Page 6 of State of Ruin

“Good,” she says, leaning forward. “I’ll get to the point. I was approached by a member earlier today with a proposal for you on behalf of another member. I don’t love it, but I’m obligated to pass it on—and, actually, I’d rather be involved than not, because this way I can protect you to the best of my ability.”

I stare at her, not processing what she’s saying, because I have no earthly clue what she’s talking about.

“A proposal?” I repeat. “What kind of proposal?”

She hesitates, raking her dark, choppy bob with her fingers. It’s extremely cool, just like everything else about her.

“One of our male members wants to have sex with you. He knows you’re not a host here, but he wants an hour in a private room with you, and he’s willing to pay ten grand for the privilege.”

My brain trips over the words. Sex. Private room. Ten grand. So clinical. So aggressive. And so… outlandish. I stare at her as horror and mortification mount in my body, no doubt broadcasting themselves all over my face.

“It’s unorthodox,” she continues quickly, “but not unknown. And, while this would be a private arrangement between two individuals and not something the club can officially facilitate, unofficially, there are things I can do to make sure you’re protected if you did want to move forward.”

She makes it sound like I’m considering buying a car off some sketchy dealer, not letting a guy have sex with me for money. I’m so upended that I don’t know what question to ask first.

Apparently, my subconscious makes the decision for me. “Who is he?” I ask. I don’t want to have sex with anyone, not like that—not for money. Not with someone I don’t know. But, obviously, I still want to know who he is.

“I can tell you his identity,” she says, “but not much else. He’s insisting on an NDA, but I told him that letting you know his identity before you signed anything was non-negotiable. I spoke to him briefly on the phone after his little pimp reached out to me earlier.” She purses her lips. She seems deeply unimpressed with both guys, which makes me feel better. Katrin is liberated in a way I will never be—she runs a sex club, for crying out loud—so it’s reassuring to see her troubled. No one is forcing your hand here, I try to tell myself. We’re just having a conversation.

“The member who’s interested in you is Sinclair Voss,” she admits finally, and my jaw literally drops open. “Yeah. Believe me, I know,” she says.

I don’t know what she knows, because my mind is spinning like a tornado.

Sinclair Voss.

The most eligible bachelor in Manhattan, if Page Six is to be believed, wants to pay me for sex?

I recall his intensity. Those eyes on me just last night, as shocked-looking as if I were speaking in tongues instead of laughing.

Pixie’s warning: Apparently, he’s an animal. Totally feral.

His question about whether I ever play upstairs.

And this is his response to the No I gave him—to counter by trying to buy me?

I don’t know what to think. I’m pissed, and I feel violated, but more than anything, I’m astounded. Like, come on. Plenty of guys hit on me at Alchemy, but this is Sinclair Voss we’re talking about. He can have any woman he wants. That blonde who was mooning after him, for instance. Why doesn’t he just go after her? Does he really dislike being told No that badly?

Perhaps that’s what Katrin is saying when she says I know. Perhaps she means all of it. Perhaps she finds it as peculiar as I do that he’d bother with a random bartender like me when she must know exactly what kind of man he is.

I say the only thing I can think of, which is, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Not surprised, hon,” she says. “And I want you to know I’m just the messenger. This is the last place you’d ever be judged for taking payment for sex, but it’s a lot.”

I blow out a breath. “Did he… give you any more details?”

“Not really. Honestly, the call was more me reading him the riot act. He couldn’t even do his own dirty work—got Felix Wolff to sound me out first, which is pretty fucking spineless.” She adjusts the pretty gold bangles on her slender wrist. “And I told him so, obviously.” I manage a weak smile at that. I kind of like Katrin going full mom on a guy like that. “But I’m here to remind you that you can say no with zero consequence to your job here—and if you ever feel pressured, by him or anyone, you come to me. You’re a bartender. None of them get to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I nod, trying to assimilate that information. This is just an offer. No one can or will make me do anything. Worst case, it’s just uncomfortable every time I have to serve him. I can live with that.

“If you signed an NDA, you’d get more color,” she continues with a shrug. “He’s already mentioned having a boilerplate one emailed over—it’s very standard for guys of his status. Think of it as a cost of entry into their world. You can bet your ass every woman a Voss man has so much as pecked on the cheek gets slapped with it. That way, all that bad behavior remains their dirty little secret. Jeez, the skeletons that family must have in their closets.”

“Right?” I say feebly, because, grubby and transactional as she makes that sound, I’m way more fixated on the grubbier and more transactional concept of having sex with Sinclair Voss for money.

Oh my God. I feel dizzy—and nauseated. It’s so horrifying to even think about. I mean, what would I do? Show up to some room and blow him off? Bend over for him? I’d be so useless. And I’d for sure clam up and be unable to perform. I’d probably try to crawl under the bed.

Obviously, he’s insanely, stupendously hot. That’s not the issue. He’s freaking gorgeous. It’s more that I don’t know him, and I have nothing in common with him, and how the hell are you supposed to walk into a room with a total stranger and feel okay taking off your clothes and allowing them to have sex with you? In what universe is that not horrifying?

I realize I’m the outlier here, because that’s exactly what happens, every single night, in a club like Alchemy. But I’ve only slept with six people, and all of them were boyfriends or at least guys I dated for a few weeks. I knew them all. I felt comfortable with them.