Nearly a century had passed since the Orient maids scrubbed his blood from the marble tiles.
In all that time, the staff’s determination to protect the clientele’s identities never waned. There could be no stray records kept.
An old song about Vienna crept onto the radio: “Wien, du Stadtmeiner Träume.” They hummed along as they wandered into the bar, swinging their interlocked hands, stopping before the fireplace. He roused the embers with a metal poker. Then, as she did every night, Sterling tossed the handover notes into the flames.
She took his hand, and he sighed, then threw the magazine in beside them. Fire curled around the Green Dahlia’s face until it fell to ash. They watched, their trance broken when the doorbell rang.
While Sterling took her place behind the desk, Fernando walked to the entrance. The curtain swished as he drew it aside, casting a sliver of his shadow behind him. The rollers screeched to a halt, like he’d been startled. He clicked his heel twice on the marble beside the carpet, a coded warning to pay attention. She looked up.
The curtain shaded half his face, his stern expression transmitting a hidden Best Friend Emergency Alert. His mouth tensed, his wide gaze flickered from her neckline up to her hair, then the outer corner of one eye crinkled, pointing towards the door, before his brows made a microscopic upward flinch.
She received his psychic message, which went something like:
Holy shit. Pull your shirt down, push your tits up, then fix your goddamn hair. You need to look really fucking hot, right fucking now, because your ex is about to walk in.
— 4 —Vier
A long time ago, for a short while, she had been Sterling’s.
Her white silk dress was conservative enough to pass in high society but snug enough to preoccupy the imagination. The ivory fabric marked her as one of Madame Weiss’s escorts. Her pale fur coat hung open to flaunt the outfit. If she felt cold, she didn’t show it.
Her platinum curls swung with every step she took, brushing the edges of her collarbones. Waves fell over one eye, ending at the corner of her parted red lips. Her lipstick was the same shade as Sterling’s. A cord of tension hung between them with the weighty chill of a strand of pearls.
She was there withsome guy.
“Your finest room. The name’s Mr. Lime,” he slurred, careening forward. He laughed at his chosen alias, thin lips slick with saliva, then ran his hand under his date’s coat, pulling her closer. He was a first-timer and drunk enough he’d forget the visit. Short, stout, ruddy-faced. He wasn’t wearing an overcoat, despite the weather. His suit wasWall Street Journalgray and cost more than Sterling madein two months, maybe three. He was grabbing the ass of the woman Sterling would have to call Mrs. Lime for the night. She floated. He staggered. While the embrace maintained the illusion that he held her, it was clear she was the only thing keeping him standing.
Had he arrived with his arm around the waist of any other woman, Sterling would have paid him little mind. Rich men were a dime a dozen at the Orient. Rich men who hired women like Mrs. Lime to escort them to whatever charity dinner they’d paid thousands not to eat at. She glittered so mediocre men could glow.
But none of that explained why she was here. Even the opulence of the Orient paled in comparison to the usual lap of luxury she got paid to lie in.
“Gladly, Mr. Lime,” said Sterling through a gritted smile, slapping the guest ledger onto the desk. She clenched her jaw as she flipped past pages of ciphered notes, and landed on tonight’s entry. Her sweating palms made her pen slippery in her grasp. Room 5 was free, the 1,001 Nights Suite. They’d take it, it was Mrs. Lime’s favorite.
Sterling had been her favorite once too.
She wrote in their aliases then shoved the ledger under the desk. There were two black leather menus tucked beside it. The first was the wine list. The second was the “Wine” List of Madame Weiss’s escorts. Mrs. Lime was one of them, though she wasn’t even described in the book. She didn’t need advertising.
The “Wine” List was part of Orient history. In the ’70s, high-end escorts waited at the bar, and single men rented a room before joining them for a drink. If a gentleman was interested in a lady, he offered her an exhorbitantly priced bottle of bubbly. If she accepted, her services came included in the cost. Nowadays, the Orient stayed out of the arrangement. Besides, people organized dates online. It all sounded so unromantic. Nevertheless, the champagne was as expensive as ever, but it didn’t come with the same sparkle.
Sterling turned to get their room key and heard a match strike behind her. This fucking guy. She spun, grabbing a glass ashtray from a drawer, which she held under his cigarette just in time to catch his ash.
“Smoking isn’t allowed in the lobby, though you may smoke in the room.”
If Mrs. Lime couldn’t control her date, Sterling was happy to put him in his place. The refuse bins in the courtyard seemed fitting.
Mr. Lime crushed the cigarette in the ashtray in Sterling’s hand. He was so drunk she was grateful he hadn’t extinguished it on her skin. “Apologies. I shouldn’t smoke, terrible habit. Please, take them,” he said.
He handed her the matches and pack, down to three cigarettes. Such generosity. Sterling’s professional veneer threatened to crack as she accepted his trash with a strained smile. The matches were from the Loos Bar.Oida. She’d had a drawn-out affair with the bartender there. It didn’t end well.
She shook the thought away, focusing on the guest. Mr. Lime’s fingertips were awfully yellow for a guy who claimed smoking was a terrible habit. He didn’t have a wedding ring, or the tanned outline of one. A flash of gold, diamond, and sapphire peeked from under his left cuff. A Cartier Love bracelet. It was solid piece of metal adorned with gold screws that fastened it around the wearer’s wrist. Harder to slip off than a simple wedding band. It was a popular accessory of the very rich and mildly kinky, precisely the Orient’s average guest.
She set the cigarettes aside and requested payment. Mr. Lime patted his pockets, and found he’d misplaced his wallet, along with his manners. Probably back at the bar with his coat. Shecouldcall the Loos Bar and ask them to send it over in a taxi. Hell, she still had the number memorized. Or take the excuse to turn them away for lack of payment.
“Let me take care of it, dear,” said Mrs. Lime, stroking his chest. Damn it. Too late to turn him away. The blonde counted cash from her clutch purse. Plus a tip generous enough to be deemed insulting.
Sterling’s lower lip fell. If Mrs. Lime was paying, was she on arealdate? Withhim?
Sterling asked them to store their phones, stifling a snarl. Mr. Lime continued searching his empty pockets, his anxiety threatening to sober him up.
