7. Enzo #2
“Sorry I’m late, sweetie.” She leans in and kisses Stella on the lips. “Got held up at the theater.” The late arrival faces me with a well-practiced smile. “Margo Sullivan. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
Margo Sullivan, singer and star of Broadway. She has a presence off-stage that emanates from her like an intoxicating perfume.
“Enzo Sabatelli.” We shake hands. “I was just leaving.”
“Sabatelli?” Her forehead creases as she turns back to Stella. “Everything alright?”
“Yes.” Stella’s smile shines even brighter, only now it isn’t quite so convincing. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Good to meet you both.” I place my champagne glass on a passing tray as I exit the ballroom, avoiding eye contact with the other guests.
Stella catches up with me in the foyer. Alone. Her eyes glitter when she touches my arm to get my attention. “Enzo, will Bianca be alright? I mean… is she safe?”
She still cares about my sister.
“She’s a Sabatelli.” I give her a small smile. “You should go back inside.”
I don’t glance back as I leave the glitz and glamor of the Plaza Hotel behind me and step outside.
I dismiss my driver and tell him to report back the instant my sister enters my apartment. Head down, I take a taxi directly to Tribeca. Without even realizing, my visits to JADED have become as much a part of my routine as showering when I get home and fixing a brandy on the rocks.
I don’t know what this says about my current state of mind, but ever since I was a kid, I always went where my instincts took me, and did what felt right for me at the time. No second-guessing, no regrets. The mindset has served me well enough in the past; I’m not about to start questioning it now.
The same woman is on the door as on the previous occasions. She recognizes me instantly but doesn’t acknowledge my return, and I have no doubts she wouldn’t hesitate to slap a few zeroes onto my entrance fee if I dared to question the process.
Personal belongings handed over, mask and bracelet on, I enter the corridor and head straight for Nyx’s room.
The light above the door is red.
It feels as if someone punched me in the gut. My breathing stutters, my heart beats out a strange tune, and my body starts to double up on itself.
Of all the scenarios I imagined for Brian and Nyx, this wasn’t one of them.
It never occurred to me that she would spend time with anyone else, other men hiding behind fake names, other clients with their own fantasies and their own reasons for visiting a club like JADED.
I knew, of course I did. But bizarrely, I’d lied to myself that she was here solely for my benefit.
That she might somehow have convinced the woman with the flashlight to ensure that Nyx was free when I arrived.
The red light glares at me like a massive middle finger.
Screw you, Brian. Nyx is behind that door, naked, making herself come for someone else, being the fantasy they want her to be, and probably loving every moment of it.
I glance left and right along the corridor.
Several lights are still green, but I don’t check out the names on the doors.
I haven’t crossed paths with another patron during my previous visits, which means they stagger the entry slots and ensure that everyone’s experience is isolated, tailored to them to make it unique.
Or perhaps they simply don’t want their guests to communicate with one another.
My fee might not be the same as the next guy’s.
One client might not get a mask. It would complicate matters if visitors started requesting anomalies to the process because they heard that someone else was given preferential treatment.
I wait outside Nyx’s door.
I’ve no idea how long this might take. Time blurs when you’re inside that darkened room with a faceless voice for company, and no two sessions are the same. But I’m not leaving until I’ve seen her.
Thirty seconds pass, maybe longer—the mask and the darkness are no less disorienting than they were the first time I was here—when a voice reaches my ears: “Choose a door.”
I peer left and right. I can’t see anyone, but my senses are on high alert because I’m being watched.
“I’m waiting for Nyx.” My voice bounces around inside my skull along with my breathing which is suddenly erratic and too loud.
“Choose a door or leave.” The voice is distorted like my own, like Nyx’s, and anger sparks inside my chest at the exaggerated theatricals.
The novelty is wearing off, and I’m angry with myself for not having the patience to stick with it. I could enter another room. I could play the same game with Venus or Aphrodite or Calypso, or I could play one of an infinite number of erotic games with whoever is sitting behind a different door.
But that isn’t why I’m here.
My playboy days ended when I met Demi and I discovered that one woman was all I needed, provided it was the right woman.
“I paid to see Nyx.”
I wait for the voice to repeat the choose-a-door-or-leave command.
But instead, I hear too late the click of a door from the opposite end of the corridor through which I entered. I face the sound as strong arms grab me and drag me away from Nyx.
“I paid my entry fee.” I try to wrench my arms free, but these fuckers’ fists are made of steel. “There’s no rule against waiting for a green light.”
The door closes behind us, but no lights come on. What is it with this place and operating in the darkness? Did they refuse to pay the energy bill before they opened?
My heart plummets as my feet leave the ground and I’m dragged down a staircase, the only indication that we’re descending, my brain’s instinct to lean backward to over-compensate for the movement.
At the bottom, I’m slammed face-first against a wall.
My nose stings, despite the protection of the leather mask, and my eyes water, but their grip remains vice-like as someone else unfastens the straps at the back of my head.
Cool air brushes my clammy face. They finally release me as my cell, wallet, and shoes are shoved into my hands, and an external door opens directly in front of me.
I peer all around, but no one is there.
I’m alone.
Stepping outside into the alleyway, I slide my feet into my shoes, pocket my belongings, and straighten my shoulders.
I’m not leaving until I’ve seen Nyx.
JADED and I entered a business transaction when they took my money, and I’m here to claim the service they promised to provide. The club’s management may have made no provisions for a client waiting area, but that isn’t my problem.
More than that though, my chest feels hollow knowing that she was on the other side of a door, and I didn’t get to spend time with her. I didn’t get to hear her voice or smell her perfume or play the game with her that we started forty-eight hours ago.
Is that all it was?
It feels as if Nyx has always been there waiting for me.
Disoriented, I use my cell GPS to find my way back to the club’s entrance. But when I get there and press the buzzer, the door remains shut.
I try again, and nothing happens. I bang on the door with my fists, and no one responds. When I step backwards into the road and peer at the building, it’s in total darkness as if the club never existed.