I hate that I want him to.
Once he disappears upstairs, I try to enjoy being alone.
That lasts about four minutes.
A waiter brings sparkling water and a plate of small things I do not recognize but immediately decide to trust because Roman is bossy about food in a way that has worked out well for me so far. I pick at them and watch the club.
It’s fascinating when I stop feeling out of place long enough to look properly.
The women are different here. Not freer, exactly. More deliberate.
A brunette in a silver dress sits on a man’s lap near the bar, but she’s the one watching the room, not him. Two women by the dance floor speak to each other behind their hands while staring at a table of men with the cool assessment of buyers at an auction.
The men are worse.
Some try too hard to look dangerous. Those are easy to spot. They sit with their legs spread, their watches visible, their voices loud enough to prove they are not afraid. The truly dangerous ones are quieter. They are the men no one interrupts. The men servers approach from the side. The men who look bored until they are not.
Roman belongs to the second kind.
I take a sip of water and tell myself that’s fine.
I already know he’s dangerous.
After a while, I need the washroom.
I look toward the stairs.
Roman is still gone.
His man near the wall glances at me when I stand. I give him a polite smile and point vaguely toward the sign near the back corridor. He looks like he wants to object, then seems to decide no reasonable adult woman can get into trouble walking twenty feet to a bathroom.
Poor man.
The downstairs washroom is terrible.
Not dirty in the normal sense, exactly. The counters are marble, the mirrors are gold-framed, and the lighting is flattering. But one sink is wet, one stall has a broken latch, and there is a strong perfume smell failing heroically to cover smoke, spilled liquor, and something chemical. Two women stand at the mirror touching up lipstick while pretending not to cry. Another sits onthe counter texting with the dead-eyed concentration of a person making a bad decision.
I take one look at the line and regret having a body with needs.
A blonde woman beside the sink catches my eye through the mirror.
“You’re not from here,” she says in English.
The accent is American.
I blink, surprised by the familiar language. “Is it that obvious?”
She smiles. She’s pretty in a sharp, glossy way, with a short black dress, a fur jacket slipping off one shoulder, and eyeliner precise enough to frighten me.
“A little. Also, you looked personally betrayed by the bathroom.”
“I was promised luxury by the rest of the building.”
“Yeah, downstairs is for everyone. Upstairs has the good one.”
I glance toward the door. “Upstairs?”
“VIP level. Past the lounge rooms. If you’re with someone important, no one will stop you.” Her eyes flick over my dress, my earrings, the coat I left at the table but apparently not the invisible sign Roman has placed on me. “You are, right?”
