The random guys who come alone are always creepy. The guys who come in after work with buddies or in a group for a bachelor party or a guys' weekend on the town in Coruscant are all usually ok. And the regulars who show up on payday or every Saturday night are really sweet and polite. Those guys learn the girls' names and tip well.
But guys like this one? Well, they are creepy.
In fact, this one might be extra creepy.
Cresta is working the pole on the far lefthand side of the club waiting for her turn on the main stage. Frieda is up there now doing her Hutt slave girl routine wrapping a chain around her neck. Cresta has seen this shtick dozens of times before and tonight it's just as cheesy. But the customers love it. Put a girl in a metal bikini and a slave collar and men go wild. Frieda is getting a great haul of credit cards tossed to her feet and stuffed in her metal thong.
Cresta can't help it, she's jealous. She could use all that cash. And Frieda is just gonna blow it all on spice.
The creepy guy is still staring at her as he smokes. Cresta flashes him her best smile and pulls a lock of long red hair over her shoulder to stroke it suggestively. He doesn't react. He just keeps staring as he blows smoke rings. Normally, she would turn her attention to another customer but there's no one else over here. All the other guys have moved closer to watch Frieda, taking their credits with them. So Cresta just has the creepy, angry looking dude to dance for.
She takes covert peeks at him between hair flips and back bends. He's seated at a table under an overhead light that illuminates his face but shrouds the rest of him in darkness. He's very pasty pale. And that's fitting. Creepy guys are always pale. His beady eyes look pale too-she's not sure if they are blue or grey or green. His hair looks auburn, and normally that would be a point in his favor, but he has a high patrician forehead and his hair is combed back from his receding hairline. Overall, he's not bad looking. But he is sort of old looking and that is a strange mix with his obvious youthfulness. Who looks distinguished at 25 or 30 or whatever age he is? Yeah, with that memorable face he's definitely creepy.
And though he's been staring at Cresta for half an hour now, he hasn't tossed a single credit her way. Cheap and creepy, she thinks. What a shitty combo.
This kind of dancing is mindless. Not like the complicated choreography and constant adjustment required to maintain the correct spacing and unison for the corps. Here Cresta mostly grinds and sways and dips. This job would actually be a good way to ease her sore muscles from today's rehearsal if it weren't for the five inch stilettos sandals she wears. This pair in particular hurts. But aching feet are nothing new to Cresta who has been en pointe since she was twelve.
Okay, time to twerk a bit. Maybe this guy is just waiting to see some ass before he opens his wallet. For sure he's not here to ogle her chest because Cresta isn't fleshy up top. And since many of the other girls here are enhanced, she looks especially flat chested by comparison. Yeah, Cresta knows she doesn't have a typical stripper's body. But this club caters to all customers and there are a variety of types of human girls. From blondes to brunettes, from pale skin to glossy dark, from curvy jiggly flesh to athletic builds, there is a girl here for every guy. That must be it-she's not be the cheap, creepy guy's type.
Her song set is over and another girl sashays forward to take Cresta's place at the poll. This time Cresta doesn't mind walking offstage since no one is paying her to dance. Fuck that cheap, creepy guy for wasting her time.
As soon as she is backstage, Cresta steps out of her heels and starts flexing her arch. The corps balletmaster is right that heels ruin a dancer's feet and mess with your turnout. But a gal's got to make a living somehow. And a few hours dancing here a few days a week keeps her dancing for real. When Simon had been alive, he made sure that the boss scheduled Cresta for the prime late night weekend shifts that pay the most. But Simon is long dead and those days are over. And now Cresta has had to pick up work on the side to keep up her cash flow.
And that's why Potter is heading her direction, she thinks. He has a 'special customer' for her. It's not her favorite thing to do, but since she netted zero from that pole dance she needs to make some cash tonight one way or another.
"Room Three," is all her boss says when he walks up to her. The man isn't much for words.
Room Three it is, Cresta thinks, as she jams back on her sandals and tugs at her fishnets to straighten the back seams. She's wearing the stockings with a matching black thong and skintight black t-shirt. She's a dancer, so black is her thing. Plus, it's a good background to make her red hair pop.
Taking a deep breath, Cresta knocks fast and then sails into Room Three. You have to approach these things with confidence. But, oh, fuck! It's the cheap, creepy guy. Gods, damn it! Tonight just isn't her night.
Up close, he looks better. Younger too. He's can't be more than thirty. She can see now that he's wearing some sort of caped black tunic and slacks tucked into boots. The clothes and boots look expensive even in this dim light, and that's a good sign. Perhaps he'll tip well for this.
