25. Two Days Until Bonding
Chapter twenty-five
Two Days Until Bonding
Laurel
Crowds line the sidewalk outside both clubs.
The men wear everything from slacks and open-collared shirts to full suits.
The women are another story. Skimpy dresses expose more skin than they cover.
Corsets and jewel-studded bras are paired with tiny skirts, sheer stockings, or thongs.
Some wear nothing but lingerie under open coats.
I’ve seen enough television and movies to know how strippers dress, but many of these women are customers. They’ve arrived dressed like part of the entertainment, until I can’t tell who came to watch and who came to be watched.
Maybe that’s the real competition between Sinners and Saints. Not which club puts on the better show, but which one can convince more people to step inside and become part of it.
The limousine pulls to the curb outside Sinners, and we spill onto the sidewalk. A truck with peeling paint drives by and my head turns to watch it. It has a bright yellow bumper sticker but passes by too quickly for me to see the detail. I keep staring as the taillights fade.
Abbie stumbles into me, to make room for the last limo to let out its passengers. Everyone keeps talking and jostling until Carrson moves toward the entrance. Then the group falls in behind him without being told.
Two burly men in black suits guard the enormous front doors. They hold back the crowd waiting behind a velvet rope and incline their heads as Carrson approaches.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Ashford.”
Again.
The word burns more than I anticipated.
In my rush to follow him here, I forgot this place already knows Carrson. The Sisters said he used to come with the other Brothers often, that he would take two or three women at a time. That all ended before we met. I know that’s true. I trust every promise he made me upstairs.
Trust doesn’t stop me from imagining how many women inside these walls have seen him undressed. How many remember the sound he makes when he loses control and pleasure takes over.
Carrson passes through the doors, and the shadows inside swallow him. Right before he disappears, my hand lifts toward the back of his shirt, wanting to catch the fabric and drag him out of a place that remembers having him before I did.
I don’t.
I don’t touch him or call his name. He’s too angry with me, so for now, I let him go.
We breeze through the entrance without paying the cover charge, which I suppose is one of the less-sinister benefits of belonging to a secret society.
Before we reach the main room, a woman steps into our path.
She’s older than the rest of us, perhaps in her forties or fifties, and beautiful in a way that makes youth seem like it’s just a stepping stone for something greater.
Her dark hair is swept into a severe bun without a single strand out of place.
Silver satin drapes over her body and swishes around her ankles when she moves, elegant enough for a ballroom but sensual enough to belong here.
Her eyes are silver too.
Not gray. Silver. So bright they catch the dim light and return it, like a cat. Contact lenses, they must be, unless Sinners employs supernatural creatures along with strippers.
She looks us over. The slight downturn of her mouth makes me feel as though we’ve arrived at an exclusive dinner wearing bathing suits.
“Ladies.”
She doesn’t speak loudly, but every conversation stops. Even Samantha closes her mouth.
“You’re not dressed appropriately for this venue.” She points to a door at the side of the entryway. “Fortunately, I have plenty of clothing to share with you.”
Then she looks toward the men.
“Gentlemen, please proceed inside.”
They begin moving without argument.
Her silver eyes pause on Carrson, and she gives him a subtle nod. His stride slows by half a step, then continues.
It lasts less than a second, but every insecure thought in my head immediately starts yelling. Does she know him? Have they been together? Does he like older women?
Carrson continues into the club without a backward glance.
Asshole.
“The rest of you,” the woman says, turning away, “follow me.”
She leads us down a narrow hallway. I hang back in the crowd, but I listen as she tells Abbie her name is Ms. Noisette and that she runs Sinners on behalf of Mr. Beaumont.
I grimace at the sound of Jackson’s last name.
“I wonder why we didn’t go to Saints,” I say to Cicley. “Since Carrson is with us, wouldn’t it make more sense to go there?”
“Brentson says the Brothers hardly ever go to Saints, though it’s really nice. Everything that happens there gets reported back to Carr.” She lowers her voice. “Back when Carrson was more, um...active, he didn’t want his father hearing the details.”
Great. My imagination, always eager to betray me, begins supplying those excruciating details.
