Author Note: I had this story saved for a little while, but for some reason I just got the urge to post it. Let me know what you think of it.
Disclaimer: I think we all know I don't own anything from Newsies. I own Lottie Crewe and any other OC's...hell I don't even own the plot...well, at least not the initial set up. Props to StormShadow21 for helping me out with this idea!
Lottie Crewe studied herself in the mirror that hung over the old oak bureau Miss Velvadine had given to her as a sort of welcome gift. Her stomach was full of knots; her fists were sweaty and her complexion becoming increasingly clammy. Her long, freshly curled dark hair was pulled away from her face by several pins and hung loosely over her shoulders. Her green eyes felt heavy. The dress in which Lady, Miss Velvadine's assistant, had given Lottie was probably two sizes too small. But, as Miss Velvadine and Lady insisted, the tighter the dress was the better the pay. Lottie frowned at her reflection—what the hell was she doing? She had no idea—she felt uncomfortable and embarrassed in the tight, blood red dress—it was lined with black lace and made her look much more filled out than her sixteen year old body truly was. Her eyes had been traced in smoky black make-up, and her lips glazed with rouge. She felt exactly as she was—nothing but a cheap whore.
But she wasn't. She hadn't even kissed a boy yet alone a man before. And by the way Miss Velvadine and the other girls residing in The Widow's Rose had smiled slyly and whispered behind Lottie's back, she had quite a strong feeling she would be expected to do much more than just kiss men.
This wasn't where she was supposed to be—this wasn't how she was supposed to live. Her mother would be so ashamed of her, God rest her soul. Lottie was supposed to be attending school, learning how to become a proper wife, she was supposed to be living in a warm home with loving parents, not kissing men until she was ready to be married. She wasn't supposed to look like this—she wasn't supposed to be living in a room the size of a closet, she wasn't supposed to be following orders from a cruel and dangerous woman who was never seen without a cigarette in her hand, she wasn't supposed to be doing what she was doing. So how had she ended up here? In this whore house, looking the way she did, about to give up the one gift she would never, ever be able to get back.
Miss Velvadine had lied to her. When she had found Lottie scrubbing the floors of an old, dirty cloth shop in which she made a nickel an hour, two weeks ago, she had said she was looking for a girl to fill in for a little at the Widow's Rose. Lottie knew what kind of place The Widow's Rose was. Her mother had warned her to steer clear away from fifty second street, for the shabby building on the corner held women who had sinned so badly, and men so cruel and filthy. But Lottie had been a mess when Miss Velvadine had found her—she had said she just needed a girl to sew dresses for the working girls of the Widow's Rose. But one thing had led to another and somehow Lottie had been stupid enough to fall into the trap of a money grubbing, middle aged woman.
Taking a shaky breath, Lottie glanced one last time at her reflection. This was it. Lady had given her the basic rules—no conversation, smile sweetly, give him what he wants, and take the money, leave. That was it. Lady had told Lottie that when men requested the presence of one of the Widow's girls outside of the Widow's Rose, it meant he paid well. It was Lottie's first client, so she had to make the very best first impression she could.
Lottie turned away from the mirror and felt nothing but shame. She shoved the guilty feeling out of her mind and took another breath. As soon as she had enough money saved up to leave the Widow's Rose, Lottie was gone. She didn't want to waste her days away at the Widow's Rose forever. There was too much beyond Brooklyn.
Just as Lottie reached for the doorknob, a loud knocking made her jump. She was a nervous wreck, and every little thing seemed to tick her off. Opening the door, she was greeted with the sight of Lady, looking Lottie up and down to make sure she looked exactly the way men wanted her to look.
"Your client is not a patient man Lottie," Lady growled. She was a foul old thing—she had to be at least fifty-five, and didn't even reach five feet. She had a hunch back and her hair was sure to hold living creatures inside. She smelled always of rotten onions. Needless to say, she was not something pleasant to look at…or smell. "Since you'se is taken the place of his usual mistress for tonight, since Spice is busy with another, his expectations are high."
Lottie nodded, trying to breathe through her mouth; she was afraid she'd vomit if she spoke. Lady turned and Lottie quickly followed her down the dark corridor lined with doors of all the rooms of the girls of Widow's Rose. Lottie closed her eyes and put her hands to her face. She had no idea what she was doing. She knew only one thing—she needed money, and this seemed the fastest way. The more money she had, the faster she could get out of this whore house, and the better off she was.
With a push from Lady and a scribbled note of her client's address, Lottie was sent off into the night.
