Dark Rapture_A Disturbing Psychological Thriller Read online

  Mr. Armani had ordered another drink: his eyes didn’t leave hers as he took it from the waitress. He didn’t pay with cash, which meant he was probably running a tab.

  Damn, no tip for her tonight.

  Should she still dazzle him?

  Meh, why not?

  The music changed into a hypnotic deep house track that contained zero in the way of lyrics and went completely overboard on erotic moaning and heavy breathing.

  She loved it. When she closed her eyes — as she often did when dancing the pole — she could imagine herself at one of those billionaire night clubs, trapped in a Pyrex cage wearing very little (or even nothing at all) and jamming the night away for a captivated crowd.

  One day, that elusive position would be hers. She knew she had the body, the moves, the stamina. But she didn’t have the connections. You didn’t just walk into a club like that and ask for a job. You had to know people that owned things like yachts and mansions and… handbag dogs and stuff.

  Her skirt came off. She tossed it to the back of the runway. All she wore now was a tiny G-string that she seriously doubted would have been seen within a ten-mile radius of fiery little Daenerys.

  Pearl faced the back of the runway, gyrating her hips so the crowd could all get a good look at her derriere.

  She dipped down, doing a quick little twerk for the sake of Bambi — who surprisingly hadn’t spontaneously combusted yet. She was about to lift herself up again when she felt the brush of fingertips against her hip.

  Another tip, Bambi? Good girl.

  But something wasn’t right. That wasn’t money being slipped behind her G-string.

  Those same fingers lingered, caressing the curve of her ass before disappearing and leaving her riddled with goose bumps.

  Pearl spun around in her half-crouch, almost tripping over her stilettos.

  Mr. Armani had gotten to his feet. He was eye-level with her now.

  He lifted his hand, the first two fingers raised, and gave her a mock salute.

  Then he turned and left.

  Pearl glanced down and tugged free the square of black plastic tucked behind her underwear.

  There were initials embossed on the front in silver:

  F.P.

  On the back, a phone number.

  Frederick Paul? Ferdinand Patrick? Francis Poehler?

  “Hey… do you do threesomes?” a voice quavered.

  Pearl looked up.

  Bambi was redder than a fire hydrant, but she had one hand pressed to the dance floor as if she’d boost herself up and join Pearl in a minute. Pearl folded her fingers over the card hard enough that it bit into her flesh and gave Bambi a weak smile.

  She wasn’t that kind of dancer… but, dammit, she needed the money.

  That day, she couldn’t sleep. And it wasn’t because of the sunlight spearing through the crack in her curtains, or the incessant buzz of traffic outside her window, or the damn chirpy nest of birds she failed to get rid of every spring… it was because of that business card nestled in her hand.

  She kept staring at it. Kept running her thumb over the embossed letters. She’d tried Googling the phone number and initials on her phone while she was within Wi-Fi range of the coffee shop down the road — the busboy had given her the password a few days ago — but even Google had been flummoxed.

  If he was rich, famous, some kind of shareholder… then she should have been able to find something, right?

  So what was he then, her Mr. Armani? Just a successful businessman that liked screwing strippers?

  And when in the hell had she decided she would become a prostitute?

  She could smell the damp coming from her apartment’s moldy bathroom. Her one dingy window faced onto an alleyway, deep enough into it for its stench to prevent her ever opening that window but close enough to the street for her to hear every single passing car, motorcycle, and human being.

  How long was she going to keep fooling herself that this was a line she wouldn’t cross?

  Her thumb traced the letters again.

  F.P.

  The phone number wasn’t embossed, but she already knew it by heart.

  What difference would one call make? She could ring the guy, hear what he wanted, and then say no.

  Then she could get some sleep.

  Maybe he would still show up. Maybe he would even start tipping her if he thought she was interested. One of his hundred dollar bills could go a far way to getting her out of this shithole, and he probably wouldn’t even notice it.

  She seethed for a few minutes about this: how rich people didn’t deserve their money, no matter how they’d come to it.

