Paying the Piper (Arcanas & Sync)

[Sync]

It was another “normal” Saturday night in New York City. Bustling traffic, people everywhere, random noise filling the air enough to become blurred into the background. The skies were clear, but the city lights still ensured no stars could be seen. It was dark, after nine in the evening, the darkness routinely and very effectively broken by streetlamp after streetlamp. It was a cool-ish night, the sort of cool-ish night often found at the end of spring after a warm day.

Days like today, really. Today was a run-of-the-mill Saturday for the man. Spend five days a week in meetings for his global business (well…it was national, really, but with fingers and offices in other countries), followed by spending Saturday doing the actual work the meetings prevented him from doing. Sunday was his day of rest – archery at his local club. He worked hard for his business, had done for the past ten years since he’d founded it. He had good contacts already, and he’d pushed himself and his contacts into a lucrative niche of the medical industry. Okay, not only the medical industry, but it was a natural extension for his existing business. He’d started in robotics some twenty-odd years ago (maybe a bit longer), and had applied his electronics knowledge to improving the state of robotics generally. The business had grown from simply Manufacturing into R&D; and when he’d acquired certain other businesses with a similar set of skills, he pushed hard into bionics and prosthetics. He was a leading producer of such devices for medical purposes, as well as continuing to supply manufacturing and mining companies with their requirements. KarlTech was a very prosperous business indeed.

He was married, but it was a cool and childless marriage – he and his wife were polite and civil, but they often did their own things and went their separate ways. Publically, they were a happy couple who just worked very hard and supported their partner; privately, they were distinct people who had little time for the affairs of the other. They were more like good friends who lived together, instead of husband and wife. They hadn’t always been like that – in the beginning, they were very happy and very much in love; but over time, their respective careers drew them away from each other…and they were fine with that. They still respected each other; it was…odd, really.

Still, Dominic Karl – CEO and controlling owner of KarlTech – was, by-and-large, content. He was very rich, had been in the Top 100 Richest People list for the past eight years…he was still trying to break into the Top Twenty. He’d get there. One day. And when he did, it would be because of his hard work. He was a tall, not-quite imposing man in his late-forties; his dark brown eyes were expressive, the hair on his head closely-cropped, the goatee beard filled with that salt-and-pepper look that stood out against the darkness of his skin. He was lean and fit, not muscular, but toned – he made sure of that by spending an hour of each day in his personal gym. He lived in Bay Ridge, just out of Brooklyn, and not too far from his Head Office in Linden Park on Staten Island.

He was driving – well, being driven was somewhat more accurate – to Ozone Park. His limousine – a black Jaguar XE sports saloon – was making its way as carefully as the traffic allowed, not rushing, just going with the flow. There was no hurry, not really. It was a work meeting he was attending, but an informal one. A gathering of a few heads from various businesses he dealt with. They’d talk in a relaxed atmosphere for a while, drink a little, agree to meet the following week to discuss things formally…maybe heal a rift or two. They could achieve a lot in a couple of hours when they didn’t have PAs and managers underfoot.

Where were they going? A high-profile club in Ozone Park. It was open to all, but many didn’t go. The club looked after its patrons…especially the rich ones. Dominic certainly qualified for that, and he made sure to not abuse the privilege he was afforded. He was treated well, given space, given preferential treatment by the bouncers, given a running tab that he dutifully paid each month, was known to be a generous tipper for the girls that tended to him.

Oh, yeah – it was a strip club.

Calzone’s Bar was well-frequented by the rich of New York, and it made sure to look after the clientele…just as it looked after its staff. It was a Gentleman’s Club, but it was still, in the end, a strip club. Girls were paid to dance, remove clothing until naked or barely naked. It was also a place that respected the wishes and space of the high-profile businessmen who attended. People like Dominic.

The Jaguar XE pulled up in front of the club and stopped long enough for Dominic to get out.

“Now, Chris,” Dom informed his driver as he sat in the back with the rear door held partly open. “Remember, be ready to return in two hours. I’ll call when I’m nearly done, let the staff know when you arrive.”

Chris, a large, fair-skinned man-mountain in his early thirties, nodded his head briefly. He knew this routine well. “Yes, sir. Two hours. Have a good night, sir.”

“Thank you, Chris. Here, I usually do.” Dominic’s voice was a low, rumbling bass, easy to miss in a crowd but hard to mistake when he was issuing instructions. His wife, Helena, knew he came here, but it was of no real consequence. Dominic was sure to keep this particular business away from the house – a courtesy, nothing more. He let himself out of the car and took a few steps away, then turned to watch the car slink away into the night. He strode to the main entrance of the club.