Creepy guy is looking her up and down now too in a slow inspection. "Turn around," he requests.
Cresta ignores him. "Did he explain about me?" she asks. When creepy guy looks at her blankly, Cresta repeats herself. "The manager guy who led you in here—did he explain?" Potter always forgets to tell the customers about her limitations, and in the past that has led to some awkward shit. So Cresta has learned to ask this question up front.
"Explain what?" Creepy guy raises an eyebrow expectantly.
"That I won't fuck you. I'll blow you but I won't fuck you." Well, at least that is out in the open. She's half expecting him to get up and walk out—most guys do—but instead he just leans forward in his chair to look at her.
"Is that because this is our first date?" he asks with a wicked grin.
"Cute," Cresta can't help but smile back. This guy is kind of impish. Okay, maybe he's not so creepy. "Very cute. And no. It's because I don't fuck for money." Cresta lets this sink in a moment before adding, "But there are plenty of girls here who will, so they can take care of you if that's what you're into."
Now he sits back and crosses his arms. If he's annoyed by this information, he's not showing it. He looks . . . nonplussed. He cocks his head and counters, "What if I double your money?"
Cresta looks him over. He's good for the money, she thinks. That suit he has on looks like it costs a bundle. And, well, he has an air about him that just says credits. But no, she promised herself she wouldn't do that. And yeah, she's broke. But she's not desperate. Not yet.
"Thanks for the offer. That's generous of you. But it's not for sale."
Again, he raises an eyebrow. "Everything is for sale."
"Not that."
Now he has both his arms and his legs crossed and he's looking up at her amused. "Of all the whores in this town, I have to pick the one with standards."
Cresta pulls a face. Whore is not how she likes to be described, but she'll let it slide. She's only going to have to do this a few more weeks and then she'll get her renewed contract for the next season with more productions and performances, and she'll be done with this business. Life will be strictly legit from then on.
But until then, she is behind on her rent money. So . . . "Well, what will it be? Are we going to do this or should I get you another girl?"
"Are you always this romantic?" He's mocking her now. But it's not mean, it's more like flirting.
"Once we agree on the business, you'll get the romance," she says dryly. That's how it always is. This guy has not spent much time in the Coruscant clubs, she sees. And really, that speaks well of him.
"You're spoiling the illusion," he tells her and then pats his knee. "Come sit down. Talk to me."
Enough of this banter. Cresta looks at him impatiently. "I have to go on in ten minutes, you know." Dancing pays good money on Friday nights and she doesn't want to miss her mainstage cue.
"Ten minutes?" He's grinning ear to ear now. "Well, in that case, I wouldn't have time to fuck you."
She can't contain her sarcasm. "You last that long, eh?" Cresta rolls her eyes. "Let me guess, you've got a great big dick too, right?"
Predictably, he is smug. "You don't know what you're missing. What's your name, Red?"
"Crystal."
"Don't lie to me."
How the fuck did he know that?
"I don't like to be lied to," he warns her and now his tone is weirdly serious. Like 'how dare you lie to me' serious.
Yeah, this one is not just smug, but he's pompous too. Nice combo. Cresta thinks creepy guy is not just wasting her time, but now he's getting really annoying. "That's a new one," she informs him with a sideways glance. "Most guys who come in here want us girls to lie to them. To tell them they are good looking, tell them how much we want them. One guy even asked me to tell him I loved him."
He ignores this and asks again, "So what's your name, Red?"
"Crystal," she snaps back.
He just nods coolly and looks her over thoughtfully. Of all things, he's looking at her feet now. And, well, if he's a foot fetish guy, she's definitely not the girl for him. The tips of each of her toes has a callous worn smooth from over a decade en pointe. And since she doesn't like people messing with her feet, Cresta is not into pedicures.
And now she's feeling defensive and impatient with creepy guy. "Oookay. So are we doing this? I've got five minutes now, not ten. So if you want your credits' worth, you need to decide. Yes or no?"
He pauses, then decides. "No."
"Fine." Cresta turns on heel and marches out. She throws her words over her shoulder with a toss of her head and flip of her hair. "Suit yourself."
He sees the hair before he sees her. For his eye is drawn to the vivid red hue. This time, her hair is scraped back severely from her pale face and piled high on her head. She's walking towards him on the busy esplanade with head down and brow furrowed. Even from twenty meters away, he can see that the stripper girl is upset.
Sheev stares as she approaches. His Muun Master is saying something, but Sheev has stopped listening.
