Page 3 of Rafferty's Rules
The door to theestablishmentopens before I’ve even reached it, and a behemoth of a man dressed in dark pants and a white shirt stands at the threshold.
‘Good evening, sir.’ His deferential tone is very much at odds with his appearance. At six foot two, I’m not what you’d call little by any stretch of the imagination, but this fucker makes me feel like I should be wearing short pants.
‘Talofa,’ I return, hoping the doorman is Samoan or else I just made an arse of myself.
‘Ah, you speak a little Samoan?’ he responds with a smile. There were a couple of Islander kids in my year at school. As well as flattening me on the rugby pitch, they also taught me a few words, though most of them were cursing. ‘Afio mai loa,’ he adds with a deferential sweep of his arm. ‘Welcome.’
Call me suspicious, but I reckon he’s taking the piss rather than being respectful.Fine by me.The door opens to a nondescript lobby housing another door with a sign above.
Smile, you’re on camera!
Fuck my life.
I step into a reception where a young woman sits behind a high desk. Blonde with her face heavily made up, she’s dressed like she works in some corporate office. She smiles as the door closes behind me.
‘Welcome to Ruby’s Room. Do you have an appointment?’
‘Do I... need one?’ Maybe I should’ve googled this shit before arriving.
‘Of course not, sweetheart. I’m sure one of the girls can fit you in.’ I don’t miss the serve of inuendo she’s just dealt.
‘Actually, I don’t suppose you’ve had a group of fellas come by in the past half hour?’
‘The buck’s party? A few of them stayed,’ she answers happily. ‘The cheeky devils even asked for a discount.’
‘Did you give them one?’ I know what’s coming before she even opens her mouth.
‘No, but then I’m just the receptionist.’ She ends her statement with a wink before she adds, ‘I’ll buzz you in, darling.’
Sweetheart. Darling. I suppose terms of endearment are better than any of the other terms.John. Trick. Fucking idiot.
The door clicks open, and I step inside.
The room beyond is a lounge of sorts, though the first thing to catch my eye is a small raised platform housing a chrome pole that runs from floor to ceiling. A flat-screen TV sits behind it playing muted porn. To my right, a row of worn silver velvet couches lines one wall, and large silver-framed mirrors face the opposite wall. I’m pondering why punters would want to sit looking at themselves when someone appears beside me, taking my hand in theirs. And then it all makes sense.
‘Hi, I’m Karma.’
‘Then I’m in trouble.’ Her responding laughter is soft and sultry, and I just about refrain from adding that my old mum always said karma would turnaround one day and bite me in the arse. But as lovely as she is, I don’t want to dish out any accidental invitations.
Dark-haired and doe-eyed, Karma is slightly built and looks as though she might be Middle Eastern, though she sounds as if she’s more likely from a bit nearer.Like the suburbs of Sydney.And the mirrors? They’re to facilitate a rear view, I realise, not that the front is anything to be ignored. Is it rude to ignore something that obviously carried a hefty augmentation price? It’s also a view that’s pretty hard to ignore, thanks to an almost sheer slip and an equally sheer bra.
‘And I’m Candy.’ Immediately, my hand is passed into the owner of the high-pitched tone. A cascade of hair falls over her shoulders in a shade I’d callhighly improbable blond. Not that I’ll be staying long enough to find out. ‘Like candy, I’m sweet and delicious.’ Along with her introduction, she adds a little shimmy, making sure her ample assets are front and jiggling centre, aided by a strikingly red balconette bra.
‘That’s true,’ a deeper voice adds, making me wonder how many more will join this conveyor belt. ‘Candy is sweet, just like a dessert,’ a tall redhead purrs. ‘But you’ll find I’m the whole feast.’
I dunno about feast, but she’s definitely a whole load of something. She might even be a little bit more than your average girl, if you know what I mean. Whether it’s her height or the deep tone of her voice, or some kind of built-in warning system, I find my eyes dropping to her throat for the tell-tale evidence of an Adam’s apple.
Why do I feel like I’m in some sort of alternate reality Goldilocks? Instead of a selection of porridge, I’m being offered a selection of girls—a selection moving in the wrong direction of optimal.
What the hell am I still doing here?
‘Ladies, as wonderful as it is to meet you all in your delightful workwear.’ And not the kind you find in Kmart. ‘Unfortunately, I’m not here for the pleasure of your lovely company.’ Because my quest has pretty much come to an end. There’s no way I’m about to go knocking on doors anywhere in this place to find Joe. The fact that he might be in one of the rooms beyond is a noose I’m just not willing to pull him out of at this point.
Joe, mate. You’re on your own.
Is it me, or do the three of them look disappointed? Could be that business is slow tonight. Or it could be the suit. Whatever. I’ve no problem with sex workers, I’m just not interested in becoming their clientele. Besides, I have a type, and the titful trio is as far from it as can be. But as my attention is pulled by a sudden commotion at the door, I realise I’m now looking at exactly my type.
Petite. Light brown hair pulled into a high ponytail. Dark skinny jeans, a silky looking T-shirt, and ballet flats.And my kryptonite, glasses.She’s the girl-next-door kind of pretty with the suggestion of librarian dressed for a wild night out. Adrunkenwild night out, I realise, as she trips, loses one of her shoes, then smacks her butt into the wall before sliding to the floor, laughing like it’s the funniest thing ever.
