Page 40 of Cruel Dreams

His words drop a pit in my stomach. How someone could say something like that so nonchalantly. Nathaliehas beenlocked up, just not in the way he means. I’ve been locked up too, and there isn’t any situation in which being a captive can be a good thing. It doesn’t matter how you lose your freedom.

“Hey, Spike. I can still do what I want,” she says. “He’s working all the time. What’s a girl gonna do?”

“Me,” Spike says and winks. “Ladies.” He unlatches the red velvet rope blocking the door and lets us through to the dismay of the others in line.

“Ash here tonight?” Nathalie asks over her shoulder.

“He might pop in, Huxley, too, and word is he’s pissed at you.”

Nathalie laughs, but a tightness forms around her eyes. “Yeah, well, he’s not the only one who’s angry I’m off the market.”

“Is the rock worth it, Nat?” Spike asks.

“Sometimes, I don’t know.”

She walks away, and Quinn and I hustle to keep up—we don’t want her to leave us behind. Weaving around packed tables and scantily clad waitresses, she leads us to a small, unoccupied hightop table in the back of the room, a gold RESERVED place card positioned in the middle. Through the sexy haze of neon track lighting, we can see the entire club, and I wonder if that’swhy she wanted to sit here. The building looks bigger from the outside, but when I ask Nathalie about it, she explains, “Ash made sure there are plenty of booths for lap dances and private VIP rooms that are equipped for more than that, if you catch my drift.” She smirks. “There’s a lot of space to play if a customer can pay and he can find a dancer who’s willing.”

I stare down at my lap. I know she means the rooms have, couches, maybe beds, and toys. Is that what Zane likes? Toys? He’s never asked me to do anything more than make love.

Quinn holds my hand under the table. She knows whenever I feel melancholy, and after so many weeks at the Crowne, she can always pinpoint why right to Zane. “He loves you how you are,” she whispers in my ear.

A waitress stops at our table and asks what we’d like to drink, and Nathalie orders a pitcher of Cosmopolitans. “Gotcha,” she says. “Be right back.”

We watch the women dancing, but I feel compelled to say something to fill in the silence. “Do you know the women on stage?” Three dancers who are still partially clothed are doing a routine in sync using the silver poles that are attached to the ceiling.

“No, not them, but I see some familiar faces.”

“Did you dance, too?” Quinn asks.

The waitress approaches our table and overhears Quinn’s question. She laughs. “Nat? Nah. She never danced, but her dates brought her in all the time. She knows her way around the back,” she says, setting three martini glasses and a tall, narrow pitcher in front of us. A pink stir stick glows inside.

Nathalie blushes.

She hurries off, and I say, “I’m sorry.”

Nathalie huffs. “For what? Me working on my back for the past seven years? Or Zane using me to shut all this down? I know some of the girls have a tough time and Ash isn’t always fair orkind, but Clayton gave me work and a paycheck when I needed it, and that’s what counts.”

“You’re beautiful. You could have gotten a job anywhere.”

“You can’t live on minimum wage, honey, and the Blacks pay a hell of a lot more than that.”

I did, but I wouldn’t have been able to take care of anyone else on what I made as a payroll clerk.

Nathalie pours, and I sip the tart cocktail, the glass reminding me of the evenings Zarah and I spent at the Sweet Apple. It’s citrusy, and the vodka softens the sting of her words. She’s defending Ash and Clayton and resents having to help Zane. Maybe she liked this lifestyle and she’s not grateful he rescued her from it. The glamour, the booze, the jewelry, maybe even the sex. Maybe all those things meant more than if a job got rough. Maybe she was lucky and didn’t have to put up with it very often. I don’t know Nathalie well and never wanted to get to know her. I see her as competition for Zane’s love and affection, and most of my thoughts about her involve wishing she would go away.

“You know he’s only taking advantage of women who are down on their luck. There are better ways to help people.”

She jerks a shoulder.

Quinn raises her eyebrows at me, but I can only shrug too.

Two different dancers begin a new set, and I’m starting to get antsy. We’re not going to find out anything tucked into a corner getting tipsy off martinis, but I need to play it cool. I can’t look like I’m scouting or I’ll draw attention to myself.

I wait until we’ve drank our way to the bottom of the pitcher and the waitress serves us another round. “I need to use the restroom.”

“I’ll go with you,” Quinn says, already wiggling out of her seat.

I frown, and she shakes her head so slightly I can barely see it. I relent. It’s not safe to go anywhere alone.

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