Chapter 8
Damon
A few familiar faces pass my way as I roam the main room. My movements may seem aimless, but I have a clear goal in mind.
I know I can't touch her. She's an angel, dressed in white and only here to provide innocent entertainment for the guests. No touching, no playing, and definitely no fucking. I hate how much this limitation annoys me. I didn't know what to expect when I came here tonight, and I didn't know what it was exactly that would make The Velvet Rooms so special, except for their strict exclusivity. We were told that the girls would show us.
I've been approached by several of them tonight already, all devils, each one of them making eyes at me, greeting me, some of them even touching me, stroking my arm with their elegant hands as they tried to lure me into a conversation. I recognized a few of them, but the recognition was one-sided.
Not a single one of them showed any sign of remembering the night she shared with me, and I don't blame them. Each girl had only been booked by me once, leaving no impact other than the memory of a heated one-time encounter, a quick release, a short-lived fix. It's only because of my photographic memory that I remember them many months ago.
As I meander through the room, catching smiles left and right, I try to gather a better understanding of the premises' layout. I know there are two levels and the upper level has little to nothing in common with the open area on the ground floor. A spiral staircase at the far end of the room leads up to promising darkness, though I haven't seen anyone go up there yet. Clients are not allowed to go up there without one of the girls accompanying them. They need to lead the way. The actual velvet rooms—play rooms most likely, some private, others semi-private—are upstairs. The madam told us the rooms were themed, but she didn't go into detail.
"The girls will tell you," she said. "Just ask them whatever you want to know."
My curiosity is growing stronger with every passing minute. My eyes keep traveling back to the staircase again and again, wondering what awaits upstairs.
But only a devil can satisfy my curiosity and escort me up to the second floor. Too bad that none of them hold my interest as much as she does.
The platinum-blonde angel is sitting on one of the high chairs at the bar, her legs crossed and her body turned away from the main room and any potential conversation partner. She's different from most other girls, not only in regard to her extravagant appearance, but also in the way she carries herself. While other girls—no matter whether they're dressed in black or white—openly seek attention from clients, sometimes almost forcing their way onto a man's lap, she's aloof and unapproachable. Nothing about her signals being interested in any kind of exchange, even though I've seen her talk to one or two clients this evening. They had approached her, opposite to what seems to be the normal conduct between clients and the ladies.
Everything about her body language told me that she felt uncomfortable talking to them, but she tried to fight it. She forced a smile, nodding along to whatever they were saying, but never said much herself. Despite her alluring appearance, it didn't surprise me that both men lost interest rather quickly.
She's one of the untouchable angels, and a quiet one at that. There's very little reason to pursue her when the room is filled with numerous other beauties, the majority of which would not only be more willing to speak to them, but also spend time doing a lot more than that.
Regardless of these observations, she still piques my interest. If anything, it increases the allure. She's a challenge, a dazzling mystery. Her distant charm has me mesmerized, and I know it won't go away until I've had her—one way or the other.
She's by herself now, her back turned to the room, uninviting, not calling for interruption. I remain unfazed by the wall she has built and stride toward her, my steps unhurried, but wide and determined.
She doesn't move or even acknowledge my presence when I come to a halt next to her, placing my elbow on the countertop of the bar and sit down on a high chair, close enough for our legs to touch. The bartender notices me right away and juts his chin toward me, ready to take an order. I glance over to her before telling him what I want. My observations during the past few minutes have convinced me that I need to follow up with a move that successfully catches her attention.
"A Yamazaki single malt for me," I order. "And a Manhattan for the lady."
"Very well, Sir Graves."
The girl turns her head abruptly and her eyes dart in my direction. She looks irritated, but just for a split second before she remembers her place. Unlike me, she's on duty right now. No room for rudeness.
"Thank you," she says. Her voice lacks sincerity, but it makes me weak in the knees nonetheless. Airy and strong simultaneously, yet carrying a quaint kind of wisdom that matches her ethereal look. She's so fucking... surreal.
