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“Not too busy,” Merle answers, distracted. “Want me to take care of that?”
“If it's not too much trouble,” Dillon says, coming up from behind. Bella glances at him, rolling her eyes, but he just smiles as though not catching her drift at all. He's a stubborn one, like a puppy trying to hump her leg.
Once we are safely inside, Bella lets go of my elbow. I kind of miss it. I like having her holding onto me as we are walking. She steps cautiously ahead, craning her head to see around the corner to the main ballroom. Dillon and I draw up behind, happy to witness her reaction.
It's a large room, painted black with LED chandeliers in waterfall patterns dripping colored lights onto the stage. The stage is black and mirrored, where three of the most beautiful women you've ever seen dance slowly and suggestively, wearing nothing but eight inch high platform heels.
They’re so lovely and fit, they hardly look like people. Their skin glows in the light. Below them are seven or eight of the city's wealthiest business owners, frozen in admiration as these goddesses dole out minuscule portions of their attention.
“You brought me to a strip club!?” Bella hisses.
“I brought you to our private club,” I correct her. “The most exclusive club in the city. Who's gonna tell? Her?” I gesture at the stage. Bella squints in that direction.
“That can’t be — is that — no,” she scoffs. “That can’t be her. But it looks just like her!”
For a moment we all just watch the nearly six-foot beauty, undulating like an ecstatic cobra. Her wide hips twist and rock subtly, mesmerising the businesspeople who slide hundred dollar bills into neat piles below her heels, not daring to go any further.
“Of course it is her,” I assure Bella. We don't even dare say her name out loud, that's how famous she is. “Why would I have anything but the very best?”
“She's famous!”
“That's why she's the very best,” I shrug.
It's fun to watch Bella's expressions as we slowly cross the room. The music is loud but low pitched, coming at us in concussive waves. Not that idiotic Cherry Pie bullshit they play at every other kind of club. This is real sex magic, the sort of music that vibrates your nethers until you want to explode.
Only the best.
“Let's get a private room,” suggests Dillon.
Bella takes a few steps and turns around, thrusting her palms out at us again. “I'm not sleeping with you guys,” she announces. “I don't know what you're used to, but I'm not. This is a job. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Settle down, Queen Elizabeth,” I tease. “Dillon just wants us to be able to talk and hear each other. Why are you so obsessed with sex anyway? You should calm down.”
I hear her snarled objections behind me as I walk past her toward the quiet hallway with small rooms. The third one has a green light so we can enter. I hold the door open for her politely.
Now, truthfully, we really could all have sex in here. It's a ten by twelve suite with burgundy velvet curtains and a couple of leather armchairs, plus a wide bench and a sling in the corner. Through the opposite door is a private bath with an extra large shower. I could probably get two or three more people in here if I had to. We could almost live here.
But it's also useful for having a private conversation. That part is true.
“So here's the plan,” she announces, turning around and crossing her arms like she's rehearsed all this. “Your merger is in less than three weeks. Emmet, you and I will appear in public two or three times a week. Hannah's assistant will make sure there's a different blogger there every night. Perez Hilton should be here by the end of the three weeks, so we’ll make sure he gets the best view… maybe a wardrobe malfunction, or —”
“Rooftop sex!” Dillon interrupts.
She clenches her jaw. “No.”
He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.
“Well… okay, how about this: Emmet would probably go down on you in the Buckingham Fountain. He's done it before, to excellent reviews. All you have to do is ask.”
“Absolutely not!” she huffs.
“Fine,” he retorts. “Then I will go down on you in the Buckingham Fountain. Geez! Picky.”
She plops into one of the armchairs, crossing her legs and drumming her fingertips together. I see that she's becoming furious, but she's not that easy to crack. Aside from getting her to verbally spar with us, the doesn't seem to be a lot of room to get her really riled up. She's a tough cookie, this Bella Cage.
So, always up for a challenge, of course I am ready to try some more.
“Let's start again,” she suggests, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe you don’t understand what I am doing here? I’m not some twit who’s all star-struck and gaga at your celebrity. None of that means a thing to me, do you understand?”