Yes, it's definitely her. The hair is unmistakable as is the loping stride. This time her face is bare of all those dark cosmetics he remembers. Her left arm hoists a bag over her shoulder but her right arm reaches up to snatch at hair pins. After a few well-placed plucks, the topknot she wears unwinds and all that glorious hair tumbles down about her shoulders almost to her waist. It is a striking contrast to the black of her oversized jacket.
Yes, it's definitely her. No one has hair like that. It spills everywhere and bounces with her step.
As she comes closer, he can see that she's wearing the jacket over a dancer's traditional uniform of a black leotard and flesh toned tights. It's an incongruous, purely functional outfit completed with heavy looking flat black boots.
Not once does the stripper girl look up before she hurries past. He whirls to watch her retreating form. A long pink satin ribbon trails out from the bulky bag that bounces on her back. 'CORUSCANT BALLET—Corps de Ballet' he reads the bold logo easily. He stands there and watches the girl until her small, lithe form melts into the crowd.
All Sheev can think is that he was right. That the stripper girl was not what she had seemed.
He flushes suddenly, realizing that his Sith Master has stopped speaking while he observed the entire episode. And sure enough, at his side, his Master chuckles knowingly, "The carpet will not match the drapes on that one."
For some reason, this observation annoys him. Sheev fights the urge to shoot the Muun a glare.
But his Master must see that he has gotten under his skin, for now Hego Damask is enjoying his critique of the girl. "And she is far too lean. Skinny women are so unappealing."
Again, Sheev bites his tongue. Maybe the old Muun likes to lay that aging, fat Twi'lek he keeps around now and then, but Sheev has higher standards of beauty.
And this girl is beautiful. With a classic oval face, high cheekbones and a wide mouth. And an elegant, strong body and perfect posture that is completely out of place in a strip joint. Yes, he knew that something was off about this girl. That there was more to her story than met the eye. He's intrigued.
But he won't think about her now. It's back to the business at hand. After ten long years of training on and off, finally his Master will permit him to emerge and to take his rightful place in public life. Sheev has begun in earnest his march to power. The time for training is over, the time for plotting and planning is at hand.
Hours later, he and his Master have completed six meetings with high dollar donors known to be interested in the upcoming Naboo Senate campaign. The money isn't really the goal. It's more important to receive their backing. But the money comes with it and that's money that won't be going into his opponent's campaign war chest. So far, everything is falling into place for the upcoming election.
After a quick stop back at the Muun's Coruscant pied-a-terre, the two men are back in a speeder zipping through the crowded main Uscru entertainment district.
"Where are we going?" he asks as the speeder lands in front of a large theatre. There is a crowd milling around and a line at the box office.
"To the ballet." The Muun looks amused as he leans over to hand him a ticket. "Go sit through the first act and then we are leaving. We have more business to attend to."
Sheev is still not sure what the Muun is up to, but he'll play along. He has to, for he is the Apprentice. So dutifully, he takes his seat and waits. He doesn't have to wait long.
Yes, that's her. The second from the left in the back row. Even without seeing the tight bun of bright red hair, Sheev would recognize those legs anywhere. And, damn, it is bizarre to see the woman he watched twerking in a thong last night to a raunchy Corellian rap tune now dressed in a fluffy tutu leaping in unison with the surrounding bevy of swans or flowers or whatever this group of dancers are supposed to represent.
He sits back to watch. Sheev Palpatine is no connoisseur of dance, but he thinks her beautiful. And by far, the best of the bunch. Certainly, she has the most shapely legs, if that counts for anything. He busies himself imagining those legs wrapped around him during the boring bits. And ballet has lots of boring bits, just like he remembers. He's a Naboo, so he was raised on art and culture. But he's more into opera than ballet.
The program lists twenty-four names in the Corps de Ballet and, predictably, none of them are named Crystal. But one is named Cresta. Cresta Cole.
Yes, the Sith smiles in satisfaction, he's found his girl.
When he emerges at intermission, his Master is still standing in the lobby where Sheev had left him. The Muun is finishing up a com call with one of his business heads at Damask Holdings. He shuts off the com and turns at Sheev's approach. "Well? Did you see your redhead?"
"Yes."
"Excellent." His Master reaches into his pocket and hands over a credit card. "We leave in five days. Until then, your nights are your own. Find the girl and enjoy yourself. Enjoy her."
Sheev blinks at these instructions. And at the amount showing on the credit card.
"Consider it training," the Muun instructs. "For if you cannot seduce a woman, you will never seduce anyone to the Dark Side."
"You're serious?"
"Yes. Persuasion and manipulation are natural talents for you. This should not be much of a challenge, Apprentice." His tall Master leans his head down slightly man to man. "I want a full report on the ride home, Sheev," he chuckles. "A full report."
