17. PAIGE
SEVENTEEN
PAIGE
I stare back in the mirror, trying to follow the winding paths of leather twined around my body.
Leather dental floss, indeed. I huff a laugh at Rio’s text.
She did warn me. And Buffy bless her —she basically crafted a leather chastity belt around my crotch, while the rest of the rough material is crossed tightly over my body.
X formations hold over my nipples, tying around my neck, while an open diamond shape displays over my belly button—my thighs bare.
As always, she made me wrist cuffs —leather ones this time— and she’d made them loose enough that I was able to sneak a band with my mace inside.
It’s not easily accessible by any means, but I figure in a dire situation . . .
Something the owner, Beck Davis, doesn’t seem to have a lick of worry about—at least, that’s what I gathered during our debriefing when I showed up here at six o’clock sharp.
Give or take a few minutes—in my mind, I was mostly on time.
I learned that I’ll be working the Veranda for Beck’s associates —no more explanation required, I guess—and that he’ll be joining the other three gentlemen for the first hour.
I’m not sure what to make of it.
I hadn’t met Beck Davis before tonight. He only made appearances at the club during big industry nights—more during award season, since there was usually a production company or two that held their party here.
But I’d only ever seen him from afar before tonight. His thick head of blond hair, shorter on the sides, longer on top, and styled to sit perfectly between his ears. A smile with straight white teeth that suggest he’s never missed a cleaning, and his tall, commanding stature now have a voice in my head.
And it’s meh.
I see a few dancers passing behind me, wearing similar bondage-inspired get-ups—the whole place smells like leather—kind of smokey.
I take a steadying breath, fluffing up my hair, which is rocking its usual mussed up waves, then I outline my lips with a dark purple lipstick.
“Oh my God, Blue, you look so hot.” I hear a familiar voice —Selene— somewhere off behind me and my eyes pull up, meeting her piercing blue eyes through the mirror.
It’s Selene! is how her name is saved in my phone, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason I can actually remember her name. Her club name, anyway.
After a few text exchanges where she had asked me to cover her shift—only to have me text back every time—WHO ARE YOU?— she took my phone and saved the contact information herself.
“Heard you were out on leave,” she says—not in any sort of way, but it just reminds me of how broke I am.
How much I need this stupid night to go well.
Picking up a brush, I open the lid to the glitter, seeing her still lingering by the doorway that leads to the Great Room. “What room are you in tonight?” I ask her. Mostly just to kill the silence.
Music has been amping up my anxiety. Every song has felt like it’s feeding the nerves—but the quietness is filling in the blank spaces with thoughts of what awaits me upstairs.
“I’m doing an hour in the Saloon and then the after-hour in the Drawing Room.”
I nod my response, then flex and lift the brush to my bicep, tracing the curves of the muscles with the soft end of the brush. Selene smiles behind me.
I’m not sure how old she is. Somewhere in the twenty to thirty range, but it’s hard to tell with her blond bombshell hair and show makeup.
After a second, her eyes light up with a gasp. “You haven’t been here! You haven’t seen the new security guard!”
My eyebrows pinch. I barely know the current security guards. Just Jackson and his trusty stick.
“So hot,” she gushes, nearly bending at the knee. “Tattoos, scowls —oof.”
Yippy. God, I don’t care and I think it shows.
Another moment passes, and I will this conversation to die—cursing myself for starting it in the first place as she asks, “You’re working the Veranda tonight, right?”
My eyebrow lifts. For a place that boasts about discretion, it appears Selene happens to know a whole fucking lot. I was under the impression that Veranda events were pretty hush-hush—you know, for morale sake.
Avoiding a sequel to Showgirls, I imagine.
I continue with my ritual, trying to politely end the conversation with my slight scowl.
But she smiles, saying, “Well, that’s awesome. I heard a girl got such a good payout from a Veranda gig that she quit the next day. She’s like . . . a pop singer in Canada or something now.”
My eyebrows scrunch. It’s so specific that I have to believe it’s true, but I ask, “Where did you hear that?”
She shrugs, nervously. “I don’t know. Around.”
Someone who knows someone.
Seems she knows a few “someones.”
Inhaling deep, she must take my silence as a cue to move along, and I absently wonder what kind of payout it would take for me to leave.
Leave The Window? That wouldn’t be hard. I’m not particularly attached to this place—just the paycheck. I’d miss Rio. Jackson . . . sometimes.
But leave California? That’s harder. Leaving here means leaving Gram’s house.
And if I leave, how will he find me?
Such a stupid, hopeless thought that I can’t seem to drown the fuck out. Not in the deep, cavernous bottom of my most sacred space—not ever, it seems—and it’s fucking pathetic.
My head shakes. I can’t stumble down that hole.