Ms. Noisette delivers us to a room full of clothing with stations for makeup and hair. She explains this is where staff get ready, but we’re welcome to borrow anything we like. Then she takes her leave.
With Sam’s help, I choose a black-and-red corset. The deep V plunges almost to my navel, leaving the brand exposed. As Sam tightens the laces, the corset draws the skin around the cross taut. Heat spreads through the injured flesh, and I grip the edge of the counter until she finishes.
I reach for the make-up on the table, intending to cover my brand, but let my hand fall.
As much as I hate hurting Carrson, I won’t hide a decision I believe was necessary just because he’d have chosen differently.
To finish my outfit, I add a short satin skirt, sheer stockings, and tie my hair back with a red ribbon.
Sam plants herself beside me in front of the mirror. Her corset is similar to mine but red.
“Can we take a minute to appreciate how hot we look?” She cups her breasts from underneath and gives them an extra lift. “Do you see my tits? I could put someone’s eye out with these things.”
I laugh, but her words stay with me as I look at our reflections.
A year ago, after senior prom, I would’ve been embarrassed to wear this much skin in public.
I would’ve blushed, crossed my arms, and searched for anything I could use to cover myself.
Somewhere between surviving The Order and seeing myself through Carrson’s eyes, some of that shame lost its hold on me.
I’m not in control of much here. In two days, strangers will gather to watch The Order claim the most private part of me as tradition. But tonight, in this room, no one chose this outfit for me. I did, and I’m proud of how I look. It isn’t freedom, not really, but at least the choice belongs to me.
The men turn when we walk back out. Wesleyson gives a low whistle.
“Hello, ladies.” Their stares move over us, heated, all except Carrson, who takes one look at me and glowers.
Then his eyes find the mark above my heart, and his chest goes still, hurt breaking through before his expression shuts again.
Beside him, Tipson drags his eyes from my face to my legs and back again. “Damn,” he says under his breath.
Carrson notices.
“Tipson,” he barks, “put your eyeballs back in your fucking head.”
Tipson jerks like he’s been shot and drops his eyes to the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Can’t help it. She’s pretty.”
Carrson glares at him, then at me, as though I personally arranged the entire evening to test how many Brothers he could maim before sunrise. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking deeply offended by an outfit he can’t stop staring at.
I leave him to brood and look past the men.
The main room opens around us, enormous and theatrical. Three elevated stages rise from the center, the largest directly ahead and two smaller ones flanking it. Each has a chrome pole extending toward a ceiling lost in red light and drifting smoke.
Women move around them in sequins, feathers, and scraps of jeweled fabric. One hangs upside down from a pole. Another lowers herself toward a man seated at the edge of the stage.
Red velvet booths curve around the room in descending tiers. Gold railings gleam under chandeliers made of dark crystal, and servers weave between crowded tables carrying champagne, liquor, and trays arranged with pills and thin lines of powder.
Among the white and pale pink powders, one line is black as obsidian.
Devil’s Dust.
A server pauses beside a booth and offers the tray as casually as if it holds appetizers.
My stomach contracts at the sight of it laid out so openly. A devil’s drug in the devil’s club. Apparently, the Beaumonts take their branding very seriously.
Servers arrive with metal buckets packed with ice and bottles of champagne and liquor. Drinks are poured, and the conversation remains lively. The Brothers spend more time talking to one another than watching the half-naked women.
Maybe the women aren’t the entire reason they come here. Sinners seems to be as much a private club as a brothel, a place where Order men can drink, negotiate, and misbehave without consequence.
All around us, women murmur in men’s ears, and one by one, deals are struck and couples slip toward the doors.
Thomson has joined Carrson and me. He and Carrson speak in voices too low for me to hear, their expressions serious. When their conversation ends, Thomson leans back, bringing his shoulder closer to mine.
“Where are they going, the men and women?” I ask him.
Color rises into his cheeks. “There are rooms on this floor for private dances. Lap dances. Or they may be going down to the lower levels.”
“What’s down there?”
“Bedrooms. Each one has its own theme.” His blush deepens as he concentrates very hard on the drink in his hand. “For them to, um...you know.”
“Have sex?”
Thomson closes his eyes. “Yes, Laurel. To have sex.”
Intrigued, I lean closer. “What kind of themes? Like pirate? Medieval?”
Thomson shoots to his feet so fast his knee clips the table. “Maybe you should ask Carrson.” Then he hurries away.
I’m halfway through a plate of truffle fries when the music changes.
The lights over the center stage dim to a deep amber, leaving the crowd in shadow.
A man steps through the curtain wearing nothing but a narrow triangle of black fabric tied low around his hips.
He’s tall and broad, with a body shaped by hours of lifting himself above the floor.
Golden-blond hair falls across his forehead.
Oil gleams over the ridges of his stomach.
Sam stops with her drink halfway to her mouth.
“Well,” she murmurs. “Dinner and dessert.”
“There are male dancers?” asks Abbie.
“Just because we can only bond women,” answers Wesleyson, “doesn’t mean that’s our preference.”
The dancer wraps one hand around the pole and walks a slow circle. He shifts his hips, rolls one shoulder. His free hand passes over his chest and down his stomach, stopping at the scrap of fabric as the music sinks into a heavy rhythm.
Sam makes a strangled noise beside me.
“You okay?” I ask.
“No. Don’t distract me.”
The dancer hooks one leg around the pole and turns upside down. The tiny piece of fabric remains in place through some miracle of engineering.
“He’s very talented,” I say.
“He’s a national treasure.”
He lowers himself until his back touches the stage, then rises by rolling through his body one section at a time.
Sam leans closer to me. “Do you think they let us take them home?”
A low sound comes from Carrson’s side of the booth.
I glance over. He’s watching me rather than the dancer, his arms still crossed and his expression increasingly hostile.
“I think some of us are already having trouble with the club’s sharing policies,” I tell her.
Sam follows my gaze to Carrson and grins. “Good. Maybe watching Blondie will improve his attitude.”
Carrson’s eyes narrow.
When the song ends, the man steps down from the stage. The crowd reaches for him, but he walks straight to Sam. He bends to murmur in her ear.
Her eyebrows rise. The dancer offers his hand, and Sam takes it.
“Don’t wait up,” she says, letting him lead her toward one of the doors at the side of the room.
I watch them disappear.
Across from me, Thomson stares at the seat Sam left vacant. His fingers close around his glass until the tendons stand out along the back of his hand.
Then he places it on the table and raises two fingers toward a woman passing nearby. She wears a black lace bodysuit and stockings fastened with crimson ribbons. The instant she notices him, her professional smile warms with recognition.
Thomson leans close when she reaches the table and says something I can’t hear. She takes his hand, and he rises without a trace of the embarrassment that colored his face when I asked about the bedrooms.
They leave together.
Interesting.
Maybe Thomson is only shy when discussing sex with me. What he does in private appears to be a completely different matter. I raise an eyebrow. Perhaps the reserved, future doctor has a darker side I don’t know about.
I turn to ask Carrson whether he saw that, but his attention has shifted to the bar. He catches the bartender’s eye, then inclines his head toward Tipson.
Tipson has grown steadily drunker as the night progresses. Now he lists against the side of the booth, sloshing his drink whenever he gestures and blurring one word into the next.
Carrson draws a finger across his throat.
Cut him off.
The bartender nods and comes to clear away the bottles of alcohol before Tipson can fill his cup again.
Carrson’s been doing that all evening. Watching, taking care of everyone. Managing every outcome. Making all the important decisions.
The Brothers waited for him to agree that the Sisters could come.
They followed him into the club without being told.
He stopped Tipson from touching me, ended the confrontation before it became a fight, and has kept track of how much everyone is drinking while the rest of them laugh, flirt, and disappear into private rooms.
Even his conversation with Thomson sounded like work.
He isn’t one of the children enjoying themselves. He’s the parent watching them play.
Everyone calls it power because Carrson gives the orders, but most of what he controls is in service to someone else.
Very little of his life belongs to him.
A woman approaches Carrson. She’s curvy, with long red hair and lipstick to match. He’s already raising a hand to dismiss her when an idea takes shape in my mind.
“Yes,” I tell her, moving over next to Carrson. “We’ll go with you.”