Red Windmill
A/n: sorry this took so long....I saw swamped to my knees with stuff, and then fanfiction wasn't working...well, I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 3
Sarah turned the doorknob and faced Chris. "Good luck." She whispered, flashing another smile. Chris gulped and followed her inside.
The office was circular and directly in the center was a large mahogany desk. Spread out below it was a white fur rug that could have easily been 10 feet around. The walls were beige with a gold trim by the ceiling. Hanging on the walls were framed pictures of what Chris imagined were all the hookers, and one or two awards worked their way into the display as well. The ceiling was painted with an intricate scene of angels and a chandelier hung from about the center, its crystals making small rainbows on the wall. The eye catcher of the room, though, was an enormous, red leather chair, the front facing away from them. It was outlined by gold and brushed to look antique.
"Harry, I've got someone here you might like." Sarah said loudly, smiling.
"I knew it was you, Cherub." Chris glanced at the angels on the ceiling. The voice came from the turned chair. "Come, sit down, let's talk." Sarah took Chris by the hand and ushered him to sit down in one of the two black leather chairs seated directly in front of the large desk.
The huge red chair swiveled a bit, and then turned completely, so that its owner was now facing them. Chris had assumed that Harry was a mysterious, dark man, from the way he was positioned earlier, but that couldn't have been a more wrong assumption. Harry Z. Idler was a large man in a pink Giorgio Armani suit. His eyes were constantly wide, and he wore a considerable amount of rouge for a man. Chris had a slight feeling that Harry was a drag queen in his spare time.
"This is Chris." Sarah announced, showing him off as if he were on display. Harry looked him over, seeming to take in every detail. Chris felt his face grow warm as Harry's eyes stopped for a minute on his crotch.
"Cherub, you know we aren't taking in any more male strippers, although he is quite scrumptious, I have to say." Chris squirmed as Harry put his arm over his shoulder.
"No Harry, no! Not a stripper, Chris is a writer! He wants to be the playwright for your new theater!" Mr. Idler perked up noticeably.
"A writer?" Chris nodded, trying not to laugh at Harry's ridiculous face.
"I'd like the job sir."
"Please, please, call me Harry, my boy!" He waltzed over to his desk and pulled out a large stack of wrinkled papers from one of the drawers. "No one has applied for the position..."
Chris sighed in relief.
"Except for my good friend Audrey. He's a very experienced playwright, I must admit. Chris immediately tensed again, returning to his original state of anxiety. "Did you bring any of your work with you?"
Chris nodded, extracting his poem from his pocket and smoothing it out vigorously against the side of the desk before he handed it to Harry.
"Excellent. Well, I'd best get to reading this...thank you so very much, I'll get back to you as soon as I can...now TA-TA!" He wiggled his fingers and Sarah dragged Chris out the door, closing it behind her. When the door was closed, Chris turned to Sarah.
"Do you think I have a chance at the job?" He asked nervously.
"You? I think you've already got it...I've heard that Audrey guy's work, and its not that wonderful...speaking of poetry by the way, I never got to hear that poem you know."
They were back in the room now, and Sarah was sitting at the foot of the bed. She patted the space next to her, but Chris refused.
"I have it memorized, if you still want to hear it." He said hopefully.
"Sure." She said passively.
"Alright, here it goes:
I close my eyesSine Pax
The night Carmine
Like crush-ed fruit
And lovers blood
I caress
The Other side of a shadow
Crying out...pulling in
Phantom Childe
with you."
"That's very good" Sarah whispered after a moment or two of stunned silence.
"T-thanks." Chris stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Um...I should really be going." He glanced at his watch. "It's late."
"It's only 2:00 in the morning." Sarah argued.
"I-I know, but.... really, I should go." He inched towards the door. He really did want to stay, but something felt wrong, with him being engaged and everything. He opened the door slowly, looking at Sarah. She smiled and blew him a kiss.
In one swift motion he slammed the door closed and leaned back against it. "Jesus." He muttered, running a hand through his hair. He walked briskly to the main door, shielding his eyes from the scene in the circular VIP area, and grabbing a bucket of ice on his way out the door.
When his feet hit the sidewalk, he leaned his arm against the brick wall for support and dumped the whole bucket of ice over his head, the cool liquid of the semi-melted cubes dripping down his back. If it were scientifically possible, his skin might have emitted steam when the freezing water touched it. He shook his soaking hair and sighed, waving down a taxi.
Back in the Red Windmill VIP owner's office, Harry Z. Idler read Chris's poem again and again. It didn't seem conceivable that a boy his age could write such beautiful poetry.
The boy, Chris, was a perfect, walking example of Orpheus, the Greek character from the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Then it hit him...that would be the base for the play! The legend of Orpheus and Eurydice...it was perfect! A harmonious love story, thwarted by evil and ended with tragedy...the perfect tear jerker, and Chris was just the boy to write it.
