Chapter 9
Elene
I fucked up.
I don't know what it is with me tonight, but I'm seriously failing to do my damn job. He's right; it's the first night for everybody here. Yet I seem to be the only one struggling. I know all there is to know about this club, and whether we’re dressed in black or white, we all have our corresponding instructions.
There are far fewer angels than devils, because we all know what these men want. They're not here for angels, they're here to play. They’re here to discover the rooms upstairs, and they’re seeking out the girls who will accompany them up the spiral staircase to learn about them firsthand.
Still, he insists on sitting here with me. My nervousness was bad from the get-go, but it only got worse once he sat down next to me.
He’s the most attractive man in the room. I noticed him earlier, stalking the room like a panther in search of prey. In addition to being handsome, he stood out for two things: his age and his height. He's much younger and taller than most, if not all, of the other clients. His dark suit hugs his broad shoulders and stretches around his strong upper arms perfectly, making him appear even more striking, as does his strong jaw, dabbled with the shadow of a two-day stubble. I thought his hair was black at first, but it's actually dark brown, and he has surprisingly bright eyes. Are they blue? Or gray? It's hard to tell, and I can't find the courage to look directly into them for too long.
Damn, he unravels me. His presence is weirdly unsettling.
And scary. I'm scared of letting him down, of disappointing him. All because I'm dressed in white. I know he must be aware of the rules, but the way he's looking at me suggests that he's not above breaking them.
His eyes narrow as he studies me thoughtfully. He told me to look at him, so I do, but it’s nearly impossible to withstand his piercing gaze.
"Why are you so nervous?" His voice is deep and pervasive.
I cast him a coy smile, trying to transform my vulnerability into allure. Men like him exert power over others for pleasure, power. It speaks to their nature, and it's my job to yield with grace so he can ride out his high, even if he's not allowed to touch me.
"It's a big day," I say, lacing my voice with faux sweetness. "Opening night. We've been waiting a long time for this day."
He nods, but doesn't look happy.
"You're a Violent Delights girl," he says. "I know what you girls are paid for. This shouldn't be easy play compared to the things you're used to doing."
Now I'm the one narrowing my eyes as I regard him with suspicion. What is he getting at?
The stoic expression on his face changes into a smile, and I suppress the urge to jerk away from him when he leans in closer. Magnetic attraction often has the opposite effect on me than it does on others. He's so close now that I can smell his cologne, masculine, with a hint of citrus.
"Let's try something," he says, his voice so low that I can barely hear him over the background filter of jazz music and the noise of muffled conversations. "Just relax and treat this as if it’s a normal date. Forget about who you are tonight, forget about who I am. Just act as you would on a normal date."
A normal date? Not that again.
I try to smile, but it must appear as fake as it feels.
"Yes, sir," I retort. "We can certainly do that."
He shakes his head, clearly disappointed in my response.
"No, no," he says. "That's exactly what I don't want to hear from you."
I arch my eyebrows in confusion. "I'm sorry, I—"
"I know you know how to please," he interrupts sternly. "Don't stage your fake persona for me. Just be yourself."
He pauses, catching my gaze once again before he raises his hand, pointing his index finger at me.
"I want to know who you are," he says.
I don't know whether to be flattered or scared, but my response is a perfect example of what happens when I forget the parameters of my job.
"Why?" I blurt out.
He leans back then, putting distance between us while he reaches for his drink. Disappointment runs through my veins, but I can't stop myself from letting out a gasp of relief nonetheless. His proximity cages me in more than it comforts me, but I still take pleasure from it.
"Why?" he repeats my question, taking another sip of his drink before shaking his head.
Shit, I'm really bad at this.
"I'm sor—"
"If you say you're sorry one more time, I will file a complaint about you," he warns, side-eyeing me. "I'm sure the madam wouldn't be happy to hear about how you displeased a well-paying customer, a VIP member even."
I swallow hard, the forbidden words almost slipping from my lips again. I stop myself from apologizing just in time by taking a sip of my drink. The tangy blend of bitter and sweet warmth tickles my throat as it goes down. Soon, my cheeks will start glowing from the effects of the alcohol. I will have to be careful about my intake, and not only because of the metal spines that cinch around my waist. I can't get drunk. The evening is only getting started, and he's not the only client who'll be expecting conversation tonight, though he may be the only one who proves this challenging.
I take a deep breath, which doesn't go unnoticed by him. His eyes are on me when I turn back to him.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
He tilts his head to the side, his curiosity obvious as he beckons me to continue with a swirl of his hand.
"Normal dates are a mystery to me," I admit.
"You've never been on one? I don't believe that," he scoffs.
"It's been a long time," I say. "And even then... I don't think what we did counts as normal."
"What you did?" he asks, visibly intrigued. “What did you do?”
I feel myself blushing as I recall the last time I went out on a first date with a guy who was not a paying client. It was more than three years ago. I know that because my dating life became pretty much nonexistent when I started working for the agency on a regular basis. I've always been open and upfront about my job, and for obvious reasons, it didn't sit well with potential love interests. Most guys don't like to share, let alone date a call girl, and when I was faced with choosing between a normal dating life and my job, I chose the latter.
Dating had never been as rewarding as this job. At least it didn't seem so at the time. The lack of true pleasure was the same in both worlds, but at least I was getting paid for my services at the agency.
But maybe I'm just really bad at this normal dating thing because I'm not... normal.
"The last time I went on a date, we had anal sex in the guy’s car about an hour after we met up," I answer bluntly. "I don't think that counts as normal."
A dark smirk graces his handsome face. "Certainly not what an angel would do."
"So, I wonder," I say, unable to prevent myself from switching my voice into that tone of seduction that has been part of my job for so long. "What do people do on normal dates?"
"You mean when they don't jump each other like horny teenagers," he says, causing me to raise my eyebrows at his brutally sharp remark, "or when there's no money exchanged between the parties?"
"Yes," I say, not missing the condescending tone in his voice. "Exactly."
"They drink, talk," he lists. "Get to know each other."
An awkward pause follows his words, because I don't know what to say. I reach for my drink, but without the intention of taking a sip. It's almost gone and finishing it would only prompt him to order me another one, and I know I wouldn't be able to say no.
"What's your name?"
It's a natural starter question, but still it baffles me. I'm not used to clients asking for my name. No one has ever cared.
"Elene."
"Elene," he repeats. "Is that your real name?"
I nod. "Yes. I don't have a call-girl name."
He raises his hand in defense. "I didn't mean to offend you. It's a beautiful name."
"What should I call you?" I ask.
"My name is Damon, so I think you should go with that," he says. "But we might come up with something different along the way."
I shoot him a look from the side. Along the way? What is that supposed to mean?
"You know I can't accompany you up to the velvet rooms," I remind him.
He looks at me, but his facial expression is impossible to read. The hint of a smile is playing at the corners of his mouth, and there's a certain smugness in the way he leans into me, supporting himself on the bar with one hand while using the other to lift my chin with the tip of his index finger.
I gasp, unable to hide the effect his touch has on me. It's electric, searing, brimming with taboo vibes.
No touching, it says. Does that include a gesture like this? Does he care?
"I know we can't go up there," he says. "But you can tell me about it, right?"
"About the velvet rooms?" I answer breathlessly. Why does his touch have such an effect on me?
"Yes," he affirms. "You can tell me about them—and what you would do up there, if we were allowed to go up there together."