The Savage Garden

By Bree M. Lewandowski

The lights here are all dark and vixens pull men into the shadows. 

 

Hers was a tale as old as time, a woman selling herself for the money. But the lights here aren't part of the red-light district. The lights here create a fantasy club for the wealthy, where men can play out their fetishes of taming foxes, leopards, and swans. Collars and all.

 

Alma Michaels is one of the wildflowers of this savage garden, Dressed in luxury every night, she feigns innocence so that the real innocent of her life, her disabled brother, can live with her and not at a medical facility. While men fulfill their wildest dreams on her, Alma is rooted to the ground. Her brother will have a better life. Her desires don't matter. 

 

Until, suddenly, her heart strains for control...  

 

He wore his insecurities and sorrows like a beastly mask, but she wasn't afraid. Scars marred his body like thorns, keeping people at bay. Alma saw something else, though, in dark green eyes, like emeralds uncut and un-polished. There was something there and her heart wanted inside. 

 

But it's always midnight in The Savage Garden. The gentlemen who frequent its indulgent atmosphere have no time for fairytales. They want to tame and claim vixens. If Alma turns from being a modern-day siren, then her heart aches to save her brother. However, if she stays under the neon lights and pulsing music, then her heart bleeds red as a rose, losing Dane. 

 

Twist the fairytale. Color it black. Re-imagine "once upon a time." Author Bree M. Lewandowski re-tells the classic fairytale, Beauty & the Beast, in this contemporary noir romance!   

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bree M. Lewandowski
• Release date: Dec 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215768099

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

M en don’t like women who wear natural hair.

Alma let the statement drift, keeping her eyes on her reflection in the mirror. The false eyelashes she bought, boasting magnetic staying power, sucked, compared to the falsies women had been wearing for decades.

There was nothing wrong with glue and there was nothing wrong with natural hair.

However, Janet had a stick wedged between her very tight butt cheeks—had  since two of her gentlemen stopped coming to the garden. If she lost her other Mister, then she’d be back on the main floor, like Alma.

Janet leaned on the back of her chair. Alma lifted the lip liner away from her mouth. Apparently, the Divine Miss J wouldn’t be ignored tonight, just like that dollar store weave she pretended was high-end.

Men don’t want women with hair that needs laying on of hands.

This lip color is called Lusty Lair. I don’t think right now is the time for religion.

I’m just trying to help you, baby.

Ain’t you considerate?

Nadine cuffed Janet on the shoulder. Spread sunshine somewhere else. If your Mister doesn’t come tonight, you’re gonna be in Vic’s office, come 3:15 in the morning, losing your choker.

Haughty argument bristled in Janet’s posture and expression but there was no retort she could bandy back. It was true. Her tamed collar would be removed and she’d be just like Alma and the other women, prowling the garden, waiting to be caught.

Janet strode away, and Nadine pulled a chair near Alma, sitting down at the long, brightly lit vanity table.

Janet only knows what certain men like, she said, picking up a blending brush and working the dense glitter highlight on Alma’s cheekbones up around the outer corners of her eyes. Vic won’t like your hair. Why did you take the box braids out?

Vic doesn’t like anything natural, she replied, turning so Nadine could work the other side of her face.

He’s not the man you try to stick things to.

I know that.

Alma looked in the mirror at what Nadine’s blending skills produced. The hint of innocence contrasted with the red on her lips—conflict, just like her stage name, Anemone. What the flower represented varied. Hope, amnesia, caution, life. It seemed fitting her hair should add to the charade.

Besides, when Peter saw earlier, he had smiled...

Nadine shrugged. I know you need this job.

If he says something, I’ll change it.

She squeezed her shoulder. You might luck out tonight, anyway. He’s got interviews for a new night porter.

Performers at The Savage Garden arrived each evening two hours before the club opened and left one hour after closing. At the beginning and end of each shift, they looked like ordinary women. In fact, the lengthy contract signed upon hiring required it. Not a stich of makeup before or after shifts. Plain clothes.

Any high-roller who entered The Savage Garden knew it was all illusion but Vic ensured his clientele received the fantasy they paid handsomely for.

Part of creating that fantasy meant Alma wore colored contacts. Holding her breath while inserting them, noting how tapered medium length acrylics did not make this easier than long coffin shaped nails, she joked to herself that she would, for sure, be fired if she went without. Natural hair and brown eyes? About as seductive as a sneeze. Even the gals with blue and green eyes were required to wear contacts.

The Savage Garden was a place men came to escape and indulge. Nothing should look like the normal world.

From double doors inlaid with Italian marble, down a long hall of black jasper polished so fine it rivaled mirrors, gentlemen entering the garden had to scan their passports. Then two more heavy doors swept open. Flourishing snake plants, evening primrose, wintercreeper, Yucca, Jade Plant, Fiddle Leaf Fig, English Ivy, and more revealed, only barely, three separate paths.

