Chapter 2 #2
Chosen? A small thrill skitters across my shoulders but I refuse to allow the flattery of that statement to alter my pulse.
“Doesn’t… Um, doesn’t ‘diavolo’ mean ‘devil’?”
I detect a faint smirk at the back of her throat. “Yes, it does.”
“You call him ‘the devil’?”
She presses a spot of rouge to the curve of my cheekbones. “Yes. It’s an honor to.” Flashing me another loaded look, she adds: “He’s earned the title.”
Her ominous response sends a shiver across my shoulders. What has my beast of an uncle gotten me into?
When she steps to the side I have to blink again. I hardly recognize myself.
Working as a nurse meant long hours, sleep whenever I could get it and makeup-free skin. I’m not accustomed to seeing my face contoured to perfection, the skin dewy and glowing, my lashes so long I could swing from them.
The makeup bag snaps shut and she straightens. “This will have to do. Let’s go.”
I try to ignore the disappointment in her tone and follow her from the dressing room and back out into the main lounge.
This time I feel the stares.
I swear the volume of talk drops a couple decibels, or maybe it’s just the pulse in my eardrum drowning out the sounds. But I can’t escape the feeling that my body is being eaten up with every step I take. And I can’t decide whether I like it or not.
I feel… attractive.
I also feel deeply uncomfortable.
The last time I felt attractive was in middle school, before my body was violated by someone I was supposed to trust.
Feeling eyes on my skin, caressing my thighs, admiring my cleavage, while I’m powerless to stop it, makes me feel like a victim all over again.
By the time we reach the host’s desk, I’m trembling.
“Hallie, this is Pfeiffer McAllister,” I hear Vivienne say. It sounds far away though, as if my head has been filled with cotton.
A petite brunette with dark red lips and a nose ring holds out her hand. “Hi! Welcome to Velvet. I heard you were coming.”
“Y—you did?”
Vivienne clears her throat and speaks as if I’m no longer there. “Are you okay to walk her through the host duties?”
Hallie clicks her tongue. There’s a cute but rebellious edge to it. “Sure.”
“If she gets it within the hour you can head off.”
Hallie’s voice drops. “Really?” She leans into Vivienne’s ear. “I could really use the money, Viv. I was down to work the whole night.”
Vivienne lowers her chin a touch and smiles. So, she is capable of being nice. Just not to me.
“Diavolo’s orders. I’m sorry.”
My gaze drops to see Hallie’s hands wringing together. “Okay.”
When Vivienne lowers her voice, I turn my head but still manage to catch the words.
“Have you put your name down for the Angels? Like I said?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You should do it, Hallie. You might get a huge check. You could get out of your apartment, move away, go someplace new.”
“I’m not guaranteed a huge check, Viv. What if no one selects me?”
“You were selected last time.”
“Yeah,” she says. “By a dead man.”
Vivienne rests a hand on Hallie’s arm. “Let’s not be dramatic now. We don’t know that he’s dead.”
“Well, I don’t want to risk it,” Hallie mutters, shakily.
I don’t know this girl. I’ve never met her before tonight. But it doesn’t take a genius to know she’s wary of an angel or something.
“Okay.” Vivienne taps her arm, straightens and gives her head a brief shake. “I’ll leave you to it. But Hallie?” Her gaze carries a warning. “Please think about it.”
Hallie plasters a fake smile to her face and speaks through closed teeth. “I will.”
I wait until Vivienne is out of earshot, then turn to Hallie, who seems a lot nicer. “Thanks for the help. I don’t know anything about hosting.”
She cracks out a laugh, her large blue eyes warm as she takes me in. “You got this, honey. It’s so easy you could do it with your eyes closed.”
“That’s good because I worry I might be blinded by all of these masks.”
She looks up briefly. “Right? Some of them are made with real gold, can you believe it? Guests take the dress code here very seriously.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head. Masks carved from gold? Seriously, what is this place?
“This is the guest list,” she says, pointing to the screen in front of us.
“It’s a technicality really. The guys on the door know exactly who’s a member or who’s been given a pass to come in.
This is more like an electronic record of who came here, who with, for how long, etcetera.
We simply click this box when they arrive, and click this one when they leave. ”
“Is that all?” I’m pleasantly surprised. Maybe I won’t be utterly terrible at this.
“Yeah, that’s all. But while they’re here…” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “we watch them.”
My gaze snaps to her face. “We what?”
