Chapter 2
Roxy
I’ve done my share of reckless things in my life.
I don’t shy away from challenges.
I get things done. Preferably without throwing up in public.
But acting out of desperation? Desperation is a flavor I swore I’d never taste again.
Only my family gets me to the point of… bending myself into shapes I don’t respect.
And somehow, tonight feels like slipping into old habits I vowed to slay.
Nothing screams empowerment like dry-heaving your way through a sex-club mission.
When I broke free, I vowed never to do things I don’t want to do. Yet here I am. The end justifying the means and all that.
I’m ready to jump out of my skin, and I’ve worked hard to feel comfortable. To be myself. Be unapologetically authentic. I constructed that identity carefully when I left home.
I grew up believing I needed to fold to be accepted. I shed that baggage as soon as I left my father’s mansion.
But I guess it was good training for real life. Because things got real, and I have a chance to carve out something of my own. Without the overbearing shadow of my family.
Right now, the only shadow I’m willing to stand under is the one I cast myself.
If I play my cards right, I will get my sister out of there as well. I already escaped. Tee deserves the same.
And that possibility—the chance for Tee to have a normal life—is a powerful motivator.
Something I promised her, but mostly myself, that I would not fail at.
So here I am, squirming inwardly while ordering my third vodka soda. Liquid courage for president! Hopefully, my campaign slogan is “Don’t throw up.”
“Your drink.” A supermodel-looking bartender smiles at me. “Your first time here?” She assesses me correctly.
She looks like she walked off a runway and straight into a den of sin. I’m out of my depth, and she knows it.
“What gave it away?” I clasp the glass.
Coming to the Velvet Room was a desperate move. My dress is horrendous and uncomfortable. How should a girl know what to wear to a sex club? What even is a sex club?
In my case, what even is sex anymore? I glance at the performance on the stage and rub my thighs together. It’s like watching porn with some artistic value. I’m mesmerized and aroused, which is as bad as this stupid dress.
Of course my libido picks tonight to resurrect itself. Useless, traitorous impulse.
How long has my dry spell lasted? Long. Definitely since I joined Merged two years ago. Not that I got much action when my brothers controlled my whereabouts before.
Proving myself day and night in a world ruled by men doesn’t leave much desire to enjoy said gender after hours.
And while working for Corm, Cal, and Declan, the Merged partners, I barely fit sleep into my after-work hours.
But to be honest, the demands come more from me than them. The need to be equal runs deep.
Growing up with an emotionally unavailable patriarch and three brothers would do that to you.
I’m twenty-seven and confident in my abilities. While I’m not seeking approval anymore, being equal is still important.
And finally, in my professional life, I’m closing the gap. Not all the way yet, but getting my foot in the door.
Even if that means a visit to a sex club. Hopefully my first and last one, because my commitment to gender fairness doesn’t run this far.
But equality apparently comes with stilettos, sequins, and me pretending I know how to breathe in a place like this.
“You fidget, and this is your fourth drink in twenty minutes. I figured you’re either severely dehydrated or slightly uncomfortable.”
So, not the third drink? Fantastic. Let’s hope it’s the last one before this turns into a night I’d rather forget.
She gives me a warm smile, and it might be the vodka talking, but I feel a connection with her.
“Slightly uncomfortable is a very mild way to put it, but thank you for that kindness.”
I wasn’t sure what I would find here. Besides Norbert Pascal. My boss wants the jeweler to design a piece for his wife, Saar.
I’m not here because I like Saar. Though I do like her.
I’m not here because I run Cormac Quinn’s errands. I never do. He would think twice before asking me.
I’m here because I need to kiss his ass. Not proud of it. If business maneuvering came with airline miles, I’d make Platinum tonight.
But if I had known how uncomfortable this would be, I might have revisited my motivation for coming here.
Argh, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t. Pushing my comfort zone is important.
Hence the stupid dress.
The ridiculous heels that almost killed me.
And the mask? I wasn’t prepared for that, but at least the club provides them. Okay, anonymity is welcome, but I keep grimacing. Who knew silk could feel so irritating?
I take another generous gulp of my drink as I scan the room. I should pace myself. The last thing I need is to find Pascal and slur. The thought makes me giggle.
