Page 101 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Carrson glares at him, then at me, as though I personally arranged the entire evening to test how many Brothers he could maim before sunrise. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking deeply offended by an outfit he can’t stop staring at.

I leave him to brood and look past the men.

The main room opens around us, enormous and theatrical. Three elevated stages rise from the center, the largest directly ahead and two smaller ones flanking it. Each has a chrome pole extending toward a ceiling lost in red light and drifting smoke.

Women move around them in sequins, feathers, and scraps of jeweled fabric. One hangs upside down from a pole. Another lowers herself toward a man seated at the edge of the stage.

Red velvet booths curve around the room in descending tiers. Gold railings gleam under chandeliers made of dark crystal, and servers weave between crowded tables carrying champagne, liquor, and trays arranged with pills and thin lines of powder.

Among the white and pale pink powders, one line is black as obsidian.

Devil’s Dust.

A server pauses beside a booth and offers the tray as casually as if it holds appetizers.

My stomach contracts at the sight of it laid out so openly. A devil’s drug in the devil’s club. Apparently, the Beaumonts take their branding very seriously.

Servers arrive with metal buckets packed with ice and bottles of champagne and liquor. Drinks are poured, and the conversation remains lively. The Brothers spend more time talking to one another than watching the half-naked women.

Maybe the women aren’t the entire reason they come here. Sinners seems to be as much a private club as a brothel, a place where Order men can drink, negotiate, and misbehave without consequence.

All around us, women murmur in men’s ears, and one by one, deals are struck and couples slip toward the doors.

Thomson has joined Carrson and me. He and Carrson speak in voices too low for me to hear, their expressions serious. When their conversation ends, Thomson leans back, bringing his shoulder closer to mine.

“Where are they going, the men and women?” I ask him.

Color rises into his cheeks. “There are rooms on this floor for private dances. Lap dances. Or they may be going down to the lower levels.”

“What’s down there?”

“Bedrooms. Each one has its own theme.” His blush deepens as he concentrates very hard on the drink in his hand. “For them to, um...you know.”

“Have sex?”

Thomson closes his eyes. “Yes, Laurel. To have sex.”

Intrigued, I lean closer. “What kind of themes? Like pirate? Medieval?”

Thomson shoots to his feet so fast his knee clips the table. “Maybe you should ask Carrson.” Then he hurries away.

I’m halfway through a plate of truffle fries when the music changes.

The lights over the center stage dim to a deep amber, leaving the crowd in shadow. A man steps through the curtain wearing nothing but a narrow triangle of black fabric tied low around his hips. He’s tall and broad, with a body shaped by hours of lifting himself above the floor. Golden-blond hair falls across his forehead. Oil gleams over the ridges of his stomach.

Sam stops with her drink halfway to her mouth.

“Well,” she murmurs. “Dinner and dessert.”

“There are male dancers?” asks Abbie.

“Just because we can only bond women,” answers Wesleyson, “doesn’t mean that’s our preference.”

The dancer wraps one hand around the pole and walks a slow circle. He shifts his hips, rolls one shoulder. His free hand passes over his chest and down his stomach, stopping at the scrap of fabric as the music sinks into a heavy rhythm.

Sam makes a strangled noise beside me.

“You okay?” I ask.