Spot Conlon stared out the window of his secluded bedroom, watching the dark street below him. His head was pounding—he had managed to sell all of his papes that day, but it had been more exhausting than usual. Everyday it seemed it became a greater struggle to drag himself out of bed and sell papers—he didn't really know why he had suddenly become so lazy, but he figured he might get some of his energy back if he was paid a visit by one of the lovely ladies of the Widow's Rose. His stress level had been up to its' highest lately. More and more of his boys and the boys of Manhattan and Queens were getting jumped by the boys of Harlem and the Bronx. In two days, Spot, Jack and the leader of Queens, Blaze, were meeting to discuss ways to stop all of the fights. Harlem and the Bronx were in alliance, and if something wasn't done to figure out why exactly they were beating up the boys of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens, there was going to be a big, big problem. And it wasn't like the boys getting jumped were capable of fighting—they were all under fifteen, puny, the littlest runts of each borough. If it was one thing Spot despised, it was a coward. Harlem and the Bronx were nothing but cowards full of shit, and Spot held a loathing for each borough so fierce it burned inside of him.
Needless to say, he was in desperate need of a woman's touch. When he was first informed that Spice, his usual visitor, would not be joining him that night, he had been pissed off. Spice had been over almost every other night for the past six months, and Spot was growing quite fond of what she had in store for him each time. If the girl who was on her way to his room wasn't as satisfying as Spice, he was going to be even more pissed off.
Running his hands through his hair, he leaned his tall and lanky body against the wall beside the large window. His neck was tense, and his hands were calloused and dry. Reaching into the back pocket of his pants, he retrieved a cigarette and a match. Lighting up, he inhaled the sweet nicotine taste and instantly he was relaxed. Beginning to pace his room, he was growing impatient. Where was the damn girl? He was getting antsy—now Spot Conlon wasn't nervous—he had become quite skilled over the years with women ever since his fifteenth birthday. In celebration of the big one five, a bunch of the older newsies had taken him over to the Widow's Rose and gotten him his own personal girl for the night. That was the night Spot Conlon discovered the wonders a man and a woman could do together. But that was a long time ago—four years. Of course, in those four years he had earned himself a reputation with the ladies, and had become the most feared and tough leader Brooklyn ever had. But as the minutes ticked away, Spot was getting a bit apprehensive. Was the girl ever going to show up?
Just as he finished his cigarette and put out the bud on his dresser, there was a hesitant knock at his door. Smirking to himself, he made sure he had enough money to pay the broad, and strode over to his door. Finally, he thought.
Opening the door, Spot studied the girl in front of him. She didn't look anything like Spice, who was tall and lean with long blonde curls and blue eyes that rivaled his own. This girl was slightly shorter and curvier—she had dark hair, but it was too dark to tell the hue of her eyes. She was wringing her hands nervously and her eyes met his reluctantly. He'd never seen her before, and he'd seen many of the girls at Widow's Rose. New blood, he thought bitterly.
"Come in," he muttered, stepping aside as the girl entered his bedroom. He was going to have a talk with Miss Velvadine the next time he wanted one of their girls to come to his room. He was their most popular client among the girls—most of the time five or six got into fights to spend their company in the presence of Spot Conlon. He sure as hell didn't pay for a newbie.
Spot gently closed the door and turned around. Immediately he could feel the tension in the room. The girl was still wringing her hands nervously, and her head was down; her eyes glued to the dusty floor. She was young, that was for sure. Had to be fifteen or sixteen—Spot didn't have time for this. He wanted his money's worth. Sighing, he figured he'd just have to do all the work. He was going to get something out of the girl—she was pretty enough, nothing special just some nice features except for all that black eye makeup, had real pale skin and rosy, rosy cheeks—not his first preference, obviously, but she would have to do. She just looked real young. The girl looked up hesitantly at Spot and he got the impression the girl had no idea who he was, which was odd since just about everyone, especially girls, knew who Spot Conlon was. Maybe she was from out of town.
Closing the distance between them with three graceful strides, Spot quickly slid his arm around her waist and was just about to place his lips on her own rouge ones when he felt her back stiffen. Did she not know what she was doing at all? Did she expect them to play cards or chat? Inwardly rolling his eyes, Spot tried to focus on the desire to rid his stress, and lowered his head only centimeters from her lips. He was seconds from kissing her when she took a sharp breath and looked into his eyes.
"Er—what'syourname?"
Spot almost didn't hear her—he was too shocked she had spoken and she had spoken so fast he could barely understand her. Most girls who'd never had Spot Conlon didn't dare speak in his presence—not until they were with him a few more nights at least, if he was even that interested. Did they not train her properly over at the Widow's Rose? Didn't she know…the rules?
