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1
WREN
My black leather boots splash in the puddles as I trudge across the pavement, my destination looming ahead. Nerves run through my body, zapping at my spine, even though confidence drips with every sway of my hips. With the oversized parka I have on, it’s questionable, but fuck it, I know it’s there.
I need every ounce of confidence I can muster after the visitor I had a few nights ago. I should have expected a quick turnaround on what they wanted from me, but I was still surprised by the message I received earlier.
The message that has me trudging through the city a little after ten at night.
It feels like a lifetime since I’ve been in New York, even longer since I was last present in Richmond, Virginia. And between the two, the Big Apple sure feels safer.
Not warmer and certainly not drier, but here I am.
Thank God they sell umbrellas at the airport.
The neon light shining bright from across the road is enough to capture my attention. Despite its casual appearance from the outside, it’s all luxury inside. High-gloss woodwork throughout, high-end liquor as a minimum, and an even higher level of clientele. All for the love and desire of a sex show.
I’ve never stepped foot inside, but my research told me everything I needed to know; this place is dripping in money.
Burlesque is my preference over an aristocratic sex club, but it’s not my choice to be here. I didn’t choose the location. I’m here to serve a purpose, and that’s what I’ll do, but a nice view is appreciated.
As I lower my umbrella, droplets of rain catch on my newly bleached locks. After a quick shake, I step into the open doorway.
Plush navy carpets soften the stomping of my boots. With his black suit and white shirt, finished off with a bow tie, the doorman looks like a sophisticated maître d’ at an upscale restaurant with a six-month waiting list. He doesn’t seem to falter at the fact I bypassed the line of people desperate to get inside; instead, he greets me with a knowing smile teasing his lips.
“Good evening, Miss. How may I be of service?” he asks, lacing his fingers together behind him. I don’t miss the widening of his brown eyes, or the way his forehead crinkles with curiosity as I shrug out of my coat.
“I’m here to meet someone. There should be a reservation confirmed under the name of Steele… or Featherstone,” I add, uncertainty playing in my mind as I all but choke on the one word my entire family has revolved around for so long. Featherstone. A deceptively corrupt school for deceptively corrupt criminals that just so happened to be my home during my stay in Richmond.
My mind attempts to send me back to that fateful night almost six months ago, but I sink my teeth into my cheek, forcing myself to stay in the present.
The doorman swipes through the tablet attached to the podium beside him. He pauses a moment later, returning his gaze to mine. “I have a reservation under Featherstone here, Miss. Would you like to check your coat before you enter?”
With a nod, I hand over my umbrella before removing my coat, treating him to a full view of my revealing outfit underneath.
The doorman doesn’t utter a word at my scantily clad figure, likely having seen more on stage than I’m displaying anyway. A black silk skirt that barely covers my ass, the smallest scrap of material for panties underneath, paired with a strappy crop top that resembles a bikini. With all the exposed skin, goosebumps tickle across my flesh, the AC chill making its presence known. With the addition of the black, heeled boots into the mix, I’m definitely going to fit in downstairs, and that’s what matters right now.
Moistening my lips, I blink up at the doorman, who keeps his eyes on mine the entire time. He hands me a ticket before leading the way and I release a breath, readying myself for what is to follow. The black double doors leading inside open, a set of stairs stretching downward behind them, and I take my time following him, using the moment of calm to steady my nerves.
The soundproofing muffles the music coming from the other side of the doors at the bottom of the steps, and the doorman smiles at me before he pushes them open.
I’m assaulted with the sound of sultry dance music and dim lighting, but not too dark to be blinding, and I allow a small smile to form on my lips. The setting is… perfect.
The navy carpet continues from upstairs throughout the entire floor. A large glass and mirrored bar takes up the center of the room, seats circling around it, with a few tables and chairs dotted throughout the space. There are even a few secluded booths strategically placed, all of which have views of the exterior of the room.
Where the sins and pleasure play out.
There are at least six setups in place already, but my focus is more on the doorman leading me toward the bar instead of the shows.
It’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday night. Tables are quite full, and a few spots at the bar are occupied as well. When I'm led to a seat at the bar, separate from any other patrons, I sigh in relief.
“When the rest of your party arrives, Miss, you’ll be escorted to a booth,” he informs me, pulling out a seat.
He doesn’t wait around, not expecting a tip since the pay in this establishment is beyond the standard living wage. I know because I researched right down to that finer detail on the way over here. The fact that it’s operated and run by Featherstone makes it even more intriguing.
As a nineteen year old, I shouldn’t have a clue what any of this is, let alone what desires lie behind every door, but I’m a descendant of Featherstone, with a bloodline destined for a place like this.
I was groomed for it.
