Chapter 2: The Bunny Suit Baptism
The pink neon sign buzzed like an angry insect, staining the damp sidewalk crimson. Velvet Mirage. The letters pulsed, bleeding light onto Sophie's white-knuckled hands. She clutched the folded resume – her shield, her last flimsy claim to legitimacy – so tightly the edges dug into her palm. Inside her cheap black skirt (the "tighter" thing Lana had suggested, bought with her last ten dollars at a thrift store), her stomach churned. She could still taste the waxy residue of Lana's frosted lipstick, a ghost of trespass and false promise.
Taking a shuddering breath that did nothing to calm her nerves, Sophie pushed open the heavy, unmarked door beside the glowing sign. Noise and darkness swallowed her. Thumping bass vibrated through the soles of her worn flats, a physical pressure against her chest. Strobe lights cut through the thick, sweet-scented haze – vanilla, sweat, something chemical and sharp. Laughter, too loud and sudden, erupted nearby. Figures moved in the gloom: flashes of glittering skin, tailored suits, the gleam of watch faces. Her innocent eyes, wide as saucers, struggled to process the kaleidoscope of sin.
"Help ya, sweetie?" A bored-looking woman with electric blue hair and a security earpiece materialized from the shadows near a velvet rope.
"I... I'm here to see Lola?" Sophie’s voice was a mouse-squeak against the thumping music. "Bartending? Lana sent me?"
The woman’s gaze, flat and assessing, raked over Sophie’s conservative blouse, the nervous clutch of her purse, the utterly misplaced resume. A flicker of something – pity? Amusement? – crossed her features. She jerked her thumb towards a dim corridor marked ‘STAFF ONLY’. "Dressing room. Down there. Knock first. Lola bites."
The corridor was narrow, the walls vibrating with the bass. The air thickened with the cloying scent of a dozen competing perfumes and hairsprays. Sophie stopped before a scratched black door. She raised a trembling hand, hesitated, then knocked. Twice. Sharp raps that sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
The door flew open, framing a whirlwind of crimson hair and electric impatience. Lola. Tall, radiating a terrifying energy even leaning against the doorframe. Her fiery hair was swept up in an elaborate cascade of curls, her face a masterpiece of sharp contouring and bold makeup. She wore a shimmering gold robe loosely tied, revealing a glimpse of something sequined and minimal beneath. Her eyes, a startlingly clear green beneath thick false lashes, locked onto Sophie with unnerving intensity.
"Can I help you, or are you delivering Girl Scout cookies?" Lola’s voice was pure smoked honey, low and edged with immediate challenge. It cut through the distant music.
Sophie flinched. "I-I’m Sophie. Lana sent me? About the bartending job?" She thrust the resume forward like a peace offering.
Lola’s gaze flicked down. A single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched into her hairline. She plucked the papers from Sophie’s grasp with two crimson-tipped fingers, not looking at them. A low, throaty chuckle escaped her.
"Oh, honey," Lola purred, the sound devoid of warmth. She let the resume flutter from her fingers to land face-down on the stained carpet. "That’s adorable. College girl brings her references." She took a step forward, forcing Sophie back half a step into the corridor. "We don’t do references here." Her green eyes swept Sophie from her sensible flats to her tightly pinned-back hair, a slow, predatory appraisal. "We do… potential."
Lola circled her. Sophie felt like prey pinned under a microscope. The sheer proximity was overwhelming – the heat radiating from Lola, the sharp scent of her perfume cutting through the backstage miasma, the unnerving scrutiny.
"Turn," Lola commanded, a snap in her voice.
Sophie obeyed mechanically, rotating slowly, her cheeks burning. Lola’s gaze felt like a physical touch, peeling away layers.
"Shoulders back," Lola ordered, tapping Sophie’s hunched spine with a sharp fingernail. Sophie jerked upright. "Mm. Not bad. Skinny, but the face is… salvageable. Big eyes. Innocent. Pays the bills." Lola stopped in front of her again, head tilted. "That lipstick’s tragic, by the way. Washes you out. Who did that? Lana?" She didn’t wait for an answer, her attention already snagging on Sophie’s blouse. "And this." Her lip curled in distaste. Her hand darted out, surprisingly strong fingers already working the top button of Sophie’s prim, high-necked polyester blouse. "First rule, college girl," Lola stated, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that sent shivers down Sophie’s spine. She popped the first button. "Bunnies don’t wear polyester."
