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21
EMME
The dress they’d chosen for me had a slight cling and a fine satin coolness to it that shaped into my every curve. At the bottom, a staggered fringe with tassels brushed my lower legs at mid-calf. I looked elegant, or so the mirror in the hotel lobby had told me. The little black shoes were medium heel, luckily, since the club entry involved a long set of descending stairs. Did Germans have a liking for underground restaurants?
My two escorts wore suits—also elegant and perfect, with burgundy-red and onyx-black ties. Down the front of Axl’s shirt was a row of engraved golden buttons that might be antique jewelry in their own right.
A semi-nude cabaret was already happening on a stage at the back as Axl, Grayson, and I were led to a table. The music was low enough that one could talk and order meals. From the ceiling hung rows of angular lights, and every table seemed occupied with couples, though a few held only men. Gay, or businessmen out on the town with clients? Or they were simply men who liked nude cabaret. The languages I could hear were a mix of several, with English as common as German.
After two glasses of wine and a meal I thought involved duck—Lukas had translated but I still wasn’t sure—I was feeling mildly buzzed, and if nothing else happened, this was a pleasant interlude before I went job seeking.
Axl had been asking me about nunneries and why I failed to follow through—a lack of true religious fervor was what I said, when really it was me doubting the existence of a god, any god. People had brought me to that.
I took a deep breath and said it, “Faith requires a certain amount of self-liking. I’ve lost it.”
Axl seemed taken aback. Yay, I thought. I scored.
“Why would it?”
“You’re not religious, Axl. I’ve noticed.” I drank more wine. The waiter wandered past, noticed the lack, and offered to top up my glass. I smiled and nodded. This was all so very polite. Politeness was good, but it was making me fidgety. “To believe in god you must think the human race worth saving. I don’t.”
“You know, Grayson.” He waved a hand across his friend’s face to get his attention. “We humans are shit. The majority of humans, that is. Maybe she’s right.”
“That there is no god? No idea. Not my field of expertise,” Grayson muttered, distracted. “The girls have left the stage, that I do know. Isn’t that your cue?”
Axl turned to me. “What’s your opinion of the CNC so far, Emme?”
I stared at him, blankly. “There is none. Obviously.”
I imagined they planned to tie me up and fuck me back at the hotel, which would be fine, but a little staid. I dared to look him right in the eyes and say, pointedly, “This night is very normal, considering.”
“I agree! See, Grayson, she says what she thinks!” Axl raised his own glass and chugged most of it. Then he clapped his hands.
Every single person in the restaurant slowly turned their chairs to face ours, creating a disharmony of chairs bumping, squeaking, and scraping. Then they sat back and stared. The music had also fallen to nothing, which made the last few who moved their chairs particularly noteworthy. Puzzled, I placed my glass on the table, preparing for some event.
The cabaret girls returned and lined the stage.
The waiters watched our table.
Grayson very deliberately picked up his chair, the last to do so, and put it down facing me. He sat again and lifted his glass.
I fluctuated between frightened and intrigued. This could be a scene out of a horror movie—being stared at in silence, as if I might sprout wings or antennae and turn into a giant fly.
“Now, Emme,” Grayson had donned his emotionless face. “You’re going to strip and go to your knees and beg us to fuck you here. If you don’t, every single man here will be holding you down while Axl and I do it anyway.”
The lights that had been illuminating the stage swiveled, sweeping across the floor until we were skewered by their glare.
I stood, slowly. I rotated my goblet on the table, thinking before I leaped. It wasn’t helping.
“What the fuck is this,” I whispered, then louder, “What is this?”
Everyone remained staring.
The lights swinging over in such a Hollywood manner had destroyed whatever ambience or terror they planned to manufacture. One of the women gave me pause—I would swear she was the one from that party whose eyelids had been sewn.
I’d been almost ready to believe, but I would bet that Axl and Grayson had paid off this audience. Whatever they were, whoever they might be—porn stars or just people vetted and willing to participate in this sinister show, I doubted they would stand still and do nothing, if I yelled rape.
I looked around again.
