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“That was different.”
“How so?”
“I’m not getting into a conversation about power dynamics with you.”
“Thank God for that. I’m nowhere near wasted enough for that kind of talk.”
He raps his hand on the door, twice, then once, then twice again.
Nothing happens. “What did you think was going to…?” I ask before cutting myself off.
A grate in the middle of the door has slid open like it’s a 1930s speakeasy. I get a glimpse of a pair of dark eyes before the grate slides shut again. The door swings inward an instant later.
“So, are you still sure you’re right?” he asks. “Or you having a rethink about how well you know men like me? Shall we?”
I don’t move. “I don’t even know your name. Why would I walk into somewhere I’ve never been before at this time of night? There could be anything inside there.”
“Good call. You’re being cautious. That I can understand. This isThe Yellow Club. I am a member. You are my guest, so you may enter. That good enough?”
He walks through the door and disappears. I can hear music drifting out from somewhere. Jazz music but nothing too experimental. “What the hell,” I say out loud before following him in.
I find myself in a long corridor. The doorman is nowhere to be seen. My host grabs my hand, pulling me down between oil paintings that can’t be real. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. A Matisse. Two Monet’s. Got to be copies. Good ones, though, real good.
Under my feet is a red carpet with a yellow line down the center. “Follow the yellow brick road,” I say as we reach a flight of narrow stairs. “You planning to kill me?”
“What makes you say that?” He sounds offended.
“Building in the middle of nowhere. Stairs to nowhere. Come on, you gotta admit it looks dodgy.”
“You’re not locked in here with me. I’m not Hannibal Lecter. You can turn and walk out any time you like. Or you can come and have a drink.” He carries on walking.
I glance behind me before following him down. What have I got waiting for me at home? Unemployment and an empty apartment. I shouldn’t trust him, but I feel safe around him. I shouldn’t, but I do.
He’s stopped again, turning back to look at me. “You can go home and think about what might have been, or you can join me for one drink. I paid you twice what you were due. That gets me an hour’s company, doesn’t it?”
“Did you just compare me to an escort?”
“Nope. You must have imagined it.” He turns a corner and vanishes from sight.
I could leave. But Maddy isn’t back off vacation until tomorrow. I’ve got a whole lot of nothing to go back home for.
“Fuck it,” I say out loud and follow him around the corner and into a genuine speakeasy. There’s a stage with a woman in a silver ballgown. She’s crooning into a microphone, a jazz band plugging away behind her. To the right is a mirrored bar, stocked to the gills with every liquor bottle under the sun. Bartender’s younger than me, covered in tattoos and piercings.
To the left are a dozen tables. Men in suits smoking cigars and girls who look like they’ve come straight from the Paris catwalk occupy most of them. The men look a lot like my guy.
A few people nod at my host as he makes his way to the bar. The same people stare at my outfit. I feel like telling them I didn’t choose this shit.
I hurry to the bar in time to find two drinks already placed on the countertop. “Thanks Val,” my guy says.
“On the house, Jack,” she replies as he tries to hand over a banknote.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Word’s already out. You did a good thing tonight. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I do it for the money.”
“Sure you do. Just do what you’re told, right?”
