“There isn’t one sooner? Tonight, at least?”
He shakes his head apologetically. “I’m afraid not. Though, if you’re looking to kill time, I’ve been informed that you are still authorized to use the town car should you require it.”
“Alright, I’ll take the earliest flight. Thanks anyway.” Frowning, I accept the booking information he gives me and then return to the room, feeling more trapped than free.
But then I spot it. It being a platinum, no-limit, fancy smanshy credit card that Vadim gave me for my dress. I could have sworn I’d returned it to him. Even thinking about using it now would be both illegal and reckless. Not to mention petty as hell.
Minutes later, I’m in the town car, directing William to the shopping district I’d scoped out yesterday. I find my favorite designer—whose clothing I couldn’t afford guilt-free, even while on my parent’s tap—and I march in, guns blazing.
I buy the sexiest dress I’ve ever seen in my entire life and shoes to match. And the purse. And the complementary faux fur stole and diamond-studded belt.
It’s the outfit heist of the century, and I’m fully resigned to have the card declined as the salesgirl goes to ring me up. It’s the thought that counts—one last screw you to the bastard who hurt me way more than I’d like to admit. Not just the whole “I used you to embarrass my brother and his family because I am a dick” thing. Maybe my irritation has less to do with that and more to do with…
The whole “I don’t want to fuck you, or get sucked off by you, and by the way, you’re not even my type” thing.
Hurt pride is a vengeful, nasty animal—one best soothed with lots of retail therapy.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt as the saleswoman returns, brandishing the card. “My husband probably cut me off. It’s for the best—”
“Having cold feet?” she wonders, glancing at my spoils of war. “It went through, but if you like, I can cancel the charges?”
“No!” I lurch to my feet, my thirst for vengeance suddenly renewed. “I’ll take them all, please. And let’s throw in one or two of those brooches to match. And I’d love to see your jewelry collection. And how about some more shoes?”
William drives me to the address listed on Vadim’s little sex club calling card, and my cheeks burn the entire trip. My heart skips too, partly terrified, partly excited.
I don’t know what to expect when the car finally comes to a stop before this mysterious Club XXX.
A place that looks like the gate to a sleek, exclusive corner of hell, isn’t it. My mouth falls open as I take in the remote building formed of bold, eye-catching lines. It’s a gothic mixture of the macabre and the modern. Turrets stab at the indigo sky, creating a striking silhouette against a forested backdrop. The entrance itself consists of stone columns framing a black door, trimmed in glittering gold. A stone path leads to it before forking into a massive circular driveway like some beckoning gesture.
Any doubt I felt dissolves as my lips part into a massive grin. Color me impressed.
I approach the door warily, discovering no doorman or bouncer waiting to deny entry. It’s as if the act of palming the handle itself is the only method required—a dare all on its own. Are you even brave enough?
I hold my breath as I push my way inside, entering a world of black marble and gray walls ripped right from my most deranged fantasies. Granite floors accent the circular foyer, making every footstep echo times a thousand. There is no sign, it seems, proclaiming “sex rooms this way.” Just three silver Xs adorning the space above a curving archway across from the entrance serving as the only advertisement. Two other arches frame it, each leading off into different directions.
Pulsating music emanating from the leftmost one serves to cast a mysterious aura, and all I can do is see where it takes me.
I follow a wide hall to another archway and discover my first clue that the place isn’t entirely deserted. A man stands beside it, dressed in a black shirt and slacks. Authority radiates from his stern gaze and, without thinking, I hand him the business card.
“Vadim sent me?” Why I make it a question, I have no idea.
He looks it over and then nods, presumably giving me permission to enter.
Here goes nothing…
I take a few steps forward and nearly faint. What at first looks like a typical—though decadent—lounge turns out to be so much more on second glance. A long ebony-topped bar dominates one end, and an L-shaped stage divides the room in half on the other. Crowning the space is a row of floor-to-ceiling windows providing a view of the darkness beyond.
And it is better than I could have hoped.
Décor consisting of black leather with bright drops of blood-red accents crafts such a sexy allure I almost squeal. The icing on the cake, however, is the clientele milling about the massive room. Everyone here makes my red party dress from last night look like a nun’s frock in comparison. Beautiful women wear strips of leather and silk masquerading as dresses while men shamelessly parade in a mixture of suits or less.
I instantly feel oddly…at home. When an elegantly clad server comes to take my jacket, I relinquish it eagerly. And with renewed determination, I delve into my newly found freedom.
Chapter Eight
I know firsthand that the absolute worst thing you can do to someone is pretend that they no longer exist. Not in the petty, childish way you might ostracize them on the playground. No. This level of indifference requires skill and tact. You acknowledge the person, of course. You simper and utter all the right niceties as if they were anyone else—that’s the key to it. As if they were anyone else. Someone meaningless without a string of memories attached to them.
Someone whose name didn’t require remembering.
Someone worthless. Thus, such is the ultimate blow I swore I would never ever inflict upon someone no matter how much I hated them.
Until now. Hate has nothing to do with it, just pride. So the icy cool businessman came to see how I would play in his world? Well, I can thrive, regardless of his presence.
Let him watch and learn.
He arrives just when I start to let my guard down enough to take a stool at the bar. Acclimating to a debauched club is a surprisingly gradual experience. One can’t merely jump in and star in a six-person gang bang right out of the gate. Fitting in requires confidence and finesse—like the time when I felt old enough to enter the sauna at my parent’s country club. I couldn’t let my unease show on my face or Barb—a bitchy socialite who liked to gossip in said sauna—would have sent me out on my butt the second I entered.
No. I had to play the game and meld seamlessly into the background. Which I’ve been doing here, until now. It’s not like I’m waiting for him to show up—but the entire room notices when he does.
Dressed in a black suit tailored close to his frame, the bastard arrives with an aura comparable to a king making an entrance with a full retinue. Though alone, he oozes…ownership. Like he’s too good to step foot in this club, let alone fuck anyone in it. He’s merely here to observe, for his own entertainment.
And it seems I may be his main attraction. Is his aim to gloat? His eyes dart in my direction, and I turn away, keeping my smile intact. Inside, I’m seething, and when the bartender appears before me, I order my Achilles heel.