  Closing her eyes, Pearl brought the man’s face to mind.

  Dark eyebrows shadowing emerald eyes. A strong, roman nose. A wide mouth, sumptuous lips. Slim build, dark hair. Last night’s suit had been a dark gray, almost charcoal. Very faint pinstripes. A silver tie.

  She sighed. Damn, he was gorgeous. So why the hell was she still considering this? If she’d bumped into him at a bar — because where else would Mr. Armani spend his time but at the dive down the road — then it would have taken one drink for her to accept any proposal he had. Then more drinks, dancing, his bedroom.

  Pearl tapped her fist against her forehead.

  This was different.

  This wasn’t her being a floozy.

  This was her being paid for sex. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

  But… paid a lot? She’d heard the other dancers talking. Had spoken to them about it out of sheer interest. A handful of them slept with customers. They kept it on the low-down, of course: the boss would fire them if he ever found out. Surprising, because Pearl knew he was sleeping with at least three of the girls.

  Anyway… she knew how much something like that would cost. Roughly how much she should charge.

  So should she consider it?

  What if she said no and he doubled it? Or tripled it?

  Pearl’s hand tightened until the card began to bend.

  She leaped out of bed and stormed over to the only table in her apartment that doubled as her dressing table. She yanked open the middle drawer and hunted around for a stick of incense. Sniffing it, she gave a nod. Sage.

  Pearl lit it and set it in its holder on the windowsill. She lit the joint she’d taken out of the same drawer and rested her thigh on the sill, staring out at the brick wall opposite her. Several windows looked back, but none of them was open and none had their curtains drawn. Some even had newspaper tacked to the glass.

  She took a deep drag from the joint and cracked the window an inch, aiming a plume of smoke through it before yanking it shut again. This was more to avoid her apartment smelling dank for the next week than because of paranoia: she was pretty sure her neighbor’s place was a crack den.

  Just one phone call.

  It couldn’t do any harm.

  Pearl took another hit, staring at the smoke as it coiled away from the roll-up.

  She could use the payphone down the street. It could never be traced back to her. No one would ever know.

  One phone call…

  Four minutes later, Pearl stood beside the dingy phone booth down the street from her apartment.

  Her hand darted out and snatched up the receiver. She stabbed out F.P.’s phone number and waited.

  Before it could connect and start ringing, she slammed the receiver back and took a step away from the booth, glaring at it. Then she shook her head and stormed back up the street and into her apartment.

  Sleep came an hour later, interspersed with dreams of Mr. Armani offering to buy a night with her in return for a Gucci handbag — already custom-fitted with a dog — all while smiling that wide, dirty smile of his.

  Pearl was in The Doll House’s kitchen pouring herself a cup of filter coffee before her shift started when the package arrived.

  “You got a delivery, Hun,” Mable said, running her hand over Pearl’s shoulders as she passed with a tray buckling under a load of dirty di
shes.

  “What?” Pearl blinked at her, but the woman was already walking away.

  Pearl shrugged and took a large swallow of coffee. She always put in too much milk, which meant the coffee was always too cold. Why? Because her brain was constantly in overdrive, and it felt it wasn’t needed in minor decision-making processes like knowing when to stop tipping the milk carton.

  Goddamn it.

  She slugged the rest of the coffee and rinsed out her cup, leaving it to dry on the drip rack. The kitchen was still quiet — the evening rush started just after eight, so most of the staff were busy prepping food further back in the long room.

  Pearl slid her bra strap back on her shoulder and ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t had time to wash it before leaving for work — choosing instead to sleep in for those precious few minutes — so it felt far from clean under her fingers.

  A delivery?

  Was it some kind of summons? A debt collector who’d finally tracked her down? That thought sent her heart racing for a few seconds. Not that, please. She’d been so careful. It wasn’t like she’d go to prison or anything, but she had a shit load of debt. A heroin-addicted boyfriend that you were convinced you could save had repercussions. Having him sell everything you own while professing his love for you in the most romantic — free — gestures that melted away any reservations you might have had… that would put a dent in anyone’s saving account.

  And their heart.

  Ugh. Pearl strode out of the kitchen and shimmied through the tightly packed furniture scattered over the club’s main dance floor, heading for the reception booth where Cheryl took entrance fees. Even from here, she could see the large, flat box resting on the counter. The receptionist saw her approach and turned to her, arms crossed over her chest. The girl was twenty-two — the same age as Pearl — but with her blond hair in a high ponytail, she looked much younger.

  “There you are.” Cheryl smiled at her and tapped the top of the box. It was red. “Mable went to find you like fifteen minutes ago. This came for you.”

  “Me?” Pearl asked. She stood at the counter, staring at the box. It had a ribbon keeping it closed, but no card.

  “It’s heavy,” Cheryl said. “Well? Open it!”

  “What if it’s a body part or something?” Pearl grimaced at the box. It was large enough to contain at least a pair of legs. She’d been sent things before. Disturbing things. Cute things. Sad things. Nothing like this, though.

  “Box is too nice. Plus—” Cheryl grabbed the box and tipped it over “—the bottom would be all soggy and gross.”

  “Cheryl!” Pearl snatched the box from her hands. “What if it’s something fragile? You can’t just throw it around like that.”

  “It would have had ‘handle-with-care’ stickers all over it…” Cheryl said, sighing at Pearl’s idiocy.

  “When did you become an expert in packaging?” Pearl mumbled.

  “I’ve had fifteen minutes to study it, already.”

  Pearl glared at her but then smiled. “You open it.”

  “What? No. It’s your… whatever the hell it is.”

  Pearl moved her mouth to the side and studied the box. Whoever had sent it had gone to a lot of effort with the packaging. It practically oozed money.

  Mr. Armani.

  Pearl’s spine straightened of its own accord.

  “What?” Cheryl asked.

  “I think I know who it came from.”

  “For shit’s sake, Pearl. Open it! You’re driving me crazy.”

  And she did, but carefully and with trembling fingers.

  Why would he be sending her stuff? Was this in lieu of a tip? Maybe he hoped a gift would prompt that phone call.

  The dark satin ribbon slid off easily enough, the silky fabric thrilling her fingertips. The box itself was covered with another fabric, almost as soft as the ribbon. She ran her fingertips over it, feeling the suggestion of a pattern, one too faint to be clear in the dingy club.

  “You’re killing me, Pearl.”

  Pearl shot Cheryl another glare and levered the lid off the box.

  Cheryl inhaled sharply. Had her lungs not frozen, then she might have gasped too. Cheryl’s manhandling of the box had shifted apart layers of tissue paper, allowing the shimmery fabric inside to catch the light.

  “Oh my God, it’s clothing. A dress. A coat. Take it out, take it out.”

  She didn’t need Cheryl’s prompts: her hands were already reaching for the box’s treasure.

  Heavy, slinky fabric. Dark gray, shimmering with flecks of silver. She’d never seen cloth like that. Then again, her wardrobe consisted of poly-blends and nylon. And the color… it kept shifting from gray to silver to black as she tried to hoist it from the box.

  She dragged it out, holding it up between her and Cheryl. The receptionist moved out from behind the counter. Her fingers made mounds in the fabric as she drew her fingertips down the length of the dress.

  “Oh… my… God…” Cheryl breathed.

  “It’s a dress,” Pearl said.

  “A dress? More like a… a…” Cheryl obviously couldn’t find the words to describe the thing of beauty dangling from Pearl’s hands.

  “It’s exactly my size,” Pearl said, again in the same deadpan voice.

  “Yeah it is.”

  “How did he know?”

  Cheryl grabbed her hand and moved it aside, staring at Pearl with her head cocked to the side and wide, interrogatory eyes.

  “How did who know?”

  “Mr. Armani.”

  “Mr. Who?

  Pearl shook her head and bundled the dress up. It was ridiculously difficult to take her eyes off the thing. It felt amazing against her fingertips and arms as it spilled down them. What would it feel to wear—

  “Who, Pearl?” Cheryl’s voice had reached shriek-level.

  “This guy…” Pearl managed to stuff the dress back into the box. Her fingers brushed against something hard and square. She hunted through the tissue paper and drew out another card, exactly like the one he’d given her last night.

  Pearl snorted and handed the card to Cheryl. “Obviously thinks I lost the first one he gave me. You know, because of all the drugs I take.”

  “F.P.?”

  “Yup.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, let’s find out.” Cheryl reached for the reception phone, her eyes glancing up to check if the boss was anywhere in sight.

  “Cheryl, no!” Pearl slammed her hand over the receiver.

  “You’re not going to call?” Cheryl’s wide eyes brimmed with disbelief. “He bought you a dress that probably costs more than both of our salaries and tips combined.” Cheryl peeked into the box. “For a year.”

  Pearl growled and snatched the card from Cheryl’s fingers. “I don’t know this guy from a bar of soap. And anyway, you know what he wants.” Pearl sniffed. “And I don’t do that.”

  “I know you don’t but…” Cheryl looked inside the box again. “What if I put on a red wig and—”

  “Cheryl!” Pearl slammed the lid closed on top of the dress, shutting off its mesmerizing display. “I’m going to toss it.”

  “Nooooo,” Cheryl wailed. “Don’t do it. You’ll regret it.”

  Pearl glowered at the box for a few seconds. “Fine. Whatever. But if he thinks I’m going to call him and let him pay me for sex, then he’s wrong. So very, very wrong.”

  “God,” Cheryl breathed absently, her fingers running over the top of the box. “If you wear this out you’ll get hit on so bad.”

  “Or I can sell it and actually pay back some of my debt.”

  Cheryl snorted. “Yeah, you do that.” Her phone rang and she gave the box a last, lingering stare before turning away to answer the call.

  Pearl took the box and stowed it in her locker. It didn’t fit lengthwise, so she had to prop it on its side. She could feel the dress sliding into a pile at the bottom of the box and stared at
the thing for a few seconds before slamming the locker door shut.

  Who did he think he was? Buying her things. Sending them to her work. Correctly guessing her size?

  She squeezed her hand around the card. Now she had two of the things. Would he just keep leaving them for her until she told him off? She should toss it.

  Pearl walked past a wastebasket on her way to the changing room. She dropped the card inside and gave a small smile when she heard it clank against the side on its way down.

  2

  Bazinga!

  Mr. Armani didn’t show up at any of her performances that night. Pearl’s stomach remained perpetually knotted as she waited to see the slim, dark figure whenever she spun around her pole.

  But although the seats around her dance floor filled up, none of them were Mr. Armani. By her last performance, she’d almost forgotten about the stranger and his creepy gift and his sleek business card. Right until someone walked into the Red Room; someone that, for a moment, looked just like him.

  Pearl, at the time halfway through a complicated maneuver, almost cracked her head open. There was a gasp from the assembled crowd, so loud that she could hear it through the pumping music, but she quickly recovered. Staring out over the heads in front of her, Pearl searched the Red Room for that figure. It turned out not to be Mr. Armani, but a guy with a similar build wearing slacks and a dark golf shirt.

  When she retrieved the box from her locker later that night, it had grown heavier. She avoided questions about it as she lugged it out of the club, throwing Cheryl a warning glare as she passed. She hailed a cab, sitting with the box on her lap the entire way home.

  She’d promised herself she wouldn’t, but she did anyway.

  Pearl stood in front of her spotted, cracked mirror, studying herself.

  The dress clung to her like a greedy lover. It caressed every curve of her body, reflecting various monochromatic hues when she turned and twisted. It did something to her complexion that made her blue-gray eyes pop like cloudy sapphires, and her red hair — despite being overdue for a wash — glow blood red.