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And that, to some men, is the most potent of aphrodisiacs.
She must be looking for someone in particular because she coyly slips away from every man who approaches her, even though I imagine each must be more persuasive than the last.I watch her like watching a hare trying to outrun the hunter’s dogs.
If she doesn’t find her man soon, someone else will snap her up. It’s only a matter of time. I can already see Aaron Reynolds, the fat American investor, waddle his way from the smoke room, his eyes almost bulging out of his purple face as he leers at the curve of the girl’s ass under her short red skirt.
Maybe she has good survival instincts, or maybe she’s lucky. The angelic devil heads to the bar right before he reaches her, and he takes one look at me before deciding against following her.
She’s about two feet away from me at the bar, but she’s the closest person to me still. Maybe she hasn’t noticed the wide berth everybody else is giving me; maybe an angel like her isn’t capable of spotting a devil like me despite the costume she’s wearing.
“Vesper martini, please.”
Her voice is feminine and sweet. She taps the tips of her fingers on the smooth black surface of the bar. I turn slowly to look at her; I take her measure in a list of details, quickly noted.
Dark eyes, the true colour of the irises murky, almost imperceptible—perhaps green.
Crimson eyeshadow, faint glitter, matching the colour of her lipstick.
A slow, hesitant manner of moving. She fixes her devil horns; she pushes the long strands of her hair from her shoulder, smoothing it between two fingers with dreamlike slowness.
Her heels are high, so she’s not as tall as she appears. She did not walk here.
But she came alone—of this, I am certain. She is, if not my age, then close to it. She is, if not wealthy, then married to wealth. She might be wearing a ring underneath her gloves, though I doubt it. She’s not a club member, so she must be a guest.
Whose is she, then, and what sort of guest? Daughter or lover? Knowing my clientele, she could be either, or both at the same time.
Against my better judgement, I speak to her.
“Who are you looking for?”
She turns to look at me with some surprise. The smile she was wearing for the bartender fades then reappears—a flicker, a quick readjustment, like a pretty machine recalibrating.
She’s not wearing lipstick, I realise, but a tinted gloss that makes her lips look like they’ve been bitten raw. Her smile is particular, somewhat wolfish despite its apparent sweetness. Her canines are sharp, and her two front teeth overlap slightly.
The kind of vain, vapid upper echelon dilettante I took her for would have had that fixed a long time ago. Either this woman is less wealthy than she appears to be, or her ego is less fragile than I assume. It doesn’t matter which of these things is true—something about this woman gives me pause.
“Oh, nobody,” she says. She looks distractedly away from me and across the bar, picks up the drink the bartender slides over to her, takes several sips. “I’ve always wanted to come here, but…” She gives a little nervous laugh for no reason, then she looks at me and blinks slowly. “I suppose I’m not looking for anyone since I seem to have found you.”
I tilt my head ever so slightly. “Have you?”
She tilts her head, almost mirroring my movement. “Have I what?”
“Foundme.”
Taking her drink and her tiny purse, she crosses the distance between us, settling her things next to my untouched drink. Her eyes remain on me, and there’s a twitch in the corner of her smile. Probably nerves.
“I suppose it depends,” she asks, a little arch. “Who areyoulooking for?”
I’m not looking for anyone—I never do. I don’t come here to drink or indulge; I don’t even come here to admire what I’ve built. I don’t come here to look.
I come here to be seen.
Everyone here is within my power, but power is useless if it’s invisible. My presence at my club is an unspoken reminder of my omnipresence in the lives of my patrons. Men have short memories, some shorter than others.
But I see them notice me. Every single one of them noticed me tonight. The Austrian barons and British dukes, the Saudi princes and US senators, the tech billionaires and Wall Street autocrats, the heirs and heiresses and their parents.
Every last one of them has noticed me at the bar, their nervous glances sliding over me before falling away. They hate looking me in the eyes.
Everybody does.
