“How about the lounge?” I asked.
I offered her my arm and she took it. We went past the bar and restaurant, but when my eyes caught the stage, I stopped. A slender box laid in the center. With a loud crack, the box popped open. The music’s volume increased, and two feet reached over the side. Next the knees. Then the hips. The performer, still bent backward, her head presumably by her feet. When she shot up, she turned her head to the front, her eyes locking on me.
Iris. That woman from the other night.
“Come on, Roland,” the blond server said. “The lounge is over here.”
“You go along,” I said. I made my way towards the stage. “Order whatever you want. On me.”
The blond huffed under her breath, then disappeared. I sat in a seat in the back, looking up at the stage, watching as Iris bent and twisted her body in time to the eerie music. She balanced her entire weight on her hands as her legs bent in a loop, her feet by her shoulders. Then she unraveled in less than a second as if nothing strange had happened. Her hips and shoulders moved, turning in half, bending in ways they shouldn’t be able to. As if her spine could dislocate one disc at a time, until it looked like she might snap in half. Whenever her eyes met mine, she glared at me, as if daring me forward.
Iris, the contortionist. How had I missed that on her profile?
When the song ended, the audience cheered and she exited, taking a door labeled Greenhouse to the side of the floor. I went to the lounge, finding vodka in a bottle chiller, thanks to my blond friend, who had apparently found someone else to work her magic on. She sat on his lap, twirling a braid. Good for her. I wasn’t there to play; I was there to observe.
The Greenhouse doors burst open, and Iris emerged, now dressed in a black ensemble that wrapped in thick black bands around her small breasts, one around her waist, and one down over her slit. It looked as if a spider were gripping itself around her. Her eyes locked on mine, and she narrowed her gaze. I pulled at my shirt’s collar. Her glare put me on edge. Always ready, always willing to ask questions. She wasn’t trying to please anyone. Especially not me. I wasn’t used to it.
I lifted a shot towards her, and she declined the offer, so I tossed it back. I should have taken that sample of Molly before coming here.
“Take a seat,” I said, scooting to the side. She sighed, then slid in next to me, leaving space between us. I glanced down; the tattoos on her legs, a forest burned to the ground surrounding a deer’s carcass; next to it, a mouth swallowing an eye; her skin covered in lace designs; stitches etched into the skin; a three-headed faceless monster. Each piece of art blending into one another, each space filled with another black and mauve design, as if they were all part of the same chaotic universe in that brain of hers.
“You’re here early,” she muttered.
She didn’t have the voice to match the daunting gates she erected around herself mentally; her voice was smooth and rich, melting against me. It reminded me of an echo of light. I checked my watch.
“It’s—” I paused, “Eleven? The night’s just getting started.”
She scoffed, unimpressed. “I thought you weren’t coming until Monday?”
“Plans change.”
I had changed my mind because I couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the way she put me on edge. The cinnamon and cranberry scent on her skin lingered after she had left Vanish, but was potent in our current booth. Her hair was black now, like her picture. Her eyes black-rimmed and completely dark in the shadows of the club.
“What can I help you with?” I asked.
“I want to buy the Dahlia District from you,” she said. She pulled out her phone and clicked through the apps. “I’ve been saving for years to use this as a down payment.”
She showed me the screen: one hundred thousand and seventy-two dollars, twenty-three cents. Hardly enough to put a dent in what I had bought the property for.
“You were planning on buying it from Dahlia?” I asked.
“Eventually.” I stifled a smirk, and she continued, “You don’t need this club. It’s not in a good city. And besides, you’ve got enough going on with Vanish. Why add another location, when you’ve got an entire chain to worry about?”
“I’m always looking for the next opportunity,” I said. She pinched her lips together; she wasn’t convinced. “Cresting Heights may be a small town, but with a revamp to this location, it could be exactly what this area needs. And with its proximity to Sage City? Business will carry over, and vice versa.” I shrugged, glancing around. “It’ll take some work, but there’s a lot of potential here.”
“Exactly,” Iris said. She showed me her phone again. “Please. All I’m asking is for you to consider it. I want this club. I need it.” She shook her head as if thinking to herself. “But you don’t. You don’t need anything like I do.”
That may have been true, but the sad fact was that her money wasn’t enough.
“Sorry, doll,” I said.
She clenched her fists and groaned. “Tell me, what’s special about your clubs anyway?” she asked. “You think they’re high end when all they are is a place where stupid twenty-somethings take shitty drugs and buy overpriced drinks.”
“And I make a profit off of it.”
“Is that all that matters? Profit?”
That was a question I had asked myself many times since leaving California. Every day, with every relationship, there were times when you had to make the decision: my life, or my business? The truth was that everyone was the same. Business, or better yet, money was the only thing that mattered. Even when you thought you loved each other.
It was easier to accept that, once I made business my entire life.
“Why does this club matter to you?” I asked, putting a finger to my chin. “You seem too attached to a club that doubled as a sex-trafficking ring for years. Selling you for sex.”
“It’s not a sex-trafficking ring,” she said. “Sex for pay is illegal in—”
“Cut the bullshit.” I motioned to the side. “I know exactly what goes on here. Dahlia told me the deal. The Adlers too.” Her jaw dropped at their name, the local mob. Yeah, I wasn’t stupid. I had my connections before I even considered buying here. “The servers’ debts have been cleared. I don’t want anything to do with indentured servitude.” I rubbed my forehead, then leaned back on the seat. Her eyes were wider than before; I didn’t think that was even possible. “Everyone is an independent contractor now. Twenty-five percent from the private rooms to the house. The rest is yours to keep.”
“Twenty-five percent? Don’t you think that’s a little high?”