Page 20 of Spades

8

MADDOX

Alissa’s eyeshave been wide as saucers ever since I took her through the Green Door. She has what we at Aces call “newbie eyes.” Most people have the same reaction the first time they see the club. I certainly did when I first came here. When Rouge Montrose, the current owner, took over fifteen years ago, she really leaned into the theming and made this club the most unique gathering space in Chicago, if not the country.

I try not to think about Rouge too much, but I can call a spade a spade. She does a great job running this place.

Alissa is the first woman I’ve brought as my guest, and I’m so glad that I get to introduce this place to her. The entryway is a little bizarre—Chet does us no favors on that front—but it’s worth it to descend the mirrored staircase to see this place.

“My I take your coat?”

She blinks. “My coat?”

I nod. “I’ll take it over to the coat check.”

“Oh, of course.” She slips off her jacket and hands it to me. Underneath, she’s wearing a gorgeous light-blue number that matches her eyes. Her tits are spilling out of it, and I discreetly place the coat over my crotch to cover my reaction.

I quickly check Alissa’s coat and then cross back to her. “Would you like to dance?” I ask “Smoke? Maybe a game in the Diamonds section? Or just a drink?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