Gentlemen could choose Paradise Cove Road, leading to a raised stage where aerial silks, mermaid diving, and swans dancing around poles performed. If explorers chose Cavern’s Way, then the company of vixens could be enjoyed in one of three fantasy rooms: Aqua, The Glittering Cave, or the Penthouse. The third road, entitled Casablanca, led to a bar decorated to look like it had been transported off the 1943 classic movie set.

Women who worked the floor had earpieces to know where the evening’s customers were amid the dense foliage. From the security camera room, Beth, Vic’s long-time unnamed companion of no certain rank, communicated this knowledge. The Savage Garden had been designed so customers on the roads could not see on either side of themselves. Tall plants, woven vines from the ceiling, and polished statues reminiscent of Venetian gardens, all blocked the view.

That was part of the allure. Off the beaten path, who knew what lurked and watched.

Vic understood.

The Savage Garden brought mystery, glamor, and indulgence. Here, men (and only men) were kings of their own realm, studded with wild women who had to be coaxed and claimed.

And because the height of anticipation is restraint, tamed vixens mandated whether their Mister could touch.

Vic knew.

Even for the pay, no woman wanted to work, pretending to be a wild thing, and not feel safe. There were cameras in every corner and wall. All a vixen had to do was make direct eye contact with the camera and purse her lips. Security would hurry through the side entrance and the offender dragged out; his passport permanently revoked.

Vic had no tolerance for men who couldn’t keep their passions in check. 

Janet cleared her throat. I think that white catsuit is better on your skin than the red you wore last night.

And I think that berry lip you’re going with really brings out the pallor of your skin, Janet.

It wouldn’t be the beginning of the night unless Janet gifted one of the women with a customary, passive aggressive compliment. It was how she worked her nerves out. They all had little quips before starting a shift. Nadine put pantyliners under her armpits to check the sweat. Toni chewed four and a half pieces of peppermint gum.

Gazelles couldn’t sweat and orchids couldn’t smell like they smoked Virginia Slims.

What time is it? Kimber hollered, before she yelped as the narrow zipper on her custom sequin and crystal dress snagged her skin.

Quarter to, Toni answered, moving to help.

Let’s check, everyone, Nadine called. He might send us out early tonight with the interviews.

All the women gathered near the middle of the spacious dressing room, reminiscent of a Hollywood golden age boudoir. The nightly check. Hair, makeup, outfits. Breasts, nostrils, legs. Anything out of place or in danger of being out of place. Everybody circled around.

It saved Janet one night from going out with a tear near the buttocks of her fine-gauge fishnets. Close examination saved Nadine from working when a whiff of a nasty yeast infection got caught. Before a shift started, it didn’t matter if Alma sometimes wished Janet’s thong would find itself uncomfortably wedged up in her ass crack.

As Nadine predicted, the speaker system funneling ambient sound from the garden paused and Vic cleared his throat.

Let’s go, ladies. Toni at the Cove, but remember you fly tonight so don’t get caught. Nadine, stay near the entrance for a while and then move between Caverns. Kimber and Janet, be seen but not too much at Casablanca. I want you near the Cove when Toni goes on. Alma, Leanne, Kristy, you float tonight. Kitchen is short-staffed. Keep the men engaged. Let’s have a smooth night.

NEWS MOVED QUICK WHEN a new gentleman arrived. Alma heard it from Kimber who had been making eyes through the poinsettias and ivy. That news came from Beth, who heard it from the kitchen staff when he approached the bar.

He wore a three-piece suit, complimenting impeccable mutton chops. The hair on his head might have been dyed to enhance color, but it was carefully combed.

Important information, all that.

Men with prominent facial hair were living their own fantasy outside the garden. Pirates, cowboys, and commanding generals. John Wayne was there, alongside Patton. All that hair spelled ideals, slightly warped by imagination. The housewife wasn’t just running to him with a fresh cocktail in her hand, she was also desperate for everything in his pants. After intercourse, it wasn’t a sandwich and a cigarette, it was rack of lamb and a Havana cigar.

A clean-shaven face was a distraction. That fella wasn’t the boy-next-door. He was an alpha and you, the woman, weren’t shit. Modest stubble came mostly for the novelty and did not return. Mustaches, goatees, soul patches, and sideburns straddled tie-her-to-the-bed and come sit on my lap.

However, for all, Vic had created the ultimate what if world, tethered by delicious restraint. Look when you can. Touch if she lets you. Your time is limited.