Sophie froze, a choked sound escaping her. She instinctively tried to cover her chest, her hands fluttering uselessly. Lola batted them away with practiced ease.
"Relax. Not taking it all off. Yet." Lola popped the second button. A sliver of Sophie’s plain white bra was exposed. "Just… opening up the merchandise." A third button gave way. Lola’s gaze was purely clinical, assessing the revealed skin, the shape of Sophie’s collarbones. "Skinny," she repeated, almost to herself. "But fine. We can work with hungry." She finally stepped back, leaving Sophie exposed, trembling, three buttons undone revealing far more than Sophie had ever shown anyone outside a doctor's office. "Bartending schmartending. You got the look for the floor."
Sophie’s breath hitched. "The floor? But Lana said… she said bartending. She said nobody makes you—"
Lola cut her off with a sharp laugh, louder this time. "Oh, darling. Lana says a lot of things. Mostly to hear the sound of her own voice." She leaned in, her perfume cloying. "Here’s the reality: Bartending takes experience. Or tits out. You got experience?" Sophie shook her head mutely. "Didn’t think so. But you have the other thing. Sort of." Lola’s gaze dropped pointedly to Sophie’s chest. "The floor is quicker money. Way quicker. You carry drinks, you flirt, you look pretty. That’s it." A deliberate pause. Her green eyes locked onto Sophie's, pinning her like a butterfly. "Unless you want to make more."
The echo of Lana’s words, twisted here in this perfumed, vibrating hellhole, hit Sophie like a physical blow. The lie laid bare. The choice stark and ugly. The coffee tin labeled 'RENT' flashed in her mind. The angry pound of Mrs. Petrovski’s fist on her door. The rattling orange bottle of pills. The taste of failure.
Lola watched the internal struggle play out on Sophie’s face, a faint smile playing on her lips – not kind, not cruel, simply knowing. "So? You want the job? Or you wanna run back to stocking textbooks?"
Sophie opened her mouth. Nothing came out but a dry click. Her throat was parchment. She looked past Lola into the dressing room chaos. A kaleidoscope of half-dressed women: lacing boots, adjusting glittering pasties, spritzing clouds of hairspray. Laughter, sharp and bright. The scent of desperation barely masked by perfume. Her reflection in a cracked mirror showed a pale ghost with haunted eyes and a gaping blouse.
She looked down at her own shaking hands. Saw the chipped pink nail polish from a lifetime ago. Saw the desperate tremor. She forced her gaze back to Lola. Nodded. Once. A jerky, almost imperceptible movement.
Lola’s smile widened, satisfied. "Good girl." She turned and strode into the dressing room, snapping her fingers. Now. Shut the door. You’re letting the cheap air out."
Sophie stepped over the threshold, her sensible flats sinking into the plush, grimy carpet. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her into the cacophony and the cloud of hairspray. The reality of the Velvet Mirage pressed in, thick and suffocating.
The door clicked shut behind Sophie, sealing her into the vibrating, perfume-choked chaos. Lola snapped her fingers again, the sound sharp as a whip crack. "Over here, college girl. Daylight's burning." She pointed a crimson-tipped nail towards a battered vanity stool surrounded by overflowing makeup bags and discarded sequins. "Sit. Lose the librarian special." Her gaze raked dismissively over Sophie’s unbuttoned blouse.
Sophie moved numbly, her sensible flats catching on a stray feather boa. She perched on the edge of the stool, the vinyl cold and sticky against her thighs. The mirror reflected a dozen fragmented versions of herself, each looking more lost and pale than the last, surrounded by the practiced glamour of the other dancers adjusting straps or reapplying gloss with bored precision. Lola rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a bundle of black satin and stiff white lace. She tossed it onto Sophie’s lap. "Suit up. Size should be close enough. Don't rip it."
The fabric felt alien, slick and cool. Sophie stared at the costume – the plunging neckline, the tiny shorts, the stiff bunny ears attached to a headband. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the remaining buttons of her blouse, her skin prickling with exposure under the harsh fluorescent lights. She kept her eyes fixed on her own reflection, avoiding the curious or indifferent glances of the other women. Shrugging off her blouse felt like shedding skin. Her plain white bra seemed suddenly pathetic, a relic from Mill Creek. She hesitated, clutching the bunny suit to her chest.
