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Before I have time to decide, the doorman unhooks the silk rope barring us and gestures us through the door into the club.
Whitney wraps her arm around my shoulders, encouraging me forward when I might have stayed behind. “It’s going to be fun!” she insists as she guides me into the club’s dark interior.
As the dim hallway opens up to the club’s main area, my jaw drops at the sight before me. It’s not so much a barre and a dance floor like I had imagined, but rather an elaborate display of various floors holding multiple kinds of entertainment lit with golden spotlights. The bottom level contains the dance floor, which is already teaming with sweaty bodies rocking and swaying to the club’s throbbing beat.
Along the far wall is a bar, backlit so the alcohol almost looks as though it’s floating on the glass shelves that hold it. A throng of thirsty patrons shuffle against the bar, calling for a bartender’s attention to get a drink.
In the recesses of the club’s alcoves, strippers perform for the men that requested them, some standing on tables or platforms, others providing personal lap dances. It’s an overtly sex-oriented display, and I’m somewhat shocked to see it so openly broadcast for the room.
But that’s not what has me in awe. Stairs punctuate the edges of the room on either side of the alcoves, leading up to separately enclosed areas decorated with fine white couches and modern coffee tables. Though the higher levels housing the VIP customers are a good distance above us, I can still see every detail about their space because, like the shelves holding the liquor at the bar, the VIP sections are made up of glass floors and railings. Sparkling flutes of champagne catch in the club’s lighting, looking like stationary sparklers waiting for someone to consume their bubbly liquid.
And above us all are several massive glass cages that dangle like ornaments containing scantily clad dancers that move about their enclosed spaces. A chill runs down my spine at the thought of what paperwork they must have signed to have agreed to be hoisted stories above the ground in a cube that could shatter and kill them if the single chain suspending them were ever to break.
“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Logan shouts in my ear.
I glance to look at him and realize his eyes are trained on the dancers above us.
“Terrifying,” I say.
“I’m sure they’re paid well, though,” Whitney observes. “Nothing wrong with a little risk to make your life worth living.”
When I glance at Whitney, she gives me a playful wink. Linking elbows with me, she drags me toward the dance floor. “So, we know you’re a proper ballerina, but can you get down and dirty like the rest of us?” she teases.
In all honesty, I have no clue. I’ve never been on a dance floor like this before. I let my new friends escort me, and once we’ve found a modicum of open space, we all cram in to start moving to the beat. My body’s not used to the motions my friends adopt as their hips sway and their shoulders roll rhythmically. I do my best to imitate them, but I know I must look entirely out of place.
As I dance, I let my eyes wander, trying to make sense of all the activities taking place around me. At one of the tables surrounding the dance floor, a couple makes out with intent, their hands exploring each other openly. I avert my gaze, feeling the need to give them privacy, even though they seem unbothered by their public display.
My eyes track to the VIP section just beyond them. One of the club’s dancers, dressed only in a thong made of fluorescent green fabric, lies back on top of the table, exposing her breasts and allowing one of the men there to tap white powder onto her flat stomach.
I watch him cut the coke right there on her body, and he snorts it before letting one of his companions join in and take a line. It’s all too much. I feel like my senses are on overload, no matter which direction I turn. The heavy, sweat-soaked air, the musty smell of moving bodies, the blaring music that throbs within my chest. The visual stimulation is overwhelming. Even on the dance floor, I’m intensely aware of the way people press together, gyrating in overtly sexual motions as men grip women’s hips and grind into them provocatively.
There’s something extremely liberating about it all, the sight of people drinking and dancing in such a carefree way. Despite my attempt to pace myself, just the atmosphere leaves me feeling intoxicated, and I’m bordering on dizzy.
“Just relax!” Paige shouts over the music, moving her hips to show me what she means.
I smile, doing as she says and trying to follow her lead. But my eyes continue to wander, taking everything in. I feel as though I’ve walked into some level of the underworld, exposing myself to all the depravity of society. And while I don’t know what to do with myself, I can’t entirely say I hate it. It’s simply fascinating.
Motion on the club’s highest floor–almost level with the floating dancers–catches my eye. I look up to find Nicolo Marchetti lounging on a white couch, his arms stretched across the back in a casual display.
Two women in short, form-fitting dresses that show off all their assets lean against him. Across the table from him, Nicolo’s brothers sit, staring out at the mob of bodies on the dance floor. They watch with a youthful interest that’s missing from Nicolo’s gaze. When I turn my attention back to him, I see his bored expression and the way his eyes comb lazily across the club.
One of the girls slides her hand up higher on his thigh as she crosses her leg and tips her hip, exposing her thigh. Both girls are breathtakingly beautiful, models, if I had to guess. Their long locks are coiffed to perfection, and their makeup is so artfully done, they almost look more like a painting than a human being. The girl sitting on the far side of Nicolo combs her fingers into his thick curls and the startling memory of how soft his hair is triggers in my brain.
Blushing profusely, I jerk my gaze away. I shouldn’t be remembering details about our night together after all these years. Then again, I haven’t slept with anyone since my first time with Nicolo. I’ve had too many other pressing things in my life to bother with romance. And after getting pregnant the first time, I’m not interested in casual sex. Not with my dream of being a ballerina at stake. I’m fortunate to have found my way through one unexpected pregnancy. I wouldn’t dare risk another.
Forcing myself to remain present with my friends on the dance floor, I keep my gaze locked on their faces. I won’t look at Nicolo again tonight. This is my chance to have fun, even if I feel like I’m worlds away from reality.
“Nicolo Marchetti is staring at you,” Tori says after several minutes of uninterrupted dancing. She leans close, shouting so I can hear her.
It takes all my discipline to stop myself from looking up to see. Instead, I shrug as I continue to sway to the beat. “Let him look if that’s what he wants. So long as he doesn’t come down here and bother me, I intend to ignore him. I’m here to have fun with you guys!”
But my stomach twists uncomfortably, and I feel his gaze burning into the back of my neck long after I’m sure he’s looked away.
6
NICOLO
“You think Dad will shell out enough cash to buy each of us a new car for our birthdays?” Lucca asks, his tone bordering on whiny.