Mutton chops lingered at Casablanca, looking around himself, mouth slightly agape. Deep in the coverage, Alma watched Kimber skirt the edges and blast her slender aerosol perfume bottle through the leaves. Chops must have had a thick coating of beard oil; Kimber was on her ninth shot when he finally turned in her direction. She then passed her hand through the fronds and pulled back.

Explorers weren’t supposed to linger at Casablanca. Vic didn’t like drunk men. Toni was performing within ninety minutes. Chops needed to be moved. Alma waved at Kimber and Leanne. She’d be the one to walk close behind him and then blend in with the foliage near Paradise Cove Road.

Alma slunk out and walked toward him. He’d catch a glimpse of what white lace did for her body. Where she’d been a little less than fortunate on top, her backside had a generous slope. Where shorter stature might have made her a pitiful pear with little to anchor that butt, Alma stood at five-seven and the white fabric’s illusion stretched her limbs.

Though her gaze was fixed ahead, she heard the gentleman gasp. Fumbling, he tried to say something coherent, and she heard a staggered footfall follow her. Except he’d need to move faster than that if he wanted to approach a vixen.

Alma looked over her shoulder, winked, and let the greenery enfold her.

A moment later, Beth was in her ear. The gentleman interested in taming Nadine was here, but she wouldn’t be showing herself to him until Toni’s set started. He’d ordered the garlic naan bread. Could she bring it to him?

Following the narrow employee walkway, she wondered if more bread than needed had been made and if one of the gals could set some aside. Peter’s guilty pleasure was bread. All kinds. It took him a while to chew, and he should never eat it unsupervised, but he’d relish every mouthful.

No door separated the employee walkways and the entrance to the kitchen. Numerous exhaust fans churned tirelessly at the threshold, however, ensuring the garden did not have oregano and coriander mix with cashmere and sandalwood.

Alma slid through.

No culinary whites in the garden’s kitchen. Vic ordered custom dark green uniforms. Diligently, he swore no paying customer would ever see behind-the-scenes staff, but if they did, he wouldn’t let them see some grease-stained gopher. In the middle of the open floor plan and green clad bodies, Alma saw a categorical misnomer.

A man.

Not just a man, but a beast of a man, towering over the women. He must have been well over six feet and built to stop a train. Yet, wearing jeans and a hoodie, he stood hunched, hands wedged in his pockets. The head of the cooking staff pointed around, and he nodded in turn. It was like a chipmunk ordering a stallion.

One of the gals poked Alma in the ribs. Like you don’t see enough men? She shoved the warmed plate of naan at her. Hurry. I kneaded that dough myself. It’s not good cold.

Who is that?

He might be the new night porter if the other interviews go bad.

CHAPTER TWO

If she won the fight against the comfort of her bed before noon, Alma would then take the Metra to Wilmette and walked to Lunden Care. In between physical therapy, cognitive building sessions, social time, and what Lunden called fun, by lunchtime, Peter had a break. Group sessions were saved for the afternoon, allowing residents of the full-care facility to be together in the Meals room, and hear the daily news.

For Peter, they included the culinary section. It had taken more than one written and verbal request from Alma for that to happen. Her brother loved food. As restricted as his diet now was, he still loved to savor a paella or a chocolate croissant.

Alma was glad he couldn’t remember life before mononucleosis warped everything out of recognition. Back then, he cooked the food he loved. A whisk was an extension of his hand.

Peter’s hands barely worked now.

After resenting the way her orange mint toothpaste tasted, Alma yanked her backside into a pair of wide-legged, high-waisted jeans. Half-dressed and now committed to leaving the apartment, she washed her face. If the pants were on, there was no going back. Over her head, she pulled an oversized long-sleeve shirt and then stuffed her hair into a bucket hat.

Vic had conditions when his vixens were off the clock. They weren’t to be recognized. The wording in the contract might have stated he expected them to look homeless on their own time. This was in addition to not spending any of their free time near the garden. Gentlemen had been known to prowl around during daylight, hoping to spot one of the women in the concrete jungle, free of her restraints. In paragraph seventeen, it clearly stated Vic could not force any control over what his employees wore during their own time. However, he reserved the right to fire a vixen on the bare suspicion she had been recognized outside of the garden.

Nadine joked that she liked to think of it as the adult version of Disney World’s park princesses. No one truly knew what Cinderella looked like after she removed her glass slippers.

Alma needed the job too much to linger on being miffed when a cute purple blouse near the Mag Mile might get her in trouble. Plus, it was somewhat freeing to wear clothing nearly as comfortable as pajamas when a thong had been between your butt cheeks for six hours and you had an itch in your eye under layers of mascara and falsies.

She needed the job. Peter needed the care.

Glancing at the clock over the stove, Alma slipped her fanny pack across her chest, patted it once for the keys and phone, then hurried out the door. Trains don’t wait and a few of the staff members at Lunden