BLACKLIST

By Faye Dennis

In this dark-humored story-

Trudie is a licensed massage therapist who has just quit her job at the Massage Intrigue franchise. She would love to get out of the business and become a sculptor, but opportunities are rare, so she looks for more work in the massage industry.

Scanning the employment vacancies one day, Trudie finds a job at what looks like a professional massage practice owned by Beth. Despite being initially happy with the terms of the position, Trudie becomes quickly disillusioned as the eccentric Beth turns out to be a manipulative and pathological liar, with unsavory and low quality clients.

With poor working conditions, and a boss who cannot be trusted, Trudie's life seems to have taken a serious downturn, when she finds out that her boyfriend Bob has broken the rules of their open relationship. In a classic rebound from this, Trudie starts an affair with Beth's much younger gigolo husband Darcy.

But what will Beth do when she finds out? With sketchy characters seeking revenge on behalf of her increasingly irrational boss, Trudie is pushed in a dysfunctional corner. Will Trudie be able to walk from the now deranged office? Or will Beth go completely insane and put her in harm's way?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faye Dennis
• Release date: Oct 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386488231

Faye Dennis

Faye Dennis has always been fascinated with writing, dark humor and abnormal psychology. As a child, she often carried around a notebook and pen. Faye Dennis also co-writes how-to ebooks under another pen name, and is listed as a life coach under a non-pen name. She lives in NY with her husband and their cat D.K.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The ad was on Backpage. The listing was in the spa/salon section as opposed to the erotic adult page. I felt leery.

Greetings from Touch Alchemy Inc. I am looking for a licensed massage therapist to join my wonderful staff. I have said: If you're not getting a massage, what are you doing with your life? The ad was odd but different from the other listings. I had quit working at the Massage Intrigue franchise and needed a new job.

Backpage was risky, but I felt confident the questionable ads could be weeded out and discarded.

A hooker website isn't attractive, my live-in boyfriend, Bob, said.

I explained that just because escorts used that advertising platform for services, didn't mean everything advertised was related to sex. Backpage is a popular site.

How would you know? Bob sounded suspicious.

Do you live in a hermit cave? I asked. Go check out the news. Backpage is mentioned all the time.

I checked out the news, Bob declared. Hundreds of underage girls getting trafficked. Trafficked women never live.

I'm twenty-six years old; I should be safe. Listen, I said to Bob. An interesting ad is listed. If some weirdo answers the phone, I'll cut off the call.

The overall interest was to work for a woman since a female would understand me. It was mandatory the owner had a solid practice.

It's important to make decent money, without being treated like a franchise slave.

Good luck, Bob said. You may die if you're trafficked. Those lunatics will steal your heart and liver if your sexy body is screwed to oblivion and worn out.

Bob frowned and ignored my shocked expression. A married couple advertised a gold watch on Backpage. They met with the 'buyers' and ended up dead.

You're thinking of Craigslist, I said. Death is unavoidable. I had quit the job at Massage Intrigue because I'd been nothing but a workhorse to the company. The work  lasted forty hours a week, with clients at all hours. Most were women. The day ended with overall soreness and extremities in pain. Teachers from massage school claimed if I experienced exhaustion my technique had to be wrong. Instructors insisted I shouldn't be tired no matter how many clients I saw each day. A massage therapist's career would be less than three years if we didn't eat the right foods and practice yoga and tai chi. New graduates often injured their backs the first year and burned out from physical exhaustion. My main problem wasn't so much the physical pain, but the lack of money. There was an excessive amount of clients with little pay. The tips added up to nothing, and the taxes  paid seemed ridiculous. I remained an employee for six months.

Gathering my courage; I dialed the number. A woman answered. The voice was low and pleasant.

Hello?

My name is Gertrude Graham. I saw the ad listed.

Do you have a massage license?

Yes.

How old are you? You have a mature name.

I told her my age, and she bragged she was fifty, but looked forty and that the name was Beth. Beth wanted to know where I had previously worked. After admitting the place was Massage Intrigue, I insisted that she call me Trudie.

Trudie's an okay nickname. My former nickname was Libby. Do you live in Connecticut?

Yonkers.

The location is in Connecticut. Take the Metro-North train and get off at Stentford. You'll see the eatery Adriana's Restaurant right in front, that will show it's the right stop. I want to meet at five p.m. It's important you give me a twenty minute massage. Meet me in the parking lot. A red convertible will be there. Oh, and I thought I should mention that the main clients are men. Beth gushed that she had been in the business for ten years and loved it. The landlord was perfect, and they often went to dinner. Beth chattered about her passion for business and art for fifteen minutes; my ear hurt. I spaced out and looked at the home alarm clock and saw it was one p.m. It would take forty-five minutes to get to the Yonkers Metro-North train stop. The route looked familiar. That was the Harlem line. If I took the two p.m. train, I would get there by four-thirty p.m.

