A light tap dances across the door. Passion twists poke around the metal with a face that should’ve competed in Miss Universe. Rich truffle skin smoothed in copper glows under low light.
“It fits! Ready?” An accent waves through Rosalie’s Italian and her grin.
She’s the second person I met at Eden. The first was an Edna Mode lookalike, with a black bob to match, who didn’t blink at my pajamas. I was checked for weapons, made to sign an NDA, and taken to the dressing room.
No questions asked, another sign that freak behavior collects its mail here.
You said you wanted an adventure.
I tug my black lace thigh-highs. The clasps on my open stilettos glint. “Sì.”
Plush carpet absorbs the six-inch heels strapped to my feet. Lockers, bathrooms, a kitchen, and vanities shine under chandeliers.
“More thoughts?” Rosalie’s question floats from a foot above my eyeline. Her black leather bodysuit skates over her long, toned figure. It’s like mine, but it has shorts.
Do not ask about her career development goals.
“How long have you worked here?”
Rosalie’s brows tug. She squints across the hallway soaked in blue light. Her lashes fan her cat eye. “I. The—“
“English?”
“Yes,” she exhales, the gloss over her lips spreading her smile. “I’m still learning Italian. Sicilian, not so much.”
“I don’t know a lick of Sicilian, either,” I admit. “I’m new to the area.” Free will aside.
The hallway opens into a large room lined with black silk. Eden’s club, or disco, glows under purple lights swaying over a dance floor between two oversized champagne glasses. Femme figures in silver nipple covers breach the fizzy surface in G-strings.
“Three months.” The pitch in Rosalie’s voice drops under the crescendo of the DJ’s mix. “I left Angola with my brother after our parents died. We moved around but found our way to Sicily through Libya.”
Her stare lands on a corner bathed in gold, spilling onto black leather booths. “I work here as a server to afford school. I want to be a social worker to help families fleeing violence.”
I swallow hard. “You’ll do it.”
Thousands have died crossing the Mediterranean. Individuals and families battling deadly conditions for the chance at a better life on a safer shore. I remember the headlines. Standing next to Rosalie—someone whose experience feels so distant but is a reminder of the humanity behind the stories—cracks something in my chest.
I’m not tall enough to reach her shoulders, but I wrap my arms around her, my ass out for all to see.
“I should’ve asked if you’re a hugger before making this weird,” I sniffle into her floral-scented armpit. Drew Barrymore-like tendencies with people’s personal space aren’t a norm for me, but the hug felt right.
Rosalie squeezes back. “You are very kind, Bianca.” She fans her face. “No crying in the disco. Come.”
The lights in the room shift from blue to merlot, matching the wine glasses lining the bar’s granite counter. A small crowd gathers on the dance floor. Bodies grind in thin materials and pheromones volleying like the US Open. A few couples fill booths cloaked in shadows. For a club, Eden is intimate.
“You’re here to work off a debt?” Rosalie shifts a hip against the bar.
I tie the apron she provides around my waist. “Something like that. I owed a favor.” I could’ve minded my own business and stayed in bed, but boredom got the better of me.
“You wouldn’t be the first to work here temporarily. Women come and go all the time.”
“Is there a concern I should know about?” A warning bell shimmies.
Rosalie’s eyes dart toward a corner in the ceiling. She inches closer and lowers her voice. “No one talks about it, but two women disappeared. One a few days ago and the other earlier this month.”
“What?”
“Shh. Act normal. They don’t like when you ask questions.”
