Chapter 16
Elene
Tonight is different. There are a lot more guests, which could be because it’s a Friday night and opening night had been scheduled on a weeknight. Miss Barry told us that opening night was primarily intended to serve as a trial and error to work through the logistics before it was open to more guests.
Tonight's guests are still an exclusive group, all of them VIP members, but there are more of them and they have been allowed to bring a guest along.
Based on my initial assessment when I made my first round through the guest room, it appears that about half of the clients took advantage of bringing a plus-one for tonight, and the majority decided to bring a date as opposed to a friend.
Miss Barry's eyes are on me tonight. She was rather skeptical when I told her I wanted to work as a devil tonight instead of an angel. I expected her to be happy about this decision, seeing that she was so disappointed when I first told her that I wanted to quit the agency altogether. Her reaction proved to be quite the contrary, however: she just raised her eyebrows and looked at me with a doubtful expression.
She's watching me. I can feel her eyes on me right from the beginning of the evening. She seems to cast me dark smiles whenever I catch and return her gaze as I slowly make my way through the main area of the guest room.
Everything about what I'm doing tonight is a lie, and the longer I wander around without finding who I'm looking for, the more I doubt my decision to dress like a devil.
I had imagined how tonight would play out. I would step off the stage after our ceremonial entrance into the room, his eyes would meet mine. I would stride gracefully toward him in my seductively revealing black lace, and he wouldn’t be able to hide the hunger from unfolding on his handsome face. His hands would be on me as soon as I reached him, greeting me with that alluring warmth that I've not been able to forget about, and then our breathless sighs would be swallowed into a sensual kiss...
I hate how much I want this.
I hate how much I want him.
And I hate how this image slowly continues fading away with every step I take wandering through the dimly lit room without a single trace of him.
He's not here tonight.
Fuck.
I mouth the word without actually saying it. I can taste the word on my lips, but it’s drowned out by the thrumming background music and the buzz of voices surrounding me while I stand in the middle of the guest room all dressed up but with nowhere to go.
I keep turning in circles as I continue searching the room for him, even though I know it's futile. But I can't stop myself. I don't want to give up and not believe he’s here, not just yet. I don't know what else to do other than to desperately keep hunting for someone that's nothing more than a fantasy, searching for the image that has haunted my mind for the past two days and compelled me to transform from an angel in white to a darkly attired lady of the night.
I'm so fucking stupid.
"Looking for someone?" I hear a voice say behind me.
I jerk around in surprise, and even though I know better, there's hope for a split second that the voice belongs to him.
But the eyes looking back at me are neither gray nor nested in the young and handsome face I was searching for. An older gentleman is smiling at me, his eyes as black as the suit he's wearing. I tower over him in my stilettos, and that bothers me. I don't like having to look down on a man. It feels wrong, unnerving, and anything but sexy.
I try not to let those feelings dictate the expression on my face when I reply.
"Just enjoying the scenery," I say, noticing that my voice is at that high-pitched level I have come to loathe over the years. It's not me, at least not the real me. I only speak like that when I'm on the job, when I'm faking it, which is exactly what I’m doing right now.
The older gentleman is smiling, in a docile and almost fatherly way. I have to refrain from flinching when he places his hand on my shoulder and gently pulls me closer to him. There's nothing creepy, forbidden, or wrong with him—but there’s also nothing about him that excites me. He's just a client like all the others. A man who is well-groomed, a little older than the majority of those here tonight, but still handsome and obviously wealthy. The smile on his face is as polite as it is wanton.
"Would the lady care for a drink?" he asks.
I know what he wants. I know where this is going.
And I know I can't stop it, because I signed up for this. I told Miss Barry I wanted to be a devil tonight, and devils play with clients if that's what the client wants. With the way he's eyeing me right now, there's no doubt that that's what he wants.
Shit.
I nod, reciprocating his smile. "Yes, thank you, that would be nice."
He removes his hand from my shoulder and places it at the small of my back instead, gesturing toward the bar with his other hand, and gives me a light push. I can't help but search the room again as I follow his gesture and head toward the bar. He's an old-school gentleman, as most of them are, and makes sure that I'm properly seated in one of the high chairs before he takes his own seat.
"You look like a wine girl," he reckons, placing his elbows on the bar as he calls the bartender over to us by raising his hand.
I smile at him. No, I'm definitely not a wine girl. I've never cared much for wine. It's too heavy for my taste, and it tastes too much like fruit. And I hate grapes. When he says that I look like a wine girl, all he's really saying is that I look like any other girl to him.
"Actually," I reply, still in that high-pitched fake voice, "I'd prefer a Manhattan. If you don't mind?"
I know he won't mind. He'd buy anything for me if it'd get him closer to his goal. They all wear the same smile on their faces when they are on the hunt, when they're still in that stage of pursuit where they’re trying their best to impress, even though they don't really have to.
