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That perfect meal at Nourriture seems like a lifetime ago. Trap standing up for me. For us. Telling the hostess and the world that he wasn’t going to hide in the kitchen.
Trap is out there. Trap will keep me safe.
I follow the crowd to the Heart.
The main event is already under way when I arrive. Gage Rider stands on a raised platform, a few feet above the crowd. This must be the dais the security guard at the front door had to put together on short notice. A thick velvet curtain stretches behind the stage, inky black in the darkness at the back of the Heart.
Gage looks like a movie star in his custom-tailored tux. He’s well over six feet tall. His athlete’s shoulders would strain any ordinary dinner jacket. Strands of gold gleam in his dark brown hair, and I can make out the gray of his eyes from across the room. He speaks into his hand-held microphone like he was born in a theater.
“Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. For your bidding pleasure. I present to you, kitten number two!”
The velvet curtain slides to the side and the audience applauds—men and women both. A spotlight finds the kitten, a full-grown woman. She’s wearing nothing but a wicked smile, a silver G-string, and her cat-eared mask. Her waist is so narrow it looks like she can’t possibly have room for all her organs. Her rib cage could be a sculpture at the Museum of Modern Art. Her small, high breasts rise and fall with her rapid breaths, and her nipples are so pink I’m certain she’s painted them with lipstick.
Gage speaks over the admiring buzz of the crowd. “Bidding will open at ten thousand dollars, ladies and gentlemen. Ten grand to play a scene with one of Kynk’s first-time guests.”
“Ten thousand,” calls a voice from the back of the crowd.
“Eleven,” someone counters.
The bidding works its way up in thousand-dollar increments. Kitten number two looks astonished by each new offer, her lips pursing in a perfect, knowing O. Gage only steps in when the bidding stalls at twenty-seven.
“On Masquerade night, the club stays open till eight in the morning,” Gage cajoles. “That’s more than seven hours to play with this very willing kitten. Your wish is absolutely her command.”
The bidding reaches thirty-eight.
“Do I have to remind you?” Gage asks. “All profits from this year’s Masquerade benefit Wounded Heroes United. Kitten number two wants to help our bravest men and women in uniform. Won’t you help fulfill her dream?”
The auction closes at fifty-two thousand dollars. Gage congratulates the winner, who steps to the podium with a spiked dog collar attached to a leash. Kitten number two kneels before her new master, accepting the restraint with another one of those sly grins and a gracefully bent neck. A roar of approval goes up as she’s paraded through the crowd.
I’m no professional auctioneer, not by any means, and my chosen area of expertise is art, not eager young women. But I admire Gage’s casual confidence, his easy rapport with the crowd. He calls after kitten number two and her buyer: “Wait until the last kitten before you start your scene. I don’t want you two stealing my bidders’ attention!”
The man holding the leash pretends to consider his options. But then he points to the floor in front of him. Kitten number two kneels, and he rests an easy hand between her cat ears. “Just for you, Gage,” the man calls. “We’ll wait just for you.”
The crowd laughs. And then the auction for kitten number three begins. She’s shorter than I am and outweighs me by at least thirty pounds. The garter belt around her ample waist attaches to fish net stockings. Her breasts overflow a tight-laced leather corset. Gage starts the bidding at fifteen.
Kitten number three brings in sixty-one thousand dollars.
Kitten number four backs out at the last minute, stepping off the podium and seeking comfort in the arms of three friends.
Kitten number five adds forty-eight thousand to the total.
A young woman steps up beside me as Gage starts the bidding on kitten number six. “Number seven?” she asks. “If you could come with me?”
It’s an offer. An invitation. I can decline, the same way number four did.
But I’ve spent almost an hour prowling through Kynk, and I’m no closer to finding Trap. No nearer to knowing why he came here, what he thinks he needs.
But I’m certain of one thing: If I step onto that stage, Trap will win my auction. He’ll make the highest bid without a second’s hesitation.
And that’s what I want.
I want him to know I followed him here. I want him to know I accept whatever drew him to the club. I want him to know I love him, despite his being here, maybe evenbecausehe’s here. I can meet him on his territory and be the woman he needs me to be. There’s nothing he can ask that I won’t give him.
Even if that means standing naked in the spotlight.
Even if that means playing out a scene with club members looking on.
He’s the man I’ve chosen. He’s the man I love. With him, I can do anything.