Okay, I guess the first three drinks are already taking their toll.
The place isn’t as seedy as I expected. It’s like someone remodeled a large living room. I would go so far as to say that its secluded areas and dimly lit sofas create an intimate, luxuriously seductive environment.
Unexpected shivers run down my spine, and I clench my thighs, the throb between them distracting me. Goddammit.
I expected all sorts of challenges tonight, but my libido being tested? My sex drive really couldn’t have picked a better moment.
People are making out everywhere in the background of the moans on the stage, and my body reacts as if I were here to have fun.
I try to ignore the distracting displays of pleasure and search for Pascal.
A staircase leads to the upper level.
I down my vodka soda and order another one, perching my ass on the bar stool. A good vantage point for my frantic observations.
Fuck the comfort zone. This is torture. And what was I thinking? That I would seduce the sixty-year-old jeweler?
Sure, Roxy. Because nothing says “professional advancement” like seducing Santa’s kinky older cousin.
Norbert Pascal is an enigma. He doesn’t take calls. There is no known method of contacting him.
I pride myself on finding facts and information that are not easily accessible. Still, after months of sleuthing, the only thing I found out was that he comes to this place.
I hope he’s here tonight. Tomorrow, I have a long-awaited meeting with Corm.
I joined Merged as the girl for everything, right when they started. Before we staffed and opened the office in downtown Manhattan, Corm already recognized my added value and promoted me to office manager.
Merged has three partners at the moment, and all of them respect me. They all supported me when I decided to get an MBA—something my father doesn’t know about, to prevent his heart attack. His belief in female education extends to the kitchen and childbearing.
I worked extra hard and finished the program in half the time. And now I’m being considered for a partnership.
I’m certain they would give me a small share. But a small share is not what I’m after. I want to be considered for the twenty percent that is currently at play.
I don’t want a consolation prize. I want a legitimate seat at the table. Not as a note-taker. As a decision-maker.
I might lack experience, but I make up for it with my drive, and the partners know me and have relied on me in many situations. Our clients respect me as well.
I deserve the seat.
I know, however, that they might be talking to other people. Probably men. I don’t yet have confirmation.
It’s strange not to be privy to a crucial deliberation at Merged. I’m the person who knows everything. Sometimes, I even anticipate it before it happens.
But not being a part of the conversation means I’m being discussed, and that’s a good sign. Still, I’m taking my potential competition seriously, tapping into my insider knowledge.
Getting Corm in touch with Pascal would definitely make him indebted to me. Or I would blackmail him with that information.
He is obsessed with the idea of Pascal designing Saar’s birthday present. I’m not above taking advantage of that.
The only problem? I might have gotten this close, but I’m still not sure if I can get what I came for.
I grab the neckline of my strapless dress and pull it up to stop my cleavage from spilling out.
The bartender wipes the counter around me. “That’s another giveaway. People here usually can’t wait to take their clothes off, and you struggle to cover yourself up.”
My shoulders sag. “Okay, I came here to find someone.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” She winks.
I snort. “Not in that sense. I need to talk to someone who frequents this place.”
She frowns, assessing me. “Anonymity is extremely valued here.”
“I didn’t know about the masks.”
“Yet, you knew someone comes here often. Are you planning a jealousy scene?”
She hasn’t changed her warm demeanor, but she purses her lips, observing me with suspicion now.
I laugh. “It’s strictly business.”
She studies me for a moment before a corner of her lips curves up. “How do you plan to find him? Or is it her?”
“I got this far, but I don’t really know, to be honest.”
She chews on her lip, and then looks over her shoulder where her colleague is in conversation with another customer. “Maybe I can help you.” She lowers her voice.
For the first time since I arrived, my shoulders relax. I reach into my clutch and slide my hand over the polished wood, a fifty under my palm. “I hope this lifts some of the anonymity veil. I promise I’ll be extremely discreet.”
The bill disappears from the counter into her pocket so fast, I would have missed it if I weren’t the one bribing her.
“Name.”
I lean forward, the short dress forgotten. “Norbert Pascal.”