Not tonight.
I have to keep my wits about me.
If tonight goes well, I’ll have some money in the bank. Maybe I can start to make a plan. And I already have a celebratory bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge.
The Veranda is . . . stunning.
But also kind of creepy. There’s floor to ceiling-length openings with sheer white curtains.
Through them, I can see it leads to a spacious balcony with the wrought-iron railings I’ve seen a hundred times from the street below.
My steps are slow on the floor. It looks almost like cobblestone, but it’s white and not as jagged. They vary in color a bit too. Some more ivory, others with a yellow tinge to them—kind of reminds me of big, flattened teeth.
Ugh. The thought sends a shiver through me, and my throat works to swallow as my eyes sweep to the oversized fireplace, then to the various lounge furniture surrounding it.
No poles . . .
Convenient way to get a lap dance— just take away the poles.
As my eyes take in the perimeter of the room, I see two doors. The one I came in, that leads down to the stairwell that takes you back toward the dressing rooms. The other one leads to the stairwell the guests are led in by and that’s when I see the bar cart.
But no bartender. There’s no way these assholes are going to pour their own drinks.
That will likely be your job, jigsaw.
I huff a small laugh with the soft click of my black pumps against the floor, walking toward the bar as suddenly music starts to play.
But . . .
What the fuck is this?
It’s not dance music. It’s . . . it’s instrumental. Some kind of light jazz. A crooning saxophone softly wafts through the speakers, sending an ominous chill up my spine.
There’s a certain melancholy to the notes that heightens my nerves, and I instantly pull the mace down a bit, so it’s just a bit looser.
I need to calm down.
It’s just a private show. I let Rio’s words resound through my racing heart—feed the reassurance to my tightened limbs.
Theatrics aside, there’s a cold, almost dead feeling to this room and the sensation prickles down my spine.
The moment happens quickly, but slow enough to pull my attention completely. The doors push open, and my eyes snap up to see four men walking in. Once they make it past the first two windows, shadows no longer cover their faces and I scan their features.
My heart pounds with possibility as the adrenaline tries to shake its way down to my knees, but I lock them and hold all the tension in my core, my jaw.
My eyes find Beck first—every bit the put-together man I saw earlier, with his hair combed back and his three-piece charcoal suit.
He pretends to be a gentleman and lifts his dark blue eyes to my hair, smirking before lowering his gaze back to mine as he says, “Blue. So lovely to see you again.”
He says it like it’s a regular occurrence. Like he didn’t learn my name —my club name— an hour or so ago.
But . . . he literally owns the place.
I swallow my pride. I tuck it in, promising to make up with it later. Just make the money.
It’s as if I can feel the muscles in my face creak and turn like gears on an old clock, but I manage to pull my lips, extend my hand. “Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Davis.”
The first half hour or so passes by uneventfully—if you don’t count the massive amounts of cocaine Beck’s associate, Tariel, has been bumping away on over there.
I’ve already renamed him Sharktooth in my mind, seeing as you can see every single one of his big fucking teeth.
It’s unnerving.
The jazz music still plays, but it’s light.
And as it turns out, I am the bartender.
Luckily, the group settled on the furniture in front of the fireplace, only requesting expensive bourbon while carrying on some kind of circle jerk. Truthfully, it doesn’t even sound like a conversation.
They’ve been talking about some art collection—how much money they’ve spent, made —who the hell knows.
Ugh. Why the fuck am I here?
I’ve tried to tune them out, and instead started singing some made-up lyrics to the music playing over the speakers.
Humming, I turn my attention back to the group. One thing I’ve noticed from my spot behind the bar cart is the other two guys that came with Sharktooth look young—really young.
Not underage—but just by a chin stubble. And they don’t seem to be adding too much to the conversation.
“Blue,” Beck’s voice carries over, and I shift my eyes to him. “You sing?” he asks, pleasantly.
My eyes squint. It’s a strange thing to ask, seeing as the only way he knows that is because he heard me just now.
“You tell me,” I say, attempting playfulness, but I think it mostly just comes off as bratty and confused. Which I am.
Beck’s shoulders lift the slightest bit, his vest creasing in the same way sketch artists draw the lines with the pencil, and for some reason, it annoys me as he chuckles. “I’d say your reputation precedes you.”
Reputation? As what? As The Window Witch?
Actually, that sounds kind of accurate. And he’s probably getting his information from Jackson—who, let’s face it, would say that.
Sharktooth sits on the green-velvet settee, closest to the fireplace, while the boys sit in arm chairs—their backs on an angle away from me, while Beck stands casually by the fireplace.
“Pour yourself a drink and come on over,” he says, gesturing to the seat across from the two boys whose names I’ve already forgotten.