"Chop chop, sweetheart," Lola drawled, already unscrewing a bottle of potent-smelling cleanser. "We ain't got all night. Those rent pennies won't magically multiply." The mention of the empty coffee tin jolted Sophie. She took a shallow breath, dropped her bra straps, and wriggled into the tight satin shorts. They clung high on her hips, exposing a strip of pale stomach. The corset-like top was next, a confusing tangle of hooks and eyes. She struggled, her fingers clumsy.
Lola sighed dramatically, turning from the makeup she was arranging. "Hopeless." Her hands, efficient and impersonal, batted Sophie’s fumbling fingers away. She yanked the top tight, her knuckles pressing into Sophie’s spine as she fastened the hooks with swift, practiced movements. Sophie gasped at the sudden constriction, the lift and push the fabric enforced on her small breasts. The neckline plunged alarmingly low. "There," Lola stated, stepping back. "See? Potential." She didn't sound convinced. "Now, the face."
Sophie flinched as Lola grabbed her chin, tilting her head towards the blinding vanity lights. A cold, wet pad scrubbed roughly at her cheeks, erasing Lana’s cheap pink lipstick and the faint traces of yesterday’s mascara. The scent of alcohol stung her nostrils. "Gotta start fresh," Lola muttered, her green eyes critically scanning Sophie’s features. "Big eyes… good. We’ll play those up. Innocent doe is bankable." Foundation, thick and pale, was smoothed over her skin, masking her freckles and the exhaustion shadows. "Hold still." A thick black pencil traced her lash line, the pressure startling. Sophie blinked rapidly, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
"Stop blinking," Lola commanded, dabbing at a stray smudge. She loaded a brush with shimmering pink eyeshadow. "Look up." Sophie obeyed, staring at the stained ceiling tiles as the brush swept color onto her lids. It felt gritty, unnatural. More pink followed – a heavy dusting of blush high on her cheekbones, then the lips. Lola used a liner far darker than Sophie’s natural lip color, exaggerating their shape before filling them in with a frosted pink gloss that felt sticky and heavy. "Pink," Lola declared, capping the gloss. "Sweet. Feminine. Approachable. Dumb." She smirked at her own assessment.
Finally, Lola grabbed a can of industrial-strength hairspray. Sophie’s practical ponytail was ruthlessly undone, her chestnut hair tumbling down. Lola gathered it roughly, twisting and pinning it into a high, tight ponytail that pulled at Sophie’s scalp. The stiff white bunny ears headband was jammed on top. "Perfect," Lola said, her voice flat. She sprayed a choking cloud around Sophie’s head, the aerosol fumes thick in the air. Sophie coughed, her eyes watering.
"Stand." Lola nudged her off the stool. Sophie wobbled, the unfamiliar height of the cheap black stilettos Lola thrust at her earlier making her ankles feel weak. She caught her reflection full-length in a cracked mirror. The girl staring back was a grotesque parody. Pink and shiny, hair scraped back painfully tight under ridiculous ears, body squeezed and pushed into revealing black satin. The makeup was a mask, garish under the lights, turning her wide, frightened eyes into something cartoonish and vacant. The innocence was buried under layers of paint and gloss. She looked cheap. She looked exactly like what Velvet Mirage sold.
Lola appeared behind her reflection, a tall, fiery-haired spectre of this new world. She placed her hands on Sophie’s stiff shoulders, her expression unreadable in the mirror. "There she is," Lola murmured, her voice low. "Our new little bunny." She gave Sophie’s shoulders a slight, almost imperceptible squeeze – it could have been reassurance, or possession. "Remember, college girl: Smile. Flirt. Carry the drinks. Look pretty." Her green eyes met Sophie’s reflected gaze, holding it. "And keep those big eyes wide open. The floor bites harder than I do." She released her, turning towards the door leading to the thumping bass. "Showtime’s in ten. Try not to trip." The door swung shut behind Lola, leaving Sophie alone with the terrifying pink-and-black stranger in the mirror, the frantic drumming of her heart the only sound she recognized.