She gets closer, wiping the bar, and without taking her eyes from the task at hand, she delivers. “The wiry, tall guy in a silk robe over his dress shirt. You’re lucky he didn’t go upstairs yet. Good luck.”
“What is upstairs?”
“Playrooms, and some private bedrooms.” She leaves me to my drink with this valuable intel.
I take another gulp. I shouldn’t, but even after three or four drinks I’m still on the edge. I swivel on my stool and scan the room with renewed determination, closer to my goal.
I find the man described as Pascal quickly. Of course he’s draped in silk and temptation. Meanwhile, I’m draped in anxiety and questionable choices.
I swear under my breath. Yes, I found the man, but what now? Getting closer to the goal doesn’t mean things get easier.
“I don’t think he plays for your team.” A deep baritone wraps around my skin, sliding down my spine like warm honey.
I snap my head, and my gaze collides with grayish pupils that feel somewhat familiar, but I don’t think about it because I’m annoyed by the interruption.
“I’m not looking for company.” I turn away.
“Obviously.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I take another generous sip. Ill-advised, but let’s hope I can hold my liquor. I need to get rid of this asshole.
“You’ve been staring at a man who is enjoying his present company.” The smirk in his voice grates on my nerves. “A waste of time, I reckon.”
“Something you’re familiar with since you’re wasting yours. And I wasn’t looking for a narrator to my night here, thank you very much.”
But unfortunately, he’s right. The art of female seduction might not work in this case. Norbert Pascal is getting very personal with two men who look—even masked—significantly younger than him.
I’m not judging, I’m just not sure how I would interrupt him. I groan when the three of them stand up and move toward the staircase.
I briefly consider running after them, but spoiling their evening wouldn’t get me anything from the jeweler.
The three men ascend the stairs leisurely, while I wonder how long I would need to wait for them.
Or how much alcohol I can still consume while remaining reasonably coherent to succeed in my mission.
“I guess you need a new target,” the stranger muses.
“Oh, you’re still here?”
I give him my best bored expression, even though he can’t see its perfection. If this mask wasn’t on, he’d enjoy the full force of my “go away” face.
He chuckles. Like my effort to put him off is entertaining.
“And so are you,” he drawls. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“I have a drink.”
“Well, then, cheers.” He raises his clear cocktail.
Something about not drinking whiskey like all the men in my life makes him… I don’t know. Not a man in my life, which is refreshing.
I lift my glass and clink with his. “Cheers.”
“What’s your poison, Foxy?”
His question catches me halfway through my swallow, and I almost spill my drink. “I never gave you my name, Romeo.”
He snorts. “It was just a lucky guess.”
Our eyes meet, and I shiver. Annoying.
I don’t recognize his voice or mannerisms, but I know those eyes.
Like really know them, but it escapes me from where. Stupid mask. Or thank God for the mask.
Does he know me? I wear dreadlocks mostly to piss off my father, but it only occurs to me now that my hairstyle might negate the mask, especially if someone met me before.
“What are you drinking?”
The gravel in his voice is definitely unfamiliar. And quiet-sexy. What? He said two sentences, and I find him sexy? My standards must be drunk too.
Jesus, this place is messing with me. They must infuse the air with a potent aphrodisiac.
“Vodka soda.” I take another sip.
He nods and waves to the server.
“I didn’t say I want another one,” I object, even though… one more wouldn’t hurt.
“But you do.” He leans. “I read your mind, Foxy,” he whispers. His breath is warm, gin, and something darker. Expensive trouble.
His scent makes my head spin. I’m speechless for a beat, and that is definitely a first for me.
An involuntary shiver rakes through my body. Aphrodisiac in the air for sure.
“Back off, Romeo. Or that drink will end up in your lap.”
He smirks. “How romantic.”
I roll my eyes. “If I were after romance, I wouldn’t be in a sex club.”
I swivel on my chair, my knees grazing his legs. The fabric of his suit is soft, caressing. The contact sends electricity up my spine.
Or down my spine into my core. The reaction sobers me up, and I pull away like he burned me.
I should walk away.
I don’t.
He interprets my knee-jerk reaction in his own way and smirks. “So it’s sex you’re after?”