She arches a brow. “You heard.”
Her fingers move across the screen and she selects a guest name.
“This guy here arrived an hour ago with a woman we aren’t familiar with.
Now, he’s a member, so he’s allowed to bring non-members, but he’s supposed to give us notice so we can check them out.
He didn’t, so I had to do a pretty swift check on his lady friend over there while they were getting settled. ”
She points discreetly to a couple in a corner, both of them wearing elaborate, jeweled masks, hands resting on each other’s thighs as they watch other people in the room.
“How do you run checks? What do you look for?”
She taps the screen and a list appears. “This,” she explains, “is connected to every database in the country—official and unofficial.”
I swallow.
“It takes roughly thirty seconds after we enter details like her name, address, social security number, for the system to show us a report. It will even flag up sections in red if there’s anything we need to be aware of—prior convictions, known contact with shady operators, that kind of thing.”
Holy crap.
“Does that happen… you know… often?”
She lifts a shoulder and continues to scroll absent-mindedly through various lists.
“Most weeks,” she replies casually. “Everyone wants a piece of this place.”
“So, um, what do you do when that happens? When someone is flagged up on the databases?”
“Oh yes.” She shakes out her shoulders. “Almost forgot to tell you the most important part.”
She draws my attention to a small red button beneath the screen.
“The second someone is flagged, you press this. It sends a message to the security guys and they usually come quick. But here’s the thing…”
She stares into my eyes until she’s absolutely certain I’m listening.
“Uh huh?”
“You do not let on that you’re suspicious of them. You keep smiling as if nothing’s happening. Check them in, guide them to a table. Pretend everything is normal, okay? As soon as security arrives, they take care of it.”
I don’t want to ask what she means by taking care of it. My mind is still reeling over the prospect of having to press that red button in the first place.
My gaze drifts back to the couple sitting quietly in the corner.
“And she…” I search for words. “She’s good?”
Hallie swipes the screen until all we see is the Velvet club logo and her sigh is dripping with mild disappointment.
“Yeah. She’s just a voyeur. They met online but she’s pretty harmless.”
My gaze drifts to the couple sitting peacefully together, getting their kicks from watching others around them.
Part of me envies them, but another part of me cannot get my head around this whole thing.
That part of me is still in Boston, existing on minimal sleep, laundering scrubs and fretting about a father who hasn’t returned my calls as quickly as he used to.
“Okay,” Hallie says, as if she’s just taught me something benign like how to flip a burger. “You think you can handle that for five minutes?”
My heart jumps up into my throat. “Why?”
She squeezes her thighs together like her words might not be convincing enough. “I need to pee.”
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Please, go pee.”
As she hurries away, I take my place behind the podium and shift my weight from foot to foot. I rarely wear heels, so my calves are killing me.
I focus on breathing steadily, conscious that I’m surrounded by some of New York’s wealthiest and most influential figures. There was a distinctive smell about the place that hit me when we entered the lounge and it’s taken me an hour to place it.
Money.
It’s the smell of money.
A short glance at the membership tiers in the guest database confirms that a small fortune is required just to walk through the door. Every person here is a certified millionaire—at least. If they wield political power too, they’re assigned a different category—their status rises.
Though I can only see what’s on the surface, Hallie and Vivienne’s talk of ‘Angels’ and the fact most people here have half their faces covered speaks to a darker undercurrent.
This is the kind of world my uncle would give both testicles to be a part of, whereas I would happily prefer to not know it existed.
It’s too unnerving to look out at a sea of masks and uncertain glances, so I stare at the screen instead, hoping Hallie returns quickly.
But my skin prickles with the sensation of being watched.
I tentatively lift my gaze to the far corner of the room. On the wall hangs a stunning piece of art—a large depiction of angel wings made entirely of black feathers. I admire it for a moment, then my gaze drops to the source of the tingling across my skin.
Four men are seated around a booth, each wearing a dark suit, dark shirt, dark tie and dark mask.
Once my focus latches on to them, I can’t remove it.
Not only are there black angel wings above their heads, but there seems to be a halo of awe around them.
People sitting at the surrounding tables are acutely aware of these men. All heads seem angled slightly in that direction, all hand gestures magnified in the residual glow of the booth.
The closest of the four men has his back to me, but as I watch, he turns slowly and his eyes lock onto mine. A shiver crackles down my spine, and I get the horrible feeling they’re talking about me.