Page 2 of Corrupting Lily

My eyes dart around to the sleek black tables scattered throughout the dimly lit area, each polished and ready for the flood of customers when the doors open at six. Basilio ran a tight ship, and even though this was essentially a strip club, it was one of the nicer ones, in my opinion, and echoed by some of the seasoned strippers. Not that I had seen the inside of any others to compare. However, based on my preconceived notions of what a strip club should look like, this certainly didn’t fit the seedy image in my mind. No, this was more elegant.

Lights strategically directed one’s gaze toward the four polished stages that jutted into the center of the room, with shiny poles at each end. Plush upholstered chairs were positioned nearby, close enough for the view to be good and the money to land just right. Lush black carpeting underfoot and mirrors on every wall added to the welcoming and sleek ambience. If you wanted a more intimate experience, five large booths at the back provided privacy, with a smaller-scale stage and stripper's pole in the middle.

If that wasn’t enough, there were five discrete rooms at the back, the access to which was controlled by two rather burly bouncers, where patrons and strippers could interact one-on-one. Or two on one. Perhaps even an orgy. Whatever money could buy was allowed in that area. Fortunately, money appeared to be of no consequence to those who frequented this establishment.

It was exclusive, with a waiting list that was difficult to get onto. Unless you had connections, it was nearly impossible. The general public stood no chance, and I'm not surprised. The venue wasn't just for visual entertainment. Business deals were conducted and concluded here. And not the kind that happened above board. No, these walls were meant for the dirty rich folks. In other words, the sort of people I used to hang around with, not by choice.

It had its benefits, though. The men and some women frequenting this place dropped wads of cash as if it meant nothing. Some nights, I would walk out with a couple of hundred dollars in tips alone—tips that went straight into the savings fund, safely tucked away under a floorboard in my tiny one-bedroom apartment just down the road. One day, I would leave and go to a place where no one knew me and wherehecouldn’t find me.

“And girls,” Basilio's voice jolts me back to reality as he turns away from us to face a dozen strippers standing and sitting nearby, “I needyou to pay special attention to our guest and his friends. Keep them satisfied. Whatever it takes.” He gives them a pointed look, the implication of his words not lost on them. Usually, sex was mutually agreed upon, but what Basilio was conveying was that it would be a requirement tonight, whether the girls wanted to or not. This rarely happened, telling me all I needed to know. Whoever was coming must be a big shot. That thought sends a shiver down my spine while my stomach twists with anxious knots.

The last time we had such distinguished guests that warranted a similar conversation, I was rotated off-shift since the clients were high-ranking politicians. After Basilio and his sister Francesca discovered me in the stairwell six months ago, bringing me back from the brink of death, I had no choice but to explain what had happened. Not the intricate details, just enough to satisfy their curiosity. So whenever those types of guests were known to be stopping by, I was never scheduled for that shift.

My gaze drifts to Basilio, and I wonder how I could have been so lucky. Anyone could have found me, but he and his sister did. When I asked them why they helped me, their answer was simple: my strength reminded them of their mother. They never elaborated, and I never asked for more. I was just happy to be alive. After everything they had done and were still doing for me, I didn’t know how I would ever repay them.

Once I recovered, not only did they offer me a job here as a server, but when they discovered I had a master's degree in management accounting, they also entrusted me to manage their books, which allowed me to save more money. Not exactly the future I envisioned for myself at twenty-nine, but beggars couldn't be choosers. My life had been mapped out: escape my abusive parents, get an education, earn a five-figure salary, and marry the man of my dreams. That plan hadderailed a couple of years ago when I methim, and had it continued, I would have been married this past weekend.

With that thought as fuel, my mind races ahead, creating a nightmarish collage of all the ‘accidents’ and late-night hospital visits from the previous four and a half years. Great. As if I need reminding. Shivering, I thank my lucky stars for my escape. I would rather live in a dodgy apartment complex, scraping by, than find myself in that situation again.

“Daisy?” The sound of the name I used in this place, chosen by the person calling me, pulls me out of my thoughts as I realize that everyone has been dismissed.

“Are you okay?” Basilio's voice softens, as it always does whenever he speaks to me. I look around nervously and catch the gaze of one of the strippers, who whispers to her friend, their expressions filled with disdain. They didn't like that Basilio seemed to favor me —something that made me uncomfortable too. But after everything he had done for me, I didn't know how to broach the topic and now just wrote it off as him being nicer to me because he pities me.

“I’m fine,” I mumble, offering him a faint smile. I tried limiting our interactions when around the others. It did me no favors, not when he looked at me like he did. The fact that he resembled a movie star was probably why the other women hated me. More than one employee here coveted attention from a man who looked like that and paid their salary. Which clearly did nothing for my popularity.

“Look, they shouldn’t be a problem for you, but just in case, Rosy will be here at eight to take over your shift. You can continue in the office." His blue eyes scan my face and the usual pang of guilt and something else, something bitter, settles in my stomach, making me feel slightly queasy. What would this cost me? What was his price for doing this for me? All men wanted something in return, what was ithe wanted?

“Thank you," I mumble, swallowing past my dry mouth. It's all I have to offer and I hope to god it is enough. Perhaps he would be different?

"I’m sorry. This must be tiring for you to rearrange schedules because of me. After everything that you and Francesca have done, I hate that I'm still such a burden. And I have no way of repaying you.”

Basilio flicks his hand in the air, dismissing my words. For now.

“You’re not a burden to me. Don’t ever think that.” The tenderness in his words and the way he looks at me stirs up a theory that cannot be. A suspicion as to why he is doing all this. That perhaps he feels something for me. But the reason I know that can’t be true approaches us, linking her arm through his while completely ignoring me. Crushing that suspicion with a perfectly manicured hand adorned with pink nails.

Camille. The gorgeous blonde lingerie model who has also recently broken into the film industry. She was away shooting in New Zealand for three months, which gave me some respite from her constant, catty comments and bossy behavior. She has hated me from the beginning. Perhaps influencing the other ladies who work here.

"Babe, I need your help picking out an outfit for tonight. It won’t take long, just five minutes,” Camille whines, pouting as she tugs at Basilio’s arm like a child seeking attention.

“We might even have time for a little fun before you need to do your work stuff.” The words are said seductively as she rubs her breasts suggestively against his biceps, completely unconcerned that I am just inches away from them.

“Oh, Daisy, I didn’t see you there,” she says sweetly, her gaze finding mine as she pretends to be shocked by my presence, as if she has just now noticed me. I wish I were as invisible when we are alone.

“You don’t mind if I stealmyboyfriend for a few minutes?” She gives me one of her practiced fake smiles while fluttering her eyes in that irritating way meant to convey innocence. She was anything but. Her emphasis on Basilio being hers is shoved in my face again as if I need reminding. As if I am a threat. The thought is laughable. She is precisely the kind of woman someone like Basilio would have on his arm. Not some broken wallflower.

Basilio gives me an apologetic look, saying nothing before they both turn and head toward the private office upstairs. Not before Camille glances over her shoulder and gives me one of those sneers she reserves especially for me. She is such a snake that I doubt Basilio is even aware of the verbal abuse I've suffered at her hands. I definitely won’t say anything. What if he doesn’t believe me? What if he threw me out on the street? No. Silence is better in this situation. Besides, I've endured worse. This is a walk in the park.

“Don’t just stand there. Just because you’re the favorite doesn’t mean you don’t have to work like the rest of us,” the stripper, who had been whispering earlier, says as she and her friend walk past me, bumping my arm as she goes.

Not wanting to feed into that idea, I jump into action. The next time I see Basilio is just before eight, and the entire place is already hazy with cigar smoke. As I stand at the bar, I notice a group of black-suited gentlemen entering the club. Basilio stiffens, abruptly breaking off his conversation with a table of our regulars.

I'm immediately on edge. I have never seen him like this. His posture is stiff and tense. Here, in his club, he is the most powerful man, and he never appears nervous. He never seems unsure. Except for now.

The desire to flee is strong, but panic roots me to the spot, immobilizing me. Like a fucking deer, I wait, my eyes darting from one face to another as they enter the club.

A curt nod is exchanged between Basilio and the men, until finally, only one remains. One man, no, that was too mundane a word for him, one god, who takes my breath away. He exudes more power than Basilio. Thanhim. Tables stop what they are doing to stare as he walks past. Even the strippers are in awe. I cannot look away, transfixed, as I take him in, the perfect combination of black hair, lightly peppered with grey, and eyes to match. Silver grey. Unlike anything I have ever seen before. He is older. Distinguished. But unlike some of the men his age, his body is magnificent. Hard. Firm. Touch is not required to establish this. Just looking at him is proof enough. Yet, touching him is precisely what I want to do. His suit is molded to his tall, muscular frame—a showcase for virility and power.

Alarm bells ring in my mind, for two different reasons.

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