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Cold air blew on her from the air vents, interrupted by a balmy breeze whenever someone opened the door. She should go outside, get some air, move her body after sitting all day.
Before setting the phone down again, she tapped out the letters in the web browser search bar.
It turned out Octavia’s wasn’t far, practically around the corner.
A note in bold text on the website explained that first-time visitors should complete the online application, then wait for a text-message link to download an app. The app unlocked the door once you were outside the club.
Quinn appreciated the security, but she didn’t need the application or the app—she was not going inside Octavia’s; she was just taking a walk in that direction to pass the time while she waited for Jonathan to land.
She closed the paper, put the all-too-quiet phone in her purse, hoisted the straps onto her shoulder and left the coffee shop. Despite the darkness, it was still hot out, and a trickle of sweat slid between her breasts.
As she got closer to Octavia’s, the butterflies in her stomach switched from flitting to panicked acrobatics.
Just passing by.
A small silver-gilt rococo Octavia’s sign hung on a lamppost outside a stately brownstone. Swirls on the staircase’s wrought iron balusters, two well-tended garden patches on either side of the steps, ivy raining down from the window boxes—it would be easy to mistake for a private residence if you weren’t looking for it.
Not that she was lookingthathard for it.
Burgundy drapes covered the front windows, concealing the view inside.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, what was she doing here?
With her black A-line skirt and black and white polka dot blouse, she was more appropriately dressed for a job interview at a library, not a visit to a dungeon.
But she was not visiting a dungeon. She had just walked by because she happened to remember that article.
Although, if shewereto poke her head in for a second, for curiosity’s sake, at least she was wearing black, and her heels were high. In the profile, the writer had made a big deal about how Octavia’s members came from all walks of life and experience levels, how it wasn’t all leather and latex, that patrons often showed up in their street clothes. Why had that detail stayed with her?
She reached into her bag and checked the phone again.
Wherewas Jonathan? She pictured how he tied her hands and surprised her with sensations that wiped her emotions clean. If only that state of obliteration had lasted longer, if only she could have bottled it for when he was away.
She saw two choices. She could go back to the coffee shop, order another latte, tap her foot, and sit there in damp panties, hoping he would text soon, or she could go home to that empty house, alone with too many memories.
Actually, there was a third choice. She could enter her information in the fields on Octavia’s secure website, download the app, and unlock the door. Just out of curiosity, just to pass some time.
Only once.
She took a deep breath, followed the instructions online, and tapped the app’s “I’m here” button when it appeared.
The lock on the heavy wooden door under the stoop clicked and, squaring her shoulders, she pulled it open.
* * *
The womanat the reception desk smiled warmly, the kind of greeting you wished for at the doctor’s office but rarely got. “Hi there, I’m Vanessa.” She extended her hand across the marble countertop. “You’re new.”
“I am,” Quinn said nervously.
“Well, welcome.” Vanessa’s eyes sparkled in the dim light, and her smile put Quinn at ease.
Vanessa asked to see Quinn’s ID while the printer behind her spat out a sheaf of pages. She picked up the stack and slid it across the counter.
Club rules.
The first three paragraphs, all bold type and italics, emphasized confidentiality. What happened at the club stayed at the club.
No problem agreeing to that; it wasn’t like she would bump into anyone she knew here.
