Chapter Eight
Two sleepless nights and a bottle of white liquor later, Lola stood face to face with the man who was capable of helping her make a way out of no way. Finesse Rogers, smooth and cunning, sized the gorgeous woman up from the moment she strutted herself into his office. He had an uncanny knack to read people, to understand what made their gears tick, especially women. The tension in her posture and the manner in which she held herself, guarded, told him that she had swallowed her pride to stand in front of him. No doubt, getting involved with the oldest profession in the world was a last resort.
“Welcome to Champagne Ladies International.” His voice was soft and underscored with an addictive melody. “I’m Finesse,” he said, kissing the back of her hand, testing her reaction to being intimately touched by a stranger. Everything with Finesse was a test. “And you are?”
She blushed and cracked a hesitant smile. “Lola. Lola Jones,” she said, taking in the plush office and its expensive amenities. She hoped that the office was more than a showpiece designed to lure slow-witted women in and actually reflected the caliber of clients in the company’s Rolodex.
“Lola, it’s a pleasure. Lola is a classic name.”
She laughed, trying to put herself at ease. “Tell me about it. My mother named me after my great aunt.”
“Classic is nice. Please have a seat and let’s talk awhile.” Finesse held her hand until she settled into a high-back antiquated Louis XVII chair facing an oversized sugar maple desk fit for a king.
Finesse was well mannered and charming, Lola noted. Those were admirable attributes for a potential boss. No wonder so many girls got caught in a pimp’s sticky web. What he did next, manipulative nonetheless, showed that he wasn’t power struck or concerned with flexing his head-honcho status. He sat down beside her in an equally beautiful chair, instead of putting a barrier between them with the imposing desk. He crossed his legs and leaned in Lola’s direction.
Lola no longer felt like she was in the hot seat. She lowered her guard and welcomed comfort. She exhaled all her reservations and apprehension, and relaxed.
“Please tell me, Lola,” Finesse said, smoothing down his sleek ponytail, “why am I so blessed to be in the company of such a beautiful woman? I must thank Blasé for sending you my way.”
“I bet you say that to every lady who, for whatever reason, winds up in your office.”
Finesse admired that she’d referred to herself as a lady. It was a title not all women could rightfully claim because they didn’t have the qualities or grooming to own it. He knew that Lola Jones owned it. “Only to the ladies who truly deserve it.” He stroked his goatee, ever conscious about his appearance to the world. His Marc Jacobs slacks had creases sharp enough to cut a New York strip steak. The no-collar button-down shirt covering his broad shoulders was half buttoned, which showed off several hundred-dollar bills tattooed across his chest. And his alligator shoes were immaculate, for he never wore a pair more than once.
“I think I’m interested in becoming a Champagne Lady.”
“Thinking implies that you’re on the fence about selling fantasy and pussy for me,” Finesse said, while sending a text message to someone from his BlackBerry. “I only enter into commitments with ladies who are certain of their choice in me.” He slid the phone back in his pocket.
“I can’t be sure until I’m educated on why I shouldn’t commit. Can you schedule me for an interview?”
“Lola, you’ve been being interviewed from the time you walked into my lobby and spoke to my secretary.” He smiled a mouthful of white teeth that cost him a small fortune. “Less than ten percent of the women who come here can get past Kesha. She knows exactly what I like, how I like it, and what I need to win, which is one of the reasons why she’s my wife, my bottom bitch.”
Lola smiled. “Looks like I’m doing good.”
“Confidence is very attractive,” he said, scanning her amazing body.
“I never thought guys like you get married.”
He laughed. “Guys like me? What’s a guy like me?”
“A pimp.”
“I’m not a pimp, Lola. I’m just a collector of fine women. One of which I love more than any, but I love them all nonetheless.” He was quiet for a moment. “Do you know how many types of champagne there are?”
Lola considered the question. Surely there had to be a wide array of champagne. “No, I can’t honestly say.”
“There are only two, the expensive and rare kind like my wife, and the cheap grocery-store type like the girls I send to meet my crud-ball clients. My platinum clients spend quality time with my most expensive Champagne Ladies. Fifteen hundred just for one of my ladies to show up. She keeps five hundred every appearance plus all the tips she earns.”
“How much can I make in tips?”
“Two, three thousand, depending on how well you please the client.”
Lola took a deep breath and whispered, “Please them in what way?”
“Some clients just want eye candy to accompany them to a dinner party who can hold her own in a conversation among other socialites. All they are interested in is how well you’ll make them look. Others want a sounding board and a massage. Others want simple sex. Others want fetish sex. Others want the dinner party, massage, and sex. And they are very big tippers.”
Lola swallowed the lump in her throat. “Who are your platinum clients?”
“Doctors, lawyers, judges, politicians, city council members, athletes, authors, musicians, and major drug dealers. You know, people with real money.”
“I can imagine who the crud-ball clients are.”
“Five hundred to show up. You keep a hundred and don’t count on tips.”
“Finesse, I’m not cheap champagne.”
“No offense, Lola, you sound and look the part, but that remains to be seen.”
“What does that mean?”
“A lot of women look good in their clothes but fall apart when they come out of them. My clients are particular. I need to see what you’re working with myself, so I’ll know how to place you and with whom.”
She tensed up again. “Are you saying you need to have sex with me?”
“Would that be a problem for you?”
Lola knew the answer to this question would make or break her. “No . . .”
“Relax, Lola. One day, but not today.” He pointed to a door behind his desk. “That’s a dressing room. Go in there and find something that makes you feel sexy and desirable. Something you’d wear to a formal dinner party with a high-powered politician.” He looked at his Audemars Piguet pocket watch with a platinum chain. “Let’s make it happen. I’m meeting with another young lady in about twenty-five minutes.”
Lola bit the corner of her mouth. “Uh, can I ask you something?”
“I don’t see why not.” Finesse wanted Lola in his stable for more reasons than one. Never would he replace Kesha as his bottom bitch. They, however, often discussed the possibilities of having a second woman in their home. They just never found someone they considered suitable to play the position. Lola was sizing up to be the perfect candidate to present to Kesha.
“How many appearances can you schedule me a day with your platinum clients?”
“I never allow my ladies to entertain more than four clients a day. Anything more is putting too much mileage on their precious bodies. I have to protect my interest and make sure the pussy is always serviceable.”
“Can you guarantee me the four appearances a day?”
“Sounds like you’re trying to make a quota.”
“I’m just in a bind and I want to get from under it as soon as possible.” At four a day, even without tips, she would only have to work nine days to pay Blasé off, then she would never look in Finesse’s direction again. She just hoped that she could avoid the degrading acts that earned tips. And if she couldn’t, she was damn sure going to try to keep things to a minimum.
“I take a very special interest in the affairs of the ladies under my management. Is there something I can do to help you with this bind?”
“Make sure I make four appearances a day for about a week and a half.”
“Can you stand putting in that much work on your back?”
She thought of Jeremy, Michael, and Precious. “Yes.”
“Then show me what you’re working with.”
Oh my God! That’s what I thought as I stood in the “Dressing Room” looking at the gazillions of clothes. I literally thought I had died and gone to heaven. And if that was too much of a stretch of imagination, then I would’ve bet my last few dollars that I was the envy of every woman. To consider this a dressing room was a misnomer. What I found myself standing in the middle of was a clothing boutique identical to the prestigious businesses that catered to sophisticated clientele in Beverly Hills, California. Halle Berry’s, Jennifer Aniston’s, Jessica Simpson’s, or Beyoncé’s walk-in closets couldn’t touch what Finesse had going on here.
There were wall-to-wall designer garments and gowns with price tags that ranged from $4,500 to $9,800. Hundreds of pairs of pumps and clogs proudly boasted figures just as expensive. Without question, there had to be upward of 500 varieties of women’s fragrances and even more makeup and accessories. In the most intimate section of the room, there were Emporio Armani panties, bras, and lingerie that would make Victoria give up the pussy and tell all her secrets.
I didn’t know where to begin. And since I knew this was a test I couldn’t afford to fail, I stripped naked as the day I was born and browsed the room until the perfect sexy and desirable outfit chose me. To hell with a high-powered politician, President Obama would stand Michelle up to escort me to a dinner party wearing this Elie Saab haute couture gown and these bad-ass animal-print Prada pumps. The gown fit me like a thin coat of body paint, and its sultry split ran so far up my inner thigh that I imagined my estrogen moistening my coochie lips every time an attractive man’s gaze landed there.
Feeling extra special and gorgeous, I went to the only full-length mirror in the room to apply some raspberry lipstick to match my gown. The mirror had a beautifully handcrafted wood trimming with the words THE WORLD’S BADDEST BITCH engraved in it. The only reflection I saw was mine.
“I know that’s right,” I said, blowing a kiss at the full-bodied stunner staring back at me; then I left the dressing room to woo Finesse.
“My God, she’s . . . breathtaking,” Kesha said when Lola sashayed out of the dressing room dressed like she was crowned Miss Universe. Kesha devoured Lola with a wanting gaze. “Wow! Can we have her, Finesse? I’d really love to taste her.” Kesha sat on Finesse’s lap, sipping champagne from a tall flute.
Lola blushed, not knowing how to take Kesha’s forwardness.
“We have ourselves a winner,” Finesse said. “Elie Saab. Excellent choice.”
Finesse calculated the potential growth of his profit margin. There was no doubt that he had a diamond mine standing in front of him. His elite clients would double the appearance fee for Lola.
“You really think so? I wasn’t sure what to put on, there’s so much to choose from.” Lola looked down at herself, appreciating the tone the gown inspired.
“Absolutely elegant.” Finesse removed a bottle of champagne from a sterling silver ice bucket and filled a flute for Lola.
Kesha circled Lola like prey, taking in her features. “If I didn’t know any better,” Kesha whispered in her ear while running a fingertip down Lola’s arm, “I’d be jealous.”
Lola glanced at Kesha over a shoulder, their lips dangerously close. “Why is that?”
“Because of this choice of champagne,” Kesha said as Finesse handed Lola her glass. “He’s sharing the Holy Grail of champagnes with you.” She sniffed Lola’s neck, pleased with her choice in fragrances. “The only other woman he’s ever done that for is . . . me.”
“I’m not following you.”
“She’s saying,” Finesse said, gesturing to the bottle, “that the type of champagne I toast with a lady depends on how I interpret her rareness.” He held up his glass and Kesha and Lola followed his lead. “To Lola.”
“To Lola,” Kesha said, still communicating desire in her gaze.
“If it’s to me, it must be the expensive type.”
Finesse said, “The most expensive the world has ever seen. It’s called Shipwrecked 1907 Heidsieck, $275,000 per bottle.”
Lola almost spat the tantalizing liquid in his face. “Get out of here.”
Finesse finished his glass with a satisfying ah. “Shipwrecked 1907 Heidsieck was perfectly preserved at the bottom of the Gulf of Finland after the ship transporting it was sunk by a German U-boat during World War I. Of the two thousand bottles discovered in the wreckage by treasure hunters in 1998, I was privileged to purchase a few at a sale held at the Ritz-Carlton in Moscow while me and Kesha were on our honeymoon.”
“I feel so special.” Lola smiled, highlighting her dimples. “Thank you.”
“Show us how special you feel,” Kesha said. “The dressing room awaits you.”
“What’s the occasion?” Lola sipped her champagne.
Kesha licked her lips. “Sex.”
Nothing but the hand of God could convince me that I wouldn’t lose my breath every time I had the privilege to grace the inside of Finesse’s dressing room. And here I was again telling myself to breathe while my heart did backflips. I was determined to land this job in order to handle my business, no matter how I once frowned on prostitution. Circumstances would not only change your views, they would change your life, change your absolute no’s into emphatic yes’s. So if Kesha wanted me to sell the image of sex to get hired, then I was damn sure about to set her pussy on fire and get Finesse’s dick hard.
I always congratulated myself for having a winning set of breasts. I mean, at my age, thirty-seven, my breasts stood up perfect like a twenty-year-old’s in heat. So what the hell, I decided against a bra altogether. The only reason I ever wore one was to keep them from bouncing all over the place when it was inappropriate. Instead, I put pasties with tassels over my nipples. I had to keep their imaginations in the game.
I stepped my long legs into a sheer pair of Armani thongs that allowed just the beginning of my slit to wink at whatever took a peek. Sheer was ideal because it also showed off the way I kept my pubic hair above my slit trimmed into a pretty butterfly. Then I slid my tiny feet into a nude-colored pair of Yves Saint Laurent peep-toe pumps, turned my attitude and seduction on full blast, and went to get my job so I could save my kids’ lives.
Finesse was no stranger to being in the company of exceptionally gorgeous women, but Lola was perfect. He knew Kesha felt the same way because she hadn’t stopped squirming in her seat since Lola stepped out of the dressing room. From the way Kesha was behaving, he hoped she was wearing a panty liner to catch her rain.
Lola didn’t fall apart outside of her clothes and he couldn’t find a flaw. Her knees and shins weren’t scarred from roughhousing as a child like the pretty project chicks were who stood before him in their delicates. Lola’s skin wasn’t marked with burns, bullet wounds, or tattoos. No stretch marks from carrying babies, and no cesarean section incision from delivering babies. Not an ounce of cellulite dimpling her bodacious hips or curvaceous thighs. Her breasts stood up like a college girls. Implants couldn’t imitate what Lola had going on. Not a pubic hair escaped the sheer fabric of her panties and there wasn’t a razor bump left behind from keeping the situation shaped like a monarch butterfly.
“Turn around for me,” Finesse said.
Lola did and batted her lashes at them over a shoulder. “Like this?”
The only word that slipped from Kesha’s mouth was “Damn.” She didn’t have the heart to say anything more.
Finesse stroked his chin. “You got that right. Kesha, give her a contract.”
Lola faced them. “What type of contract?”
“It’s standard,” Finesse said. “You’re agreeing not to have sex for money. That Champagne Ladies International is not promoting sex with clients and not held liable if you indulge in that behavior. But I assure you that our clients aren’t the cops.”
“So you’re telling me to have sex, but asking me to sign an agreement not to have sex.”
“What I’m telling you is earn your tips, protect me in the process, and make me look good while you’re doing it.”
Kesha handed her a pen and pointed to where she intended for Lola to sign the contract. “Sign here.”
They watched her sign.
Kesha gave Lola a cell phone. “This is not for your personal use. Keep it with you at all times. When it rings, you’ll be given instructions.”
Lola held the phone in her hand, wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into.