“Good evening, sir,” the bouncer, a large black man in his late twenties, greeted him professionally as he pulled the rope barrier aside for Dominic to enter. “Welcome.”

“Thank you, Mike,” Dom replied. “Good to be here.” He walked past the bouncer and slipped into the club.

Noise and smoke assaulted his senses rapidly as his eyes took the time to adjust to the darkness inside. He made his way to the bar and was being attended to within a few seconds. Faye gave him his drink – Jack Daniels, straight-up – and gestured for one of the floor staff to take him to one of the private rooms. He was only meeting with a couple of contemporaries tonight. He didn’t expect tonight’s business would take long, and he could spend some time actually relaxing.

As he was shown to the private room, he smiled, sipped from his drink, sat on the couch, then took a deep breath and let it out with a long sigh. He also hoped at least one of his favourite girls on dancing tonight as well. It’d be nice to spend time with one of his favourites tonight.

 

[Magicat]

The circular clock, no smaller than eighty centimetres in diameter, ticked along slowly on the far wall of the spacious changing room within Calzone’s Bar. The space was brightly lit with several overhanging lamps, fashioned to appear metallic and still, despite being suspended from the ceiling by a singular length of concealed wire — the colour scheme was ordinary, a flooring of white tiles with black diamonds and mahogany coated lockers fastened to the parallel walls. Every other space that was not decorated with obscure local artwork, potted plants and coat hangers was made up of mirror. Running along the middle of the room were three panel benches that measured no more than a metre, and shortly after nine o’clock, only one of them was occupied; it was an indication that the ‘peak’ Saturday stream had convened on the floor of the bar and within the private rooms, when sights for the eyes were to be presented and money was to be earned.​

​

Clara was seated in silence, her legs crossed and slender fingers fumbling with the laces of her left peep toe heel — her movements were without purpose, almost clumsy, as all of her attention was diverted towards the open text book that sat beside her. Its pages were decorated with neon yellow highlighter, marking the notable phrases and pieces of information found within the pages of Credibility in Media. Her full lips, untarnished with gloss and a natural warm nude beneath the light, moved silently as she recited the words laid out before her; it was a habit brought forth into adulthood after a passion for reading developed, a means to not simply read words, but to retain them to memory.​

​

It was not an uncommon sight for her colleagues, to find Clara sinking time into a textbook or a novel in the respite periods between her dances — she was not a smoker but was still entitled to just as many brief respites from the patrons of Calzone’s, and in the aftermath of adrenaline following a moderately active dance and a sultry bassline was when Clara did some of her best reading. Tonight it was research for an assignment on credibility, and on Monday evening — she was fortunate enough not to work for the lulling Sunday crowd — it would be back to Anna Karenina, a Tolstoy favourite.​

​

Clara was immersed completely into her textbook, and failed to catch the rhythmic sound of heels on hard floor. “Kitty,” Clara winced slightly as the name pierced her reverie, abruptly returning her to the high-end bar in Ozone Park. The name had now become synonymous with her own, a Googled confirmation that it served as a logical nickname for Clara’s middle name, Katherine. “You’ve still got your head in that book?” Harper, a fellow stripper, spoke to her from the doorway of the changing room and shook her head in amused disbelief — she was the tallest of the dancers employed and stood just shy of five foot nine inches, her limbs toned from a semi-professional tennis career that did not pan out; though with formerly blonde hair that was dyed a bright lavender, she was not easily forgotten by New York’s wealthiest. “Greg says that Dominic Karl has just been shown into the Cedar room, you’re up.” Before finishing the last word of her sentence, Harper placed a cigarette in between her lips and gave a mock salute before turning in the direction of the rear exit.​

​

As soon as Harper was out of view, Clara’s gaze snapped in the opposite direction of the doorway and towards the wall clock, “Shit,” the word left her lips in a hissed whisper. It was not often that her reading inadvertently caused her to go over her allotted break time, and though she doubted that she had discovered a latent passion for credibility, Clara had to admit that there was a certain enjoyment to be found in all of her course assigned material. Hurriedly, Clara closed the textbook, hastily dropped it to floor below and went to work on looping the lace of her heel; once it was sufficiently tight enough, she stood and nudged the textbook underneath the bench with the back of her heeled foot before crossing the changing room to stand before the mirror. She had inherited her mother’s eyes, her father had always said as much; they were shaped like almonds, deep-set and harbouring an unphased innocence within the shades of honeycomb and toffee. Her hair was dark, left down to cascade along her bare collar bones and shoulders, stopping just shy of her desk — where she had inherited the chocolate tone irises from her mother’s lineage, her brunette status was reminiscent of her patriarchal ancestors: the Westerns.​