Our eyes linger on each other, and before I can break the silence that stretches between us, she adds, "How did you know that's my drink?"
"Because I've been watching you," I reply bluntly.
"Oh," she counters, a smile flashing across her pretty face.
"Besides, you strike me as a whiskey girl."
She raises her eyebrows. "Do I now?” She falters and casts me a quizzical look. “What's a whiskey girl?"
She's still withdrawn, her legs crossed and pointing in my direction, and her upper body is still facing forward but not to me. She's eyeing me cautiously from the side, not looking directly at me as we speak.
"One that resembles the nature of the spirit," I explain. "Calm, reserved, strong in its own way, full-flavored."
If the light was more revealing, I'm sure I would see her blushing right now. The bartender slips the drinks onto coasters in front of us and retreats to the other end of the bar, leaving us alone. She deftly brings her dainty fingers to the glass and offers a subtle toast, a soft smile on her lips.
"And you're a whiskey man, it appears," she acknowledges, nodding toward the drink in my hand. "But I guess every man in here is."
I nod my head in thought. "Some people say whiskey is liquid sunshine—can't ever have enough of that in your life."
"Poetic," she comments, her dry, sarcastic tone contradicting the word.
I observe silently as she takes another sip of her drink. Every one of her movements is rehearsed. The way she's holding the glass to her lips, how she's sitting, her smile, even the way she speaks. It's evident that she senses the eyes on her—not only mine, but those of others here tonight. I'm entranced by her. I'm sure she must sound completely different when outside the club. I want to hear that voice, I want to see that face, that body. I want to see all of it without the mask, without the act.
I take a sip of my drink, feeling the burn wash down my throat. "What are you doing here?"
My abrupt question startles her. She swallows hard, putting the glass down on the bar top before she turns to me, her surprised eyes questioning.
"What do you mean?" she stammers.
She gestures down her body, my eyes following her hand as it travels along the outline of her white corset, her perky cleavage pushed up almost seemingly to her chin, the laced wrist cuffs, the French manicured nails.
"I'm an angel," she says. "Here for company, but not for—"
"I know what you should be doing," I interrupt. "That's not what I'm asking."
She tenses up, her eyes locking onto mine while she processes my words. Her demeanor has changed from apathetic to highly alert, as if she's afraid of getting caught. I’m suddenly struck by a dark suspicion and the blood runs cold in my veins.
Is she not here of her own free will? Is she being forced to work here?
No, that can't be it. She's a Violent Delights girl. I saw her when I was here visiting Miss Barry several months ago, and she confirmed that she worked here.
So why is she acting so out of place? The thought incites a flurry of questions to streak through my mind. Why does she look at me like that? Why do her shoulders rise up to her ears? Why is she biting her lip like that? Why are her refined fingers fiddling nervously with the glass in front of her?
"You look uncomfortable," I observe. "You're the only person in this room who looks fucking uncomfortable."
She flinches.
"Is that why you came up to me? To complain?"
"I'm not complaining," I object, shaking my head. "Just observing."
She takes another sip from her drink, a rather big one this time.
"I'm sorry," she says solemnly, as she places the glass back on the counter. "I guess I'm just nervous. It's my first day."
"It's everybody's first day here," I remind her.
She frowns. "Yes, but I mean..."
"And you're not new to the agency."
Her gaze turns to me, and this time she doesn't even try to hide her irritation. "How would you know that?"
I shrug. "It's true isn't it?"
She bites at her lip again and her eyes drop, idly resting on the Manhattan. Her shoulders tuck in and sink, signaling defeat. I don't like that look on her, and what bothers me even more is that I don't understand it. Something is bothering her, and I can’t figure out what it is. I hate it when people don't let me read them.
"Look at me," I demand, and she complies immediately. Her eyes obediently find mine in a robotic motion, even though her focus lacks conviction. She's the type of girl who will go down on her knees if you tell her to, the type of girl who will spread her legs for you, the type of girl who aims to please, without asking for anything in return except payment from a satisfied client.
I can handle that type. I've had years of practice.