Harry got up quickly and walked as fast as he could to Sarah's room/lounge in the back, where only staff could venture. She was lying on a beanbag chair and popping gum in her mouth, flipping through a "Playboy" and grimacing at some of the pictures.
"Cherub...I must talk to you." She looked up and placed down her magazine.
"Anything, Harry, you know I'm listening."
"Good. You know your friend, Chris?" She nodded.
"I've chosen him to be the playwright, but I will need your help."
"I don't see what I can do, but alright." She obliged.
"The boy is quite obviously taken with you. I have a feeling that he isn't just doing this play because of his love for literature. I'll need you to pretend to fall in love with him, you know, to keep his attention from straying. At the end of the production, you'll go to him and tell him its over, and that's that. Does that sound alright with you Cherub?"
"Yes, Harry."
"Alright then, perfect. But before we carry this plan out, what's the number one rule here at the Red Windmill, chickie?"
"Never wear anything that covers your bum?" She asked jokingly.
"No, Cherub, not in the contrary. Our number one policy is NEVER fall in love with a customer, or anyone involved here at the Windmill, is that clear?"
"Crystal, Harry. Now go on, put on your dresses and leave me alone...I have to prepare to "fall in love"" She made her fingers into little quotations.
"That's my girl." He croaked, smiling widely. And with that, he floated out of the room.
As Chris walked through his front door, the air conditioning gave him chills. All the lights were on, and there were noises coming from the kitchen.
"Hello?" He called, walking closer.
"Honey, is that you?" A high voice from the kitchen called. Then his fiancée(I think it's the two E's for the girls-if not...oh well, you know what I mean.) emerged from the hallway and rushed up to him, enveloping him in a hug.
"Oh, sweetheart, you're all wet!" She cooed, her long blonde hair tickling his nose. "And you're shivering!" She cried, noticing the Goosebumps on his arms. This kind of attention from her always made him want to roll his eyes. Ever since their parents had arranged the marriage, she was all over him, her high pitched voice giving him headaches.
Chris despised his parents now more than ever. They thought that as a writer, he would never be able to support himself, so they found the richest, most eligible girl in the city and became close friends with her parents. Everyone seemed to think the wedding was a wonderful idea. Both their parents thought it was "so adorable" how they looked together, and that their kids would be "the cutest in the world!" Just the thought made him gag slightly.
Even his friends were all for it. He constantly got remarks like, "Dude, she's one hell of a chick!" or, "Man, if I were you..."
There was no denying that she was quite pretty, but she was conceited and ditzy, and basically your stereotypical rich dumb blonde. But there was an advantage to her piles of money, and her love for him. Normally, Chris would never think of taking advantage of another person, but tonight his brain was buzzing and he knew what he had to do.
Just then, he realized she was talking to him.
"What?" He said stupidly, tuning in.
She sighed and repeated herself, "I said, did you have fun at your party, sweetheart? T.J. told me all about where you had it." Chris gulped, wondering why she wasn't at least a tiny bit upset that he had his bachelor party at a club with hookers. "...and Hooters sounds like a great, traditional place to celebrate your last month of "freedom"."
He sighed, relieved, and then he got an idea.
"Well actually, I got a job offer...to write a play."
"Oh really?" He could tell she wasn't all that thrilled. She never fully appreciated his gift in literature.
"Yes, but and the owner of the RED WINDMILL is directing and producing it. The only problem is, he needs an investor, otherwise nothing can happen."
"Isn't that the strip club, The Red Windmill?" She asked, placing her hands on her hips.
"Yes, but that's not the point. I was wondering if you could...if you could perhaps lend him some money so he can make his show...he'd pay you back with the profits of course, but he needs a little push to get him started. Do you think you could do it, for me?" He asked.
At first she looked skeptical, but it didn't take long before she agreed.
"Of course, honey. Anything for you." She hugged him again, planting a kiss on his lips. Chris found himself closing his eyes and imagining that she was Sarah. He shook his head and opened his eyes.
"I'm going to bed." He muttered, trudging upstairs and changing into pajamas.
But 200 sheep and a glass of milk later, he couldn't fall asleep. His thoughts were completely occupied by her. Sarah. He could not stop thinking about her. The way she looked, the way she talked, everything.
And then he wondered, was she thinking about him?
a/n: I don't own Giorgio Armani or Playboy or any other company mentioned in this story, no money is trying to be made...yadayadayada....ok, now down to business.
The poem was written by my mother, you will definately see some more of her wonderful work as the story progresses.
You know the drill, I must have at least 20 reviews before I move on to the next chapter....which believe me, is going to be good...as is the rest of the fic.
Hope you enjoy,
Sandra