Chapter 8
Eight
VIOLET
I’m fucking tired, and I’ve decided that I won’t go to the fight tonight. I need a night off, even though it makes me feel so damn guilty. I shouldn’t take even one waking moment away from finding Rosie.
She might not even still be in this city.
Shaking my head, I flick that thought away because I have to believe that she’s here and I’ll find her.
If I’m not looking for my sister, I should go to bed and catch up on precious sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I think of Mateo.
Of his ridiculously hot body. He’s so damn big, everywhere, and he smiles at me like he thinks I hung the moon, which is so weird because I drugged him and he knows it.
It’s like he doesn’t even care.
And I’m over here feeling guilty for doing it, even though I don’t regret it because I’ll do whatever I have to do to find Rosie.
He’s been nothing but good to me.
And because of that, I don’t want to think that he could be horrible enough to traffic women. I don’t feel threatened when I’m with him, and he pretty much worshipped every inch of my body that night.
Man, those were good times.
With a sigh, I pick up my phone and search his name again. The same things that I found before are there, but when I page down a bit, I see that he’s the owner of a place called Rapture.
Scowling, I open a new window and search for that business, and I feel my eyebrows climb in surprise when it says that Rapture is a high-end adult club.
There’s not much information on the website. It’s a black page with gold writing, and lists a phone number for inquiries along with the physical address.
Mateo owns a sex club.
No wonder he’s so damn good in bed. Should I feel intimidated?
I ponder that, tapping my lips as I stare at my living room wall. The wall where I hang all the information I know so I can see it while I try to figure out where my sister is.
Could Rose be at Rapture?
If she was taken by a trafficking group, could they force her to work at Rapture like a sex worker? I mean, maybe.
I pull up the location and see that it’s really not all that far away from the tattoo shop.
I shouldn’t try to go into an adult club. Not much surprises me. I’ve heard literally everything in my years of working as a tattoo artist. But that doesn’t mean that I’ve done everything.
You’re not going there to have sex. You just need to look around.
Without overthinking it, I walk into the bedroom and pull the one black dress I own out of the closet and hang it on the doorjamb.
This is the kind of versatile dress that I can wear to a company holiday party, or a wedding, or a funeral.
It fits me well, it’s not too uncomfortable, and it’s simple enough that it should be okay for the club.
I have ankle boots that sparkle and have a little heel on them, so I pull those out, too, wishing that I could go in my usual Chucks, but they absolutely won’t do.
I have to blend.
After a quick shower, I use dry shampoo on my hair and tease it into long waves down my back. I’m handy with a black eyeliner pencil, red lipstick, and a flick of a mascara wand, and then I stand and stare at myself.
For me, this is dressed up.
Not bad.
Of course, I don’t even know if I can get in the place. It’s probably invitation only, or you have to pay a shit ton of money for a membership and they have security up the wazoo. I have no idea how the rich handle these kinds of things. I know it won’t be as simple as getting into the fights.
They’ll probably laugh at me.
But I have to try.
So, I pull on the dress and decide that I can’t wear panties with it, resigning myself to going commando.
I spin in front of the mirror and can’t help the satisfied smile that pulls at my lips when I see that not only is the ink on my arm on full display, but the dress is backless, so you can see the flowers down my spine as well. I think it’s sexy.
I grab the little black clutch with a long gold chain, which I use for any kind of occasion that requires a bag with this dress, and stuff my ID, lipstick, credit card, and some cash into it.
As ready as I’ll ever be, I lock the apartment behind me and pray this isn’t the biggest mistake of my life.
If there wasn’t a subtly lit sign above the door, I’d never know this place was here. It’s not flashy like the other places on the Strip. There are no flashing neon lights at all, and I kind of like that it’s discreet.
After I pull in a breath of courage, I walk inside and stumble to a stop. Holy fancy, Batman.
This lobby is all black and gold and beautiful. There’s a sleek desk where a showstopper of a woman stands, petite with hair almost the same color as mine, offering me a warm smile.
“Hi there, welcome to Rapture. I’m Beth. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Beth.” I let out a nervous chuckle, and she gives me a sympathetic look.
“Is this your first time here?”
“Yes. Obvious, I know.”
“What’s your name, honey?”
“Oh, uh, Violet.” I’m too nervous to think fast enough to come up with a fake name. “Violet Walker.”
She taps some keys in her computer and then nods. “I see you here.”
“Wait.” I feel the blood drain from my face. “You do? I don’t—how—what?”
Beth is completely at ease as she reads her screen. “Looks like the boss has given you VIP access, which is pretty freaking awesome.”
The boss.
Mateo.
How in the hell did he know I was coming here? Or was he just hoping?
This is so crazy.
“What does that mean?” I ask her.
“Well, you have access to everything. I recommend starting in the lounge, have yourself a drink or two, but we have a house limit of two drinks per customer.”
I nod, listening intently.
“With your VIP status, your drinks are on the house.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.”
“You can enjoy the playroom as much as you like, and if you find a partner that you want to be private with, we have plenty of private rooms available tonight, also included in your VIP status.”
Holy shit.
“Got it.”
“Now, this is a new thing we’re rolling out, just to make sure that like minds match up.” She pulls a shiny black box out from behind the desk and opens the lid, revealing sleek little bracelets of different colors. “Are you bisexual?”
I’m not here for sex. But I’m so damn curious, so I answer with “No.”
“Shame.” Beth winks at me, and I let out a laugh that’s not at all nervous now. “Okay, so no green for you. Now, if you choose the purple, that means you like things to get pretty rough. If you choose yellow, you lean more toward the . . . vanilla side of things.”
“Do you have something in the middle?”
Beth grins and, with a nod, pulls out a blue bracelet.
“This one will be perfect for you.”
Nibbling my lip, I let her fasten the blue string to my wrist.
“Is everyone wearing a bracelet?”
“No, but most are. If members come with a partner and don’t plan to bring in a third, or simply already have plans for their evening, there’s no need for the bracelet.”
“Oh, well, I don’t plan to—”
“Just keep it,” she says with another wink. “You go right down this hallway and take the elevator up to the second floor. You’ll see the lounge right away. Go get that drink and enjoy yourself. You look fantastic.”
I’m back to being nervous as I walk to the elevator and wait for the doors to open. Once in the elevator, I stare at myself in the mirrored walls and wonder what in the hell I think I’m doing.
I have a lot of audacity when it comes to looking for my baby sister.
The doors open, and Beth was right: The lounge is hard to miss.
More black and gold greets me. There are low tables with couches spread over the large area, and along the back wall is a long bar with two bartenders bustling back and forth.
It’s busy but not packed and honestly reminds me of any high-end lounge.
This I can do.
Walking into the room, I notice there is a larger group in the corner.
A heavily pregnant woman leans into her man’s side, smiling up at him adoringly.
Said man is another handsome, tattooed man, dressed in a black suit.
Across from them is another couple, the man also in a suit, and the pretty blond woman in a red dress that shows all her curves.
Two other men are with them, and if I’m being honest, every man at that table looks . . . scary.
Scary as fuck.
I skim the rest of the room and feel myself deflate a little when I don’t see Rose.
A shiver runs down my spine as I walk directly to the bar and slide onto a stool. The bartender at this end is another tiny woman, but this one has blue hair and a ton of piercings, and when she sees me, she grins.
“Welcome,” she says. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey neat,” I reply, and she lifts an eyebrow.
“Oh, I like you already,” she says as she grabs a lowball glass. “I have Macallan, Johnny Walker—”
“Do you have Jack?”
Her smile widens. “Keeping it simple. Attagirl.”
She grabs the bottle and pours my drink, then passes it over to me before she moves on to the next customer, and I turn on my stool so I can look around while I sip my Jack.
Everyone here is fully dressed, thank fuck, because I don’t think I could handle being tossed in the deep end right away. Not only are they fully clothed, but the clothes are expensive. Lots of jewelry, watches, fashion that screams wealth.
I do not belong here in my Ann Taylor dress and Macy’s boots.
My eyes skim back to the group in the corner. A couple of them are looking my way. The pregnant woman smiles at me, and I can’t help but offer her a smile in return.
Finishing my drink, I set the glass on the bar, and the same bartender returns to me.
“Another?”
“I’ll pass. So, what’s behind the double doors?” I gesture to the tall black doors behind me, and she smiles.
“That’s the playroom.”
I nod and nibble my lip again.
The playroom.
“Sounds innocent enough.”
She laughs and then shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve personally never been in there, but I don’t think it’s terribly innocent. Go have a look. And you should know, the owner is very strict about consent here. Respecting boundaries. Nothing happens that you don’t want to happen.”
My shoulders loosen at her words. If Rose is here, do those rules apply to her too?
“Thanks for that.”
“You bet. If you have questions, there are employees in there. They’re dressed in white, and they can help you if you need it.”
“How do people become employed here?” I ask, since she’s offering information.
“The usual way, I guess. They send in a résumé, go through a vetting-and-interview process, medical screenings.”
“So, everyone is here . . . voluntarily?”
Her smile slides right off her face. “Absolutely. Like I said, consent is huge here, and every single person employed here is paid well, respected, and not under any duress.”
I’m glad. But that also tells me that Rose probably isn’t here. That doesn’t mean that I can’t look around, just in case, since I’m already here.
Nodding, I slip off the stool and smile. “I’m Violet.”
“Rita,” she says with a wink. “Have fun.”
Have fun.
I’m beginning to think that people really do come here for fun. It doesn’t feel sleazy or shady or like anything bad. So far, everyone has been friendly.
So, lifting my chin, I cross to the doors and walk inside, and wow.
This is totally different from what I’ve seen so far.
Instead of black and gold, this area is white.
It looks . . . opulent, for lack of a better word, with dim lighting and sheer white material hanging between stations where people are absolutely, without a doubt, having sex.
Music tinkles through the air, loud enough to cover a lot of the moans, but not so loud that I couldn’t hear someone speaking right next to me.
The furniture is all in jewel tones. In one corner sits a sapphire-blue bed with soft pillows, and a woman is running a peacock feather over a man’s back.
My eyes drift around, and my stomach is in knots because I want more than anything to find out that Rose is here, but so far I don’t see her.
There’s a spanking bench, where two women are restrained and a man is working them over with a riding crop, taking turns back and forth.
I wander around, taking in every single thing, and feel my nipples tighten and my pussy dampen as I explore. There’s a man working different colored ropes around a naked woman.
Shibari.
I’ve seen this done a few times. It’s beautiful, the way it almost looks like lace hugging her legs and torso. He’s working on her arms now.
I pause here and watch, the music drifting around me, and then every hair on my body stands on end.