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“Will you be okay tonight?”
A look of resolution flashes over his face. “I'll be fine.”
I’m not going to insult Theo by second-guessing him. “Okay. Did you see Catherine's email about the Larson account?”
We talk about work for a while, and then I head to my room. I’m thinking about Addie, about what Theo said.You’re like two peas in a pod.
She didn't want to eat with us. She didn't want to be seen. As someone who's been the reluctant subject of far too many tabloid hit pieces, her reticence makes perfect sense.
And she hasn't been to the club in a few years, not since Elliott Meyer got sick. I picture the elevator doors opening and Addie stepping out. Everyone at Club Ménage will respect her privacy, but they will still stare.
If I were Addie, I would hate the feeling of being exposed.
I pick up my phone and call Xavier. “I need something.”
“I've already introduced you to Adelaide Byard,” he responds coolly. “That’s all I said I’d do. If she’s not interested in you, then leave her the fuck alone.”
Xavier doesn’t know about tonight? We reserved a private room; I thought he’d know. His attention must be somewhere else. “We’re doing a session tonight. That’s not what I’m calling about.” I cross the room in restless strides. “The private rooms have employee entrances, right? Can you arrange for Addie to use them to get into the club tonight? I don't think she'd want to walk through the main floor.”
“Yes, I can do that.” Xavier's voice thaws fractionally. “That's thoughtful of you.”
He doesn’t have to sound quite so surprised; I’m not a complete wanker. “I've done my good deed for the year then.”
9
ADDIE
It's almost nine. I only brought one dress to wear, so I can't even try on multiple outfits to quell my nerves. It’s my favorite black dress. The silk fabric is soft and light. The dress is cut on the bias, and it drapes over me like a dream. It’s one of the few items in my wardrobe that has no memories attached to it. I’d walked by a store window this summer and bought it on impulse, even though I had nowhere to wear it.
It's just sex,I tell myself.Some spankings, a blow job or two, and hopefully an orgasm. You've slept with people before without catching feelings. This is not new. You’ve done it before, and you can do it again.
It still takes me an ungodly amount of time to apply my makeup. Not because I’m doing anything elaborate, but because my hands won’t stop shaking. I apply waterproof eyeliner, waterproof mascara, and smudge-resistant lipstick. A good BDSM session almost always involves tears. Tonight will put my makeup to the test.
At five to nine, there’s a knock on the door. My pulse starts to race. I slip my feet into painfully high heels and make my way to the door. I'm expecting to see Theo there, or Shane, or both, but instead, a club employee dressed head-to-toe in black greets me. Her badge identifies her as Nicole. “Ms. Byard,” she says pleasantly. “I've been asked to escort you to the Romanov room. If you’re ready, please follow me.”
Okay.
As she leads the way to the elevator, my palms go damp with sweat. I didn’t think this through. I haven't been to the club in ages, but Elliott and I used to attend regularly. It’s Saturday night. It's a little early, but the club will still be busy. Everyone will stare at me when I walk in. When Reed sued me, people took sides. People I considered friends. People we met regularly at the club. I might run into them here tonight, and the thought makes me feel like I'm going to break out into hives.
The elevator whispers to a stop, and the rear elevator doors slide open. We’ve arrived, but this is neither the main floor nor the club floor. “This way, ma’am,” Nicole says.
“Umm, where are we going?”
“To the Romanov room,” she repeats. She looks at my confused expression and elaborates. “Mr. Leforte directed me to escort you there using the employee entrance.”
Phew.Thank you, Xavier.Intense relief fills me. The club has rules about privacy, so I won’t end up in the tabloids. Even so, trust is difficult.
We walk down a flight of stairs and through narrow corridors. Nicole pauses in front of a plain black door. “The Romanov room,” she says. “Have a good evening.”
Then she melts away.
The door is closed. It feels like I’m at the edge of a precipice. One step forward, and I’ll either crash on the rocks below, or my parachute will deploy, and I’ll float among the clouds.
You want this. You crave this. Don’t chicken out now.
I lift my hand up and knock.
10
