Chapter 2
Raphael
The strong, woody scent of cedar fills my lungs as the heavy doors glide open and I step into the shadowy, carpeted foyer. I glide my drivers' license out of my wallet and ready to identify myself as I approach the impeccably-dressed clerk standing at the dark counter. But before I can open my mouth, the man addresses me by name.
"Good evening, Mr. Silver. Welcome to Club Audace."
He reaches for the coat draped over my arm and hands it off to an eager-looking attendant standing to his left. The clerk quickly ushers me down a long, narrow hall flanked by ornate lion statutes and gold-framed artwork lining the walls. Replicas of Renaissance murals and crown molding made of pure gold adorn the high, dome-shaped ceilings. Despite all the over-the-top furnishings, the place is still morbid as fuck.
Uneasiness prickles my skin. Mausoleum-chic was never my style.
I grip tight to the handle of my briefcase and loosen the knot of my tie, silently reminding myself of why I'm here. Just get him to sign this brokerage contract and you can get the hell out of this place.
Several times, I toyed with the idea of not coming here tonight. I don't need the money. I have better ways to spend my Friday night than sitting in a gilded sex dungeon with a bunch of socially-inept, insecure Wall Street idiots as they spill precum into their starch-pressed boxer-briefs and battle over extortionately-priced prostitutes.
But I do need the high, the dopamine rush of watching some clueless chump – er, client – signing his name on the dotted line and agreeing to pay my handsome commissions and service fees.
That’s why I submitted to the extensive background checks and medical exams necessary to join this club. That’s why I signed the waivers and confidentiality forms required to even step through the front door.
If this deal goes through, it could be worth tens of millions of dollars.
At the end of the corridor, I'm greeted by a well-polished woman in a skin-tight backless dress. She looks like she's made of wax with her impeccably-painted face and her gleaming blonde chignon.
"Good evening, Mr. Silver. Welcome to Club Audace." She hands me a crystal tumbler of a deep amber liquid. I don’t ask questions – I just empty the drink down my throat in one eager movement. I barely cringe as the scotch makes a smooth, fiery journey down my chest.
I thrust the glass back her way. "I'm gonna need another one."
"Of course, sir," she says in a docile voice and then scampers away for my refill.
I'm not comfortable with any of this. I’m not the type of man who frequents these types of establishments. There are some risks I just don’t take.
But Winthorp Lewiston, this new moneybags potential client of mine, insists that sex auctions are the new gentlemen’s clubs. Personally, I find it distracting to negotiate a multimillion-dollar commodities trade venture when the guy next to me is getting sucked off by a half-naked woman on a diamond-studded leash. But I’m old-fashioned like that.
I don’t even know where the hell I am. I know that I'm somewhere on the Upper East Side of Manhattan but I'm not sure of the address. They sent a driver to pick me up from my office and chauffeur me to the ultra secret location of Club Audace.
That should have been my deal breaker. I have my own driver. He's been with me for years and I'd trust him with my life. Plus, my mother always told me not to get into cars with strangers. Good thing I'm a goddamned marine. I spent seven years in the service before returning to civilian life and building myself a commodities trading empire. Don't let the tailored suit fool you. I can kick some ass, if need be.
A tall woman in foot-high heels and a burlesque outfit pops up out of no-fucking-where and begins dance-walking beside me. She speaks in a fake French accent. “Good evening, Mr. Silver. I’m Aurélie, your personal attendant for the evening.” She gives me a seductive gaze, batting her glittery eyelashes at me.
What the…?
These people are going overboard. I get it. They’re pampering me, catering to my every whim because as far as they're concerned, I will be spending a minimum of one hundred thousand dollars tonight. But I have no intention of buying a submissive. I don't pay for sex. Why would I when some of the world's most beautiful women gladly drop to their knees in front of me unprompted?