He arches his eyebrows and nods.
"A Manhattan for the lady," he orders. "And your finest bourbon, neat."
I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes. Only an ignorant fool would order "the finest of" anything. It makes him look pretentious and like a lowbrow who wants to appear sophisticated when he's clearly not.
I welcome the drink with a bright smile, however, quickly reaching for the glass and toasting him before I take a large sip.
"You look so pure," he says, his hand already sliding up my thigh. "What brings such a young and innocent-looking girl like you to a place like this?"
I try not to shudder at his touch and bring the glass to my lips again.
"You say that as if this is a bad place," I retort. "Who says I don't feel comfortable in a classy environment, surrounded by good drinks and the company of true gentlemen like yourself?"
I pause, casting him a look that can be read either way—as a warning or as a seductive invite.
"Or are you not a gentleman?"
He removes his hand from my leg and leans back on his chair, clearing his throat.
"I certainly can be," he says. "But sometimes the ladies ask for something entirely different."
"Do they now?"
My stomach is turning, while I feel like there is a cold clamp tightening around my throat. Every fiber of my being wants to get away from here, from him. What the hell was I thinking? How could I play such a risky game just because I had this silly fantasy in mind?
And why is this so fucking hard? I've never had a problem shutting up the voices in my head from preventing me from doing my job before. Heck, they weren't even there a few years ago. I could just let go, get a little tipsy, flirt with men—even if they weren't my type—do the thing, please them, ignore the fact that my pleasure was mostly neglected in the process… it all worked perfectly fine.
Why did I have to change?
Why did he show up and accelerate that change?
My eyes wander as the man in front of me keeps talking. I nod at the right times, smile and laugh when I feel he expects it, catch his eyes when he raises his voice, and encourage him with a nod to continue speaking. I'm trained at listening while not really hearing what the other person is saying. Years of experience playing the date of wealthy men at high-class functions have taught me well. I don't know why so many of them insisted on taking me out to these places when they actually paid for me to have kinky sex with them. There was such an obvious age gap between me and most of my clients that it must have been apparent to everyone around us that I was a paid escort and not their actual girlfriend. Maybe they didn't care if people knew. Some of these men have no shame.
Just like the one who's vying for my attention right now. My mind is drawn back to him when I feel his hand trailing along my thigh again.
"Tell me about it," he says. He's leaning forward with his face close to mine, so close that I can smell the finest bourbon on his breath.
"Tell you about what?"
"The Velvet Rooms," he says, sounding slightly indignant. "The playrooms upstairs. I was told you girls could enlighten us—and you, little devil, have definitely been up there to play, haven't you?"
I have not. And I never thought I would want to.
I know one thing for sure, and that is that I don't want to go with him.
But it doesn't matter. I have no say in this, unless I want to anger the madam and cause an uncomfortable ruckus by denying a client for no apparent reason.
I will have to just grit my teeth and get to it.
"So?" the man urges me to answer, squeezing my thigh to get my attention.
I shake off the gnawing thoughts of doubt and reluctance.
"Well, there are different kinds of rooms," I say, a seductive undertone lacing my voice. "They are themed, specific to the guest's needs."
"Needs? Like what?" he presses, a lewd expression on his face, and I try not to shudder as his hand wanders higher up my thigh.
"Like pain," I utter. "Those are the red rooms, equipped with everything you could ask for to induce pain."
He growls hungrily and nods along as I speak, beckoning me to keep going. He moves closer to my waist, plucking at my black thong so it cuts into the soft flesh at my core. I flinch and let a moan escape my lips, playing along, acting as if I am as turned on as he is. I continue listing rooms and colors, possibilities and fantasies that I don't want to live out with him, while he can't wait to get up from these chairs and stare at my naked ass while I lead him up the stairs.
His hand graces the side of my torso, slowly traveling upward to my black bra with the sheer cups that reveal more than they hide. A forced smile crosses my face when he cups my breast, craving possession of something I'm not willing to give.
"Keep talking," he whispers, the lust flickering in his dark eyes while his mouth contorts into a dirty smile. "What else is up there? Where should I ask the lady to take me?"
Nausea feels like it’s choking my throat and steals my breath for a split second. This has never happened to me before. I've never suffered such repulsion at the thought of sleeping with one of my clients. I never had any feelings toward them at all. I never cared. But now I do, and I do it in the most awful way.
I bite my lower lip, trying to pull myself together.
"There's also...," I murmur, my voice barely more than a whisper as my gaze trails off again, locking onto a place far behind him, at the other end of the bar.
"The black room," I breathe, staring at the man who has robbed me of my sanity.
Gray eyes stare intensely back at me, and I’m further mesmerized by the man’s dark hair that is neither black nor brown, but something in between, and the dark smirk gracing the most handsome face I've ever come across.
Damon Graves is standing at the bar, his eyes glued on mine.
And my lips move in a silent and desperate cry for help.