Page 2 of The Toy Maker (The Pink Cherrie #1)

TWO

Overcrowded streets packed with tourists and families out for a night of glamor and fun made the walk to the interview significantly longer. I missed my car on behalf of being allergic to all forms of cardio, but also because of the privacy it allotted.

With a sigh, I hustled around the clusters of people and hauled ass down the sidewalk.

Pink Cherrie didn’t strike me as the name of a family-friendly establishment, and the address only further confirmed my original assumption. When I turned the final corner and came face to face with the more ‘pleasurable’ side of the city, I froze.

I processed what decisions led up to applying for a job on the side of town that made parents shield their children’s eyes as they walked by.

Desperation? That was the word of the day.

But I wasn’t altogether unfamiliar with it.

Life was hard. And I clawed my way through by couch surfing, paying my way through half a college degree, and moving into the city.

And all that hard work was dismantled in an afternoon by some horny fifty-year old man.

Sullenly, I pushed myself down the street as the sunlight started to fade and neon lights flickered on, glancing over each storefront in search of Pink Cherrie. The other stores and bars seemed to attract a vast crowd, one already more than ready for the night to begin.

A river of people headed in the same direction as me. Mostly men out on the town with the boys or a few women who already looked too drunk to walk. Yet they continued to stumble along, and so did I.

I weaved through the throng, trying not to step on someone’s toes with my heels but not apologizing when I did. I couldn’t afford to miss this job opportunity.

If I stayed unemployed any longer, there would be no choice but to move home to Florida with my mother and her new husband, Walter. I shook the memory of walking in on them in the shower at Christmas out of my head, suppressing a cringe.

Mom would love to rub my face in my latest failure.

She insisted that college was a mistake, a waste of time, and when I had to drop out because I caught Mono, she wouldn’t let me live it down.

Even before I was discharged from the hospital.

I barely had enough credits to graduate with an associate’s degree, and by then, I had decided to move far away.

A pink spotlight illuminated the sidewalk and led the crowd away from the endless strip clubs to a brick building with no windows. There it was: Pink Cherrie. A bouncer stood at the entrance and selectively waved people through the large doors with no interest in anything anyone said to him.

I took a deep breath and squirmed my way to the front of the line, standing right in front of him so he’d have to take notice.

My mother always told me how there was nothing to fear but fear itself, her being the notorious quote thief, but it stuck with me while I struggled to pluck up the courage to address the bouncer.

The way I saw it, there were two choices. Either I demonstrate a little bravery or start packing my bags for the trip down to Florida.

And like hell was I going to do the latter.

“Hey,” I choked out beside the bouncer. My drama teacher’s nagging voice clawed its way into my head. Project your voice , Tara . You’ll never be a successful performer .

Mr. McNabb turned out to be right, but I wouldn’t stop trying to prove him wrong four years later.

I cleared my throat and added, “I’m here to apply for the open position.” I had reached shouting level by the time I got the bouncer to turn his head in my direction.

“There’s a lot of those.” My eyes darted over the faces in the crowd while I tried to put together what he said. His eyes were hidden under a pair of shades that had no purpose other than intimidating people. “Name?”

“Tara,” I supplied, and he cocked his head.

“Do you have a last name?”

“Holloway.” I fiddled with the ends of my hair and forced myself to stand up straight. “I spoke on the phone with someone named Kat.”

He waved me in, and I stepped hesitantly past the threshold, following the trail of pulsing blue lights that snaked along the floor like an electric current. The large doors closed behind me with a soft thud, sealing me inside a porn star’s technicolor fever dream.

The more I looked, the more penises I saw.

Shelves of dildos and straps were pushed against the walls. My eyes widened when I saw the stage lit up with black lights in the center of everything. Dozens of people danced around covered objects on the floor with a drink already in their hands.

I located the bar in the farthest corner of the room with a line even longer than the one to get in. I swallowed down the urge to drink away the nerves twisting my stomach into knots. My singular experience with sex clubs was from the movie Striptease , and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

I avoided making eye contact with the customers, worried that I’d recognize them from work or worse, that they’d recognize me .

Once I absorbed my surroundings and remembered what I needed to do, I started looking for the blue pathway under the feet of the crowd.

Neon posters of half-naked girls highlighted the wall above the main desk.

No one stood behind it to answer the questions bouncing through my mind.

Like what is this place? Where is the manager? And what the hell is going on?

A mixture of awe and a considerable amount of confusion rushed through me when I realized just how little I knew about a job so vital to my adult life.

Without a consistent paycheck, I’d eat through my savings and end up back where I started. My brother, Tristan, would be sympathetic but with a new pregnant wife would be unable to help. So, it didn’t matter what I was signing on for, not really.

I propelled myself forward and followed the traces of the blue lights that marked my path.

The lights stopped in front of a dark red door with a sign posted on the wood. Big red letters declared only ‘ Cherries’ were allowed any further.

I furrowed my brows, scanning the room to look for someone to explain what Cherries were in this context and what the punishment would be if I ignored the sign. No one wore a uniform or carried a badge. As far as I could tell, no one actually worked in the building at all.

I took the lack of information as a reasonable enough excuse if caught and asked why I trespassed. Taking a deep breath, I tentatively pushed open the red door.

“Has anyone seen my green thong?” a redheaded girl shouted from across the room while I stood in the doorway.

I quickly came to the conclusion that I somehow managed to stumble into a harem. When someone pushed past me to enter the room, I decided to get out of the doorway. I watched over a dozen girls bustling around in sheer lingerie.

Two of the four walls were painted the same hot pink my mother forced me to wear on every holiday or family event until I turned twelve. The room reminded me of a Victoria’s Secret, a darker and sexier one at that.

On instinct, I felt self-conscious. I fought the urge to wrap my arms around my own waist.

“Who’s the prude?” one of the girls yelled. I frowned, still standing by the door looking as lost as I was. The girl stood by the vanities along the wall, spraying enough hairspray to freeze that bitchy expression on her face forever.

It took me a minute to realize I stuck out like a fully dressed woman in a crowd of naked ones, literally. I had decided to wear my job interview outfit to look professional, but in light of all this new information, I realized I could have dressed down. Way down.

“I’m here to see, Kat,” I explained to the girl who wouldn’t stop staring at me.

Her boobs were pushed up in a corset so tight it gave me claustrophobia just looking at it. Could her waist actually be that small?

She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Of course you are.”

“Be nice, Amy,” another skimpily dressed girl spoke up from in front of one of the many mirrors. All of her bold features were highlighted with neon paint; I couldn’t help but gape at her.

Amy huffed and rammed past me without responding.

The neon girl grinned. “Don’t mind her. She’s just grouchy because Aunt Flow showed up early.”

“Aunt Flow?” I questioned the first guess that popped into my mind.

“Satan’s sacrificial waterfall,” she said, but I was still clueless. Eventually, she took pity on me and gave up on being slick, “Her period.”

“Oh.” I nodded and tried to remember why I never bothered socializing more with girls. If I did, I wouldn’t be standing in a room full of them unable to speak in their code. But I had never been fun, at least not fun enough to hang out with after class, or work. I was always too busy.

“Kitty is checking the water supply for the show.” I didn’t have time to ask questions before she waved for me to follow her. “Come on.”

I stayed close as she walked across the busy room and pushed back a curtain of beads. I could have sworn that kind of home decor died in the sixties.

“Go on.” She motioned towards a door down the narrow hall.

I gave her one more nervous look before heading towards it and turning the knob.

The door hinges whined as I entered and gained the attention of who I presumed to be Kat.

I hesitantly walked over to where she stood with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other.

The room smelled like ash and was too small to have so many boxes stacked along the walls.

I worried that they could topple over, entombing Kat forever.

“I’m Tara Holloway. I called on the phone,” I said. Finally, someone with answers.

“Call me Kitty.” She swung her pink hair over her shoulder, and I stuck out my hand for her to shake. She eyed it with amusement. “We don’t do stuff like that around here, honey.” Her southern accent peeked through her words.

Chains hung from the ceiling with collars attached to the ends. Clamps with wires and large metal cages were stacked in one corner of the room. I didn’t even bother looking at the rest.

“What exactly do you do here?” I asked carefully, my heart in my throat.

“We store the merchandise for the BDSM customers in here,” she answered while scanning my body, her eyes hovering over my chest. “What size are you in jeans?”

“Six.” At Walmart, at least. She didn’t need to know about my American Eagle size. “Did you say BDSM?” I retorted, trying to keep my voice steady. Her eyebrows raised. “As in… leather crops, handcuffs, and spreader bars?”

She grinned. “Sounds like you have some knowledge on the topic.”

I swallowed. “Not really.”

“If you want to work as a Cherry, you’ll either have to stop lying or get better at it.”

“A Cherry?” I repeated. Was that what the girls in the other room were called? Was the uniform lingerie? I suddenly wished I took that one free spin class more seriously. Instead, I nearly passed out on the sweat-covered floor and treated myself to an everything bagel.

She shook her head. “Technicality,” she mumbled with a slight smile. “Just answer the question so I can decide if you move on to the next part of the interview.”

I sighed and nodded. “I read a few books, and they didn’t suck.”

Kat circled me and hesitated when she saw my ass. An image from shark week flashed into my mind before I shook it away. Finally, she nodded. “When can you start?”

My heart pounded. “I got the job?”

I didn’t have to move out. I wasn’t a failure. Everything was going to be okay. Joy swelled inside me, inching out the doom and despair that moved in weeks ago and refused to pay emotional rent.

“You got an audition.” Her smile put my mind at ease, though my excitement deflated some.

“What do I need to do?” A job description would have been a nice addition to the newspaper ad, not that I would have been able to see it.

She smirked, turning back to her clipboard. “Just put on some lingerie from the closet next to the bathroom and meet me by the vanities in ten minutes. I’ll give you instructions after that.”

Instructions? My chest tightened as I thought about the skin-tight, mostly invisible lingerie that the girls were skipping around in.

I didn’t know what Kat had planned, but I doubted it would be comfortable.