Called By the Dark

four

Sazahn

Imanage to pull off another two dances before the end of the night with no further problems, dirty looks from Marcel, or phantom orgasms.

But true to his word, Marcel keeps my tips, and I know I’m going home empty-handed. It’s infuriating. But since I need this job, at least for now, I have to keep my mouth shut.

Harry, a regular of the lounge, requests me for his usual lapdance in a private sitting area, surrounded by screens. He’s been coming here since before I started working here, but ever since he saw me, he’s requested me for his dances, and me only. He’s actually a really nice man, an investor in his mid-fifties, quiet, very well off. Sometimes we talk a little, before or after the dance. Sometimes we only talk. Sometimes, I just dance.

Tonight Harry’s in the mood for both, but not at the same time. Jammy plays more trip-hop, and standing between my regular’s parted knees as he relaxes on the loveseat, I sway to the beat. He doesn’t like a lot of eye contact during dances—could be something to do with that wedding-ring indentation I always spy on his finger—but he does like to touch. Marcel doesn’t have a no-touch policy, which is scary to hear, but his clientele aren’t the kinds of people who can be told what to do or not do. Luckily, they’re also not the rowdy types, so a hand grazing my thigh or hip, or fleetingly touching my breast isn’t a huge cause for concern. I don’t love it, but I’ve dealt with worse.

And better. Much, much better…

Unbidden, flashes of heat suffuse my body as I think back to my first performance of the night.

When the song ends, my regular takes my hand and pulls me onto his lap. “How have you been, darling?”

There’s something comforting about Harry. I don’t want to call him fatherly, though I do know he has two older teen daughters. He’s just…kind. And kindness in this world is like a beacon of sunlight on a chilly day. You want to be in it, under it, overcome by it, just to feel a hint of warmth.

“I’ve been okay.” I smile at him. “Keeping busy.”

“Tell me about your latest work,” he says, and I allow the light peck he drops on my shoulder.

I brighten. I’m not sure when, but during one of our earlier sessions, I mentioned I liked to paint. He showed a real interest in my art, and always asks about it. It’s nice to feel like someone is truly interested in your work when you’re passionate about it, and not just making polite conversation.

“I can show you better than I can tell you.” I swipe my smartphone up on my palm to find my most recent pictures. Marcel does have a no-phones policy, but he also has a customer-is-always-right policy, and that one trumps all others. Since Harry did ask about my work, after all.

I bring up photos, pulling them up from my palm to the air in front of us in a holographic projection. I’ve been working on something I’ve been unofficially calling Undercity, a series of paintings depicting some of the more unfortunate denizens of Draco City as being in hell, but still in their circumstances. Underpaid and overworked laborers; the homeless; sex workers, dealers; addicts. Change the scenery, whether it’s a suburban backdrop from the turn of the twentieth century or hell itself, these people’s daily lives don’t change.

While I enjoy digital illustration, I still prefer a tactile painting experience. Canvas and oil paints are my preferred mediums. There’s a bond formed between two tangible things—the artist and the canvas.

“This is quite moving,” Harry says, scrolling through the photos. Some he enlarges to look at them more closely and take in their details. “You have a distinctly Renaissance style of painting. Where’d that come from?”

I smile, heart beating swiftly. Harry’s not the kind of person who blows smoke up your ass. “When I was a kid, I found a vintage art book in my foster mother’s closet. Full of Renaissance-era art. I became fascinated with the art that focused on heaven and hell, God and Satan. Angels and demons. It was all incredibly fascinating. Incredibly disturbing. Incredibly inspiring.”

Harry glances at me. It’s not so dim that I can't make out the expression of sympathy on his face. “I’m sure that you did find some parallels between art depicting hell and…your circumstances.”

I lift a shoulder, lowering my gaze. “At the very least, there weren’t any beasts with horns and hooves, eating humans up top and shitting them out the bottom.”

“No.” Harry rubs my back, and there’s nothing lascivious in his touch. “There weren’t, but I’m sure you dealt with plenty of demons in human form, nonetheless.”

I smile a little, glancing at him. “That’s the truth. Still do.”

“Like whoever gave you that.” Harry grazes his thumb with the slightest pressure over my sore cheek.

I frown. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“It’s hardly noticeable,” he assures me. “I’m just very keen on your face. I noticed a bit of swelling when I was looking at you head on. Tell me, dear. Are you all right?”

I swallow, glancing away. For a moment, it’s hard to talk. “I guess sometimes I’m still living in my own version of hell.”

“Do you want out?” he asks.

“Well, I don’t see myself doing this forever, if that’s what you mean,” I reply, smiling.

“I’m being serious.” He takes my hand, presses it between his own. “You have incredible talent, Sazahn. The world should see it.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But the reality is that I have to earn a living somehow. I can earn a decent one here. But leaving without the prospect of something that’s life-changingly better just isn’t smart.”