Most of the men stirred.
The dancers embraced and continued to maintain their tempo. Their bare breasts slipped against the other as they swayed to Eros’ melody. And then the dark haired dancer slid one arm around Auburn’s waist, holding her close.
Rocking in my seat, I slipped my bow into the groove of the dancers’ hips. It was like they had become the conductor and I was under their spell.
Auburn cupped the other’s exposed breasts. Dark hair let out a breathy moan and pressed closer against Auburn.
For some reason, I turned to Jean-Pierre and his gaze remained on me.
Could he tell how wet I’d become? How I’d begun grinding my hips into the seat, hoping to slip the cushion along my pussy? Did he notice the few moans that escaped as I played? Did he see the desire in my eyes?
Damn you, Jean-Pierre. You did this.
He licked his lips and slipped his hands down to his thighs. There, his hard length pushed up from his pants, and he gripped the tip.
Damn you.
I stumbled a little on the notes, but no one noticed. Well, no one noticed but Jean-Pierre, who held an evil grin as he stroked his hard length along with the movement of my bow.
When the song ended, the dancers did too, and a long sigh came from the room.
It was as if everyone had been hypnotized in the moment.
A different woman entered and lay several fur coats onto the floor. The two dancers—Auburn and Dark Hair—lowered to the furs, and I went into another song. The dancers lay on the plush fur and kissed each other.
The door opened beside me.
I tore my gaze away from the scene. Six new men entered the room. They were all white men in expensive suits. They greeted Jean-Pierre and sat near him.
I continued my playing as men began to drag their attention away from the dancers and talked amongst themselves. Tables appeared and were carried over to the couches. Papers came out that I assumed were contracts. Several men signed things as the Candy Shop staff poured wine and giggled next to them.
Every now and then Jean-Pierre walked from table to table, owning the room, but never fully participating. Shalimar had said he was the accountant to the Corsican—the French mafia. How big were the men in this room? How dangerous?
The door opened again, and five more men came in, holding briefcases.
A tall guy stepped to Jean-Pierre’s side. If not for the large scar on his right cheek, his face would have been perfect. He had a similar muscular build to Jean-Pierre, and exuded authority. I could tell everyone feared Jean-Pierre and him.
What’s going on?
The newcomers greeted Jean-Pierre and the man with the scar. Words were exchanged. Many watched them like me as if they were the most powerful people in the space.
They must be.
Once Jean-Pierre took the briefcases the tension left the room. Laughter rose. I shifted my playing to an upbeat temp. Topless waitresses strolled in with trays of champagne. The scarred man made a toast in French.
And then one of the girls yelled to me, “Play something sexy.”
“Something about prostitutes,” another giggled.
“Are there any violin songs about whores?” A man laughed.
Jean-Pierre turned his view to me. Curiosity blazed in those lust-filled eyes.
I slipped into playing Lady Marmalade. I used to perform it for my grandmother, before she passed. She loved Aretha Franklin’s rendition. The song’s lyrics were also the first French I’d ever learned.
In the chorus, they yelled, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir.”
“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”
“Lady Marmalade” was about a New Orleans hooker who always asked her satisfied clients the same question. How fitting of a statement, especially one I would love to use on Jean-Pierre?
Could it be that simple for me?
As I played the notes, people rose and began to jam. I grinned, but in the back of my mind, I wondered if I could be like Lady Marmalade. How easy was it for her to have sex for money? Did she ever fall in love with her clients? Was it possible to enjoy the sex and money, but block away all the emotion?
Could I do it?
Jean-Pierre rocked his head as I played.
I blushed and turned away, not wanting to mess up anymore notes.
Damn it. I would love to have sex with him. If he wants to pay, then why not do it?
It could be a one-time thing. A moment that I would count as a bucket list item. One time could guarantee that I didn’t fall into my feelings. I would enjoy the experience but be able to walk away before my heart opened too much.
Maybe, I could do it.
When the song finished, I rushed to another song that I hoped was popular enough for them to recognize. I played “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed. The song was about cross-dressers who came to New York City and become prostitutes.