The line was silent. I felt nervous and wondered if a question had been asked, and an answer needed. I wondered if she was still on the phone when she said, there's nothing wrong with this business. The line went dead.

Chapter 2

Job interviews made me nervous. I focused on the train station. A job in Manhattan would be better. I did not have a New York license. New York massage training required one thousand hours. I was lucky that the state of Connecticut only required five hundred hours.

My leather portfolio left a dent in my arm and wished I were at Grand Central Station. That station smelled of excitement and activity. It was a sharp contrast to Port Authority where everything stank of urine. The MTA subways were appealing, even though I got lost one time. It always embarrassed me if I got a route wrong. A year ago, I took the F train and ended up in Brooklyn when I wanted Times Square. That time, a man flicked his tongue at me and took a step in my direction. I tripped and landed on a bench and was accosted by an intoxicated woman, who grabbed my hair and tried to run her fingers through it. It's such a pretty brown, she called, after I pried her hand loose. There had been chicken bones on the seat, and I later lost my appetite.

I needed to focus on today's meeting and became paranoid I would trip over a puddle of  weekend-party-vomit that everyone else had walked over.

Once on the train, with a ticket in my hand, I took a covert glance at the surrounding passengers to see where I should sit. One seat was covered in newspapers, so the seat next to an emaciated girl eating a bagel with cream cheese looked fine.

A muffled conversation whispered behind me.

I don't have any friends, a woman began, her voice proud. I have, I heard rustling, enemies. The train made noise. That's good, a man answered. A friend will stab you in the back, with enemies you at least know where you stand.

I daydreamed on the train and laughed at my naivete'. The plan involved meeting a complete stranger who could run me over with her car.

After two and a half hours of travel, I almost missed the Stamford stop. I fell asleep for five minutes and grabbed the arm of a woman as I hurled myself off the train.The green fuzz of her sweater was under my nails. I panted and saw no sign of Adriana's Restaurant. Three Szechuan restaurants stood in full view. I looked to my right and saw a guy in a red leather coat. He was attractive, but then I thought of a male mouse.

Excuse me. Anxiety hit me. I'm worried this is the wrong stop. I don't see  Adriana's Restaurant.

The guy glanced at me. Adriana's Restaurant? This stop is Stamford's Chinatown area.

The man hesitated. I think you mean Stentford, not Stamford. Adriana's Restaurant is in Stentford. How dumb. He was right. Beth had said Stentford. Damn it. I wish I hadn't spaced out while on the phone with her. Stentford was a few more stops. But it was too late. It would be a long wait for the next train. The almost-attractive-man stared and shook his head. I hated calling Beth to explain the situation. Beth would think I couldn't follow instructions. If I were the owner of a business, I wouldn't want to hire someone like that.

There was no choice. Beth remained silent for a few seconds.

I had hoped you'd be able to give me a massage today. If you could get me to relax, you could get anyone to relax, but I trust you, and we'll have tomorrow be your first day on a trial basis.

I was grateful for a second chance, but it took three and a half hours to get home  based on my wrong turn. Bob knew of my relief once I came home.

Well, Bob said. Glad you're happy, but keep in mind it could be a bad sign or some twist of fate crap that prevented you from even getting to the job interview. My eyes narrowed as I looked at him. Bob winked and took a bite of an apple he had bounced off one hand like a quarter. The move reminded me of those lady killers in movies from the nineteen-forties.

I debated whether to go back since I felt too inexperienced. The last job had lasted six months after all. A job seemed mandatory though. I spaced out for a second, consumed by a financial memory. My Mother used to complain I was careless with money. She went by the name of Amy and was a widow long before I graduated from Colorado State University. While Amy owned an advertising company, she was adamant that my tuition  not be expensive.

So, she said, pick out a practical school because I'm not paying for a pipe dream. As a joke, I suggested the School of Visual Arts. I explained my talent revolved around sculpting and I needed a place to express my talent. I had obtained a massage license since the flexible hours allowed me to concentrate on the craft.

That's a waste, Amy told me. You don't paint and draw, you just sculpt. I don't know how many sculpting classes you could even take.

If I couldn't go to art school, I wanted to study far away. Amy eyeballed me. Her face was the same color as an ember burning cigarette. On the one hand, I wished she didn't smoke but

Reviews for BLACKLIST

[R · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Weird. Short, but the people were oddballs but not too strange