Every now and then, I indulge. A one-night-stand here and there just to handle my body’s pesky little urges. We’ve all got them. The difference is, I don’t let them blur my judgment. I don’t let women become a distraction. My risk tolerance is far too low to invest in love again.
I have my laser-sharp focus aimed at one goal – expanding the global reach of Silver Metal Brokers.
I’ve tried my hand at relationships. Too much volatility for my liking. I’m the kind of investor who needs to be able to forecast how my investments will behave. But with love, you put your heart in and hope for the best.
The last time I did that – with my ex-wife – it ended in legal proceedings citing ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the grounds for our divorce. Ultimately, it was in neither of our interests to admit that our marriage ended because my wife was having an ‘emotional affair’ with her therapist. Why she needed a therapist in the first place is a mystery to me. I gave that woman everything she could possibly want.
Anyway, I sympathize with Lewiston. I understand why he has to pay for play. His premature male pattern baldness, his protruding gut and his wet bath towel body odor don't exactly scream 'play boy'. His money is the only thing he has going for him.
I’m led to the secluded booth where he awaits me. “Silver…” he says with a wide grin as I sink onto the tufted velvet bench across from him. The booths are high and dimly-lit for privacy and angled in such a way that its occupants can’t be easily identified by the other patrons. I’m thankful for that because this isn’t the type of place I’d want to be seen.
I speak past the tight smile on my lips. “Lewiston.” I force a curt nod and shake his hand.
Aurélie positions herself in my line of vision and begins to shake her body. It’s a strange mix of rumba and tap dance. A scantily-clad woman is putting down similar moves in front of Lewiston. (I assume that she’s his ‘personal attendant’ for the evening). It appears that this fiasco is choreographed. The dance may be very offbeat but I’ve got to applaud these women for pulling it off in six-inch heels.
In an instant, the server is slipping my refill onto the table in front of me. I toss it back immediately. I waste no time setting my briefcase on the gleaming, polished table and pulling out the contract.
Lewiston is still grinning. “Isn’t this the life, man? Look at all these beautiful women.” I glance around quickly, pretending to appreciate the sad-looking females milling around the place. None of them look genuinely thrilled to be here and if Lewiston’s head wasn’t shoved so far up his own ass, he’d probably realize it too.
He yanks his dancer into his lap and slides his fingers down the front of her panties. She grins as his hand begins to work between her legs. Throwing her head back, she makes exaggerated sex noises.
I can already tell that her fake orgasm is going to be earth-shattering.
Eye roll.
He chuckles at my reaction. “What are you, some pussy-ass feminist? Don’t get your Spanx in a wad –” he leans forward and nips at her shoulder “– these whores love it. They’re exhibitionists.” He speaks to the woman. “You love it, don’t you, Angelique?”
If she secretly wishes she could slap the row of porcelain dental veneers out of his gums, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she nods, donning a forced smile. “Yes, sir,” she purrs.
A true professional. Remarkable.
“And most of these girls need the money, anyway.” He speaks as if the woman isn’t sitting right there within earshot. “Lots of them are in some kind of trouble. They need a Big Daddy like me with deep pockets to help them out. In the grand scheme of things, getting finger-fucked in this room full of people probably isn’t such a big deal for my chérie over here.”
I’ve never been so repulsed in my life. I need to get some fresh air. Oxygen that isn’t poisoned by the foul stench of sex and lust and body odor.
I shove the contract across the table to him. Maybe I can get this thing signed before the auction starts and get out of here before my brain catches a venereal disease.
I nearly hurl when he pulls his sticky hand out of the woman’s underwear and waves it dismissively in my direction. “Oh put that away,” he says flippantly as the music changes, growing loud and dramatic, “the real fun is about to begin!”
The auctioneer’s voice thunders through the room, announcing that the first woman is about to hit the auction block. My attention cuts to the young woman stepping onto the stage at the front of the room in a sparkly crotchless one-piece.
I blink twice, unable to believe my eyes.