She was looking up at Spot hopefully, biting her lip. She was trembling slightly and looked purely afraid. Spot cleared his throat and lifted his head away from her mouth, cocking one eyebrow. He was slowly slipping out of his hunger for a woman's touch and exhaustion was overtaking his body. He wished the girl would just let him do what he wanted and be off. He had always hated girls who talked more than they should.
"Spot Conlon," he said flatly. The girls eyebrows raised and she nodded slightly, edging away slowly, but Spot had a firm grip around her waist. He wasn't going to let her go just yet. Maybe she just wanted to know his name before she did anything with him. That was understandable.
"Nice to meet you Spot," the girl said. Her voice was a bit unsteady, and again she tried backing up. Spot pulled her closer to him and lowered his head again but once more was he interrupted. "Don't you want to know my name?"
Spot bit his tongue and once again pulled away. No, he felt like saying. I could care less what your name is. Shut up. But the girl's eyes were so afraid, and she didn't seem like she was going to go any further unless he knew her name.
"My name's Lottie Crewe," the girl said, not waiting for his answer. "Nice…place you got here Spot." She was really struggling to get out of his grasp. Not liking a woman who wasn't willing, Spot let go of her waist and almost instantly did she relax a bit. She stopped wringing her hands and dropped her eyebrows which were dangerously going to disappear in her hair.
"Thanks," he said, trying his best not to sound cranky. He wanted his money's worth, dammit. He was going to seriously have a talk with Miss Velvadine and Spice. Who did Miss Velvadine think she was, sending this inexperienced girl to him? He was used to the best of the best—when it came to women, of course—not girls like this girl. He just wasn't fond of the good girls.
He took a few steps toward the girl—Lottie—and she immediately backed away. "Um—you know… I like… cards. I know lots of cards. Card. Card games. Lots of card games. Yeah. Cards. You got any cards?" The girl was breathing a bit unevenly and was talking fast. Her eyes were darting around the bedroom like a cornered animal and Spot was starting to get really annoyed at the wringing of her hands.
Spot was getting irritated. He didn't have time for games. "I didn't ask Miss Velvadine tah send me a card player," he growled. "I'se ain't payin' use to play cards wit me."
"You're right," Lottie said. Finally, Spot thought for the second time that night. He reached out a hand to her waist. "Cards are boring anyway. Got any books? I like reading. Or painting. Painting's nice, but I'm not very good. I can sew though, but I doubt you can sew. Heh…oh I know! Have you've ever played charades? Huh? Oh it's a great game…yeah…we should play charades, it'll be—"
"Listen goil," Spot interrupted, rubbing the back of his head and sighing. He looked at her and shook his head. "I'se don't got time foah dis—just do what ye came heah tah do, and dat's dat."
Lottie bit her lip and her eyes grew wide in fear. Why was she so scared? Why was she even working at The Widow's Rose if she had no idea what she was doing?
"Uh—" the Lottie girl tried again. "Sure, yeah, let's just get this over with. Let's do what I came here to do…yeah. Come on. I'm ready…you ready? I'm so ready. Yeah. So…um…I'm ready. Did I say I was ready? I am. Let's…let's go."
Spot looked at the girl doubtfully and quirked his eyebrow. Trying to dismiss the look of panicked fear in the girl's eyes, Spot walked toward her and once again put his arms around her waist. She tensed up almost immediately but didn't try to struggle. Spot dipped his head once again and brushed his lips gingerly against the girl's, waiting to see if she would pull back. When she didn't, Spot deepened the kiss and felt the girl start to tremble. To his dismay, the girl didn't respond and just stood there in his arms, not moving. He began to feel sick with himself—it was quite a strange and awkward thing to kiss someone that did not respond whatsoever. Grimacing, he pulled back and looked at the girl, whose eyes were still open. This just wasn't what he was expecting. He sat down on his bed and patted the spot beside him. Lottie came slowly over to him and sat down, much farther away than he wanted. He inwardly groaned. This was turning into one hell of a waste of a night. He obviously wasn't getting what he wanted tonight…and after all he was exhausted. And it's not like the girl was going to be any good anyway even if she did ever shut up. Spot just looked at the girl sitting in front of him, watching her wring her hands.
"How old are you Lottie?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
Lottie looked up at him and offered him a smile. How could she smile when she was torturing him so? "Sixteen."
Sixteen…she was too young anyway. He always figured the younger ones were just easier, but not in this case. He'd had girls who were sixteen before, but they had always been so much more…experienced? Was he this fidgety around the opposite sex when he was sixteen? That was highly doubted. The girl's innocence and frightened demeanor were rapidly turning him off and he found himself feeling more like a babysitter than anything.
"How old are you Spot?" Lottie asked. She curled her legs up under her. Spot didn't even want her anymore—she was too young, too nervous, too everything a hooker wasn't supposed to be. But he was too tired to tell her to leave too, so he just sat there, on his bed, talking to a girl he was supposed to be…well doing other things than talking with.
"I'se an old man compared tah you'se," Spot said, looking at her. "Nineteen."
"That isn't too much older than me," Lottie said, frowning. "I probably just seem younger though. But I'm usually not like this—it's just when I'm nervous I talk a lot. I can't help it. I just babble and babble and babble and never stop. It's a bad habit I've had, like, forever. Oops. Like I am now—sorry. I should stop."
Spot smirked and almost laughed. He found it amusing how nervous she was. He definitely didn't want her now—not the way he had wanted her two minutes ago. But he could use the company…he just wished it wasn't her company he was stuck with. However, it was still fairly early.
"How long you'se woiked at the Widow's Rose, Lottie?" Spot asked.
"Um…" Lottie played with a loose curl over her shoulder nervously. She seemed almost…embarrassed. "Tonight's my first night."
"Ah," Spot said, nodding his head. He ran his hands through his hair again—a nervous habit of his that he couldn't really control "Now I'se undahstand…what'd ya do befoah dis?" Spot figured that if they kept talking she would feel more comfortable around him and then hopefully she wouldn't be such a mess and actually make Spot's night worth something.
Lottie took a deep breath and hugged her knees to her chest, blocking, to Spot's dismay, a clear view down her dress.
"I was a painter. Painted all over the country—France, Italy, London—all over. I woke up at dawn and painted until the sunset and everything. It was amazing."
Spot raised his eyebrows, slightly impressed. "Really?"
"No. I worked at this cloth store on forty-ninth. But Miss Velvadine offered me a job and said I'd make much more money where she worked and that I didn't have to slave away at that store. Of course I had no idea what Miss Velvadine had in mind, but I always try to look on the bright side of things, you know—" here, Lottie took a breath and continued talking at quite a speed again. "So I figure once I got enough money saved up I'll be outta here and never have to wear these silly dresses again. I feel like a big red handkerchief or something—and it's itchy as hell, mind you." Lottie nodded and looked around Spot's bedroom.
Spot couldn't help but stare at the girl. She was fucking nuts. Did she know just who she was talking to? Spot Conlon! No girl he had ever only just met so much as uttered a 'hello' to him. She was still wringing her hands nervously and it was all he could do to keep from ripping those hands right off the girl. Spot just frowned at the girl—his expression unreadable.
"Have you always been a newsie?"
Spot was shaken out of his momentary loss for words. He inwardly groaned. Lottie was looking at him, still hugging her knees to her chest, her green eyes wide and anxious. He cleared his throat.
"Um—yeah, ever since I'se was a little kid," Spot managed to say. He didn't even know why he continued talking to the girl. Just tell her to leave already. "I'se been on me on foah…evah, I'se guess."
Lottie just looked at him and sighed. "That has to be tough. I mean, I know when my mother died, holy goodness I was a mess. But I mean I just gotta keep movin', you know? Life's too short, 'specially 'round here."
Spot just nodded, trying to think of ways to get the girl out of his room. Maybe Spice was done whatever she had to do—hopefully she'd be free to come over.
"Well it's gettin' kinda late and I really don't wanna be wonderin' around Brooklyn in the late night." Lottie stood up from Spot's bed and tugged at a loose curl uncomfortably. "You don't have to pay me anything. I'm sorry I took up so much of your time. The night can just fly by I guess. Well, bye Spot." With that she gave him another smile and left the room, closing the door quietly.
Spot sat on his bed stunned. It was the first time he'd ever really been…rejected. But he wasn't really rejected.Fuck, he had no idea what the hell had just happened. Was he…losing his touch? That couldn't be it. The girl was just crazy. She had to be. She never shut up and she didn't even like it when he touched her! Now that was new! A girl not like to be touched by Spot Conlon…what was the world coming to?
Rubbing his neck, Spot just decided to go to bed. It had been one strange night. At least he'd never have to talk to that Lottie girl ever again. That was somewhat of a comfort. Sighing, Spot was more exhausted then he thought and was out within minutes of lying his head down on his pillow.