​

Clara pouted her lips, a single foolish gesture that she had witnessed some of her colleagues do repeatedly during her first week. There was no real reason, by her guess at least, as to why it was helpful but it had become a routine — a staple of her pre-dance ritual, just one of many things she did to separate her existence as Clara, the nineteen-year-old aspiring journalist and Kitty, the elegant stripper. It was perhaps fitting that an extortionate college tuition and an abundance of utility bills warranted a moonlighting career; and while Clara had never actively planned to throw herself at the feet of men, she found that she had very little choice once her parents became estranged in light of her career prospects. Though for all the uncertainty that came with venturing out into the world alone, Clara knew that she was meant for more than becoming a corporate drone; no matter how positive a spin her father placed on the role.​

​

“Good Evening, Dominic,” Clara practiced her opening line a single time, morphing her lips into a smile and displaying a row of porcelain teeth. She pushed out her chest, a generous though not intrusive bust, and ran her right hand slowly along her flat abdomen. She was not the shortest of the dancers at Calzone’s, but her slender frame and whisps of muscle did make her one of the most desired — with a final grasp on her breasts, as though securing them safely with her cerulean brasserie, and a deep breath, Clara left the changing room and headed towards the corridor that connected to each of the private rooms.​

​

The corridor was narrow and hummed with the faint music from the main floor, partially sound-proofed walls maintaining some semblance of atmosphere while not distracting too greatly from the impending dance. Her steps were silent as she traversed the carpeted floor, her smooth complexion raising into goosebumps once she stood outside of the second entrance to the Cedar room; the key, she had found, was a feigned sense of confidence that was capable of piercing through even the most awkward of scenarios. Clara raised a hand and gripped the doorhandle, she rolled her neck and steadied her nerves.​

​

“Good Evening, Dominic,” Clara greeted the lean man that was seated a short distance from her, his thirst already placated and the low light of the private space electrified with sin and proclivity, “how are you feeling this evening?” She stood before him like she always did, a fawn willingly walking into the den of an apex predator — though where others salivated and banished civility in an instant, Dominic always seemed surrounded by an air of tranquillity, an effortless cool. It was one of her favourite things about him, and it did not hurt that he was easy on the eyes too; lean, but not imposing, domineering but lacking the arrogance that came with such a title.​

​

Clara crossed the room and stopped for a brief moment before him, smiling and tucking the right side of her hair behind her ear. A moment later and she placed a hand on the cushioning of the seat beside his head, raising her left leg and precariously balancing on his lap. There were an abundance of rules in place that prohibited numerous acts, even in the private corners of Calzone’s, but there were a select number of regulars that were exceptions and Dominic certainly was one of them.​

 

[Sync]

Not just one of his favourite girls – the favourite girl.

Dominic’s glass was near-empty when the door to the Cedar Room opened, and he sat up straighter for the arrival, picking himself up from his half-slouch. He would do a little work tonight, yes, but he was mainly here to relax, and slouching in a comfortable couch with a Jack in hand was a good way to go about relaxing. So when he saw who slipped into the room with him, Dominic knew his night was going to go just smoothly. Of all the girls in the place, he had a few he liked most, and the girl who was now gracing his presence was far and away at the top of that list.

“Kitty,” he greeted her warmly, his rumbling voice bouncing around the near-quiet of the room. The thumping of the beat from the main rooms could still be heard and felt in here, but it was only a small fraction of what the main hall was getting. He shifted his posture slightly as she approached, moving himself so she could settle comfortably on his thigh, his free hand sliding around her waist to help steady her.

“Seeing you here, I think my night just got a whole lot better, my dear,” he added once she was settled. “I was feeling okay to begin with, but you…you know you provide a bright spot in my week.” He leaned into her, placed a quick and light kiss on her forehead. He could do more, he knew it, but he never took advantage of the girls. They were here to dance and entertain, not to be touched or groped or exploited. In a way, he’d come to feel a little protective of his favourite girls.

“Listen, Kitty,” he continued after he drained the last of the Jack from the glass. “In a few minutes I’m expecting a couple of guests to join me here. We’ll talk business for a while. All I need you to do for me while they’re here is make sure glasses are filled, and be your polite and charming self between drinks. You do that for me, and I’ll promise I’ll give you time to relax once we’re done.”

He set the empty glass on the couch next to him, then reached up and lightly flicked the tip of her cute nose. “Can you do that for me, Kitty, dear?”