an approving grunt and marked something off, then proceeded in stamping my hand and sending me through.
As soon as I stepped into the marbled-out foyer, servants of sorts bustled around, taking my coat, handing me a flute of Champaign and sending me through a wide threshold that led to what appeared to be a ballroom. There was a section of circular tables with about five seats to a table and place card on each plate. I repeated my name to one of the waiting staff who looked at the seating chart and led me to one of the front tables near the low stage. Off to the left of the tables was an open bar and mingling area that seemed to be the busy spot in the room. I left my glass next to my plate so that I could remember where it was and made my way to the bar; some hard liquor might be good for the nerves.
The attire was formal but even so, I could spot the recruiters in the crowd; men in pitch black Armani suits and cool gazes. They carried loose clipboards around and occasionally would pull over one of the female guests and take her into what I assumed was a side room for her interview. I leaned languidly against the bar, waiting for my order of straight vodka on ice, trying to inadvertently use my curves to my advantage. It was working, I could tell, seeing the men glance at me appraisingly.
I'd dressed tonight in a simple tight black, sheath dress that fell just passed the hips and had an artfully cut top with lace lining. My legs were dressed in thigh-high transparent black stockings with a just-barely visible garter set and completed with sleek, four inch black pumps. My hair I'd flat ironed for the event, which was annoying but gave it a refined, shimmering quality as it swayed just below mid-back. It was a dark brown color, so dark it may as well have been black; that was theme obviously. All dark and mysterious, but I also knew I looked killer in black. My eyes stood out, a luminous green framed in thick lashes and pale skin.
"Morgan!" Someone called excitedly and I turned to see Damian weaving his way towards me, a large grin splitting his face. He was just about my height with curly gold hair and the air of someone with money. I hadn't realized how relieved I was to see someone familiar, even if I didn't particularly like him, until the weight had been lifted.
"Hey Damian, I have to say, I'm pretty impressed with the spread," I waved my hand around vaguely indicating the Estate.
"Yeah, it's all pretty impressive at first. But when you get the job you'll practically be living here so you'll get used to it." He leaned against the bar with a predatory look. How had I gotten myself into this?
"If I get the job," I corrected, taking a sip from my glass.
He rolled his eyes. "You'll get it," he spoke confidently.
"I'm not even sure I want it."
"Having second thoughts? It is a lot to take in, you're right."
"Yeah," I sighed a bit helplessly. "I've never done anything like this before, it's... unnerving. I'm not sure if I'm ready for it."
"You'll do great," he argued playfully, running a hand down a length of my hair. I stiffened at the touch.
"I don't fit in with this scene."
He laughed to my surprise and annoyance. "This," he gestured around, "Is just for show. The real club is nothing like this. It's a specialty club, you realize, not a normal one – we cater specifically to... different needs. And the pay is great."
"The pay is great – almost too good to be true," I conceded thinking about the six digit figured salary I'd be starting with. All my worries would be over, all my debts and loans paid off. It was enough to make me even consider this line of work.
One of the black suited men approached us just then. "Morgan Allistor?"
I nodded and he spun off without another word, expecting me to follow.
"Good luck!" Damian called with a grin, watching me as I quickly hurried to catch up.
The noise of the convention room died down considerably as we exited into a side hall I hadn't been down yet. After a ways of seemingly endless hall, all I could hear was my shallow breathing and the brisk clicking of heels. The suited man paused abruptly in front of a nondescript door and opened it up for me.
"After you," was all he said, his tone clipped and indifferent. I paused a bit breathlessly before putting on my best poker face and walking through the door. It was not what I expected, it was a lot worse. The lighting was low and one long table stretched out horizontally across the large office. Behind the table sat five men, all large and imposing but ranging in age. They sat facing me as I entered, watching, judging. There was no one else and the door behind my heel clicked shut.
I froze for a moment, a cold sweat breaking out along my lower back before taking a deep breath and walking to sit in the single, steel seat. A long moment of silence passed, a moment thick with tension, before the middle man in the third seat, a middle aged roguish looking one, spoke.
"Morgan Allistor?" he inquired already knowing the answer and scribbling something down on a paper sheet. I ached insecurely to see what he'd written.
I breathed and smiled pleasantly. "Yes, sir."
There were a few grins, small lip lifts shared between the men at something. The roguish looking one continued; a light playing in his strangely brown, yellow irises. "I'm Daniel Kovsky, owner of the estate. It says here on your resume that you have a BFA in performing arts, specifically contemporary dance?"
I nodded in consent.
"And your last place of employment was Herald's Dance Studio outside of Poulsbo as an internship. You are twenty-two, five foot eight, never been married, and single. You have never worked as an exotic dancer before or in this industry. You've never ran in with the law and you're a US citizen. You understand we've done a full background check on you as well as your closest family?"
"Yes sir," I replied immediately feeling a bit unnerved.
"So tell me, Morgan, why are you interested in this job?"
The command his voice held made me feel as though I had to tell the truth and the words came spilling out. "I don't know. I've been in between jobs and when my friend, Damian, referred me to the Basement I was a bit apprehensive. The money plays a big part but it also feels... right. Like I'm drawn to it. Sir."
"Very good. And as you should be aware, we cater to many different tastes. Here is a list, a contractual agreement, of what you will be willing and not willing to do." He pushed a sheet across the table toward me, just barely, so that I had to lean across to retrieve it. Heat rose in my face as I settled back down.
"Take your time," he murmured, leaning back in his seat and steeping his fingers.
I gazed over the sheet, a check list of sorts. I began checking off, as the top directed, everything I'd be willing to do. Five minutes later, with a bit of hesitation, I signed my name at the bottom. I raised my eyes a bit shyly as I handed the paper back to Mr. Kovsky.
In return he handed me another stapled stack which involved insurance, discretion, privacy policy, etc., which I preceded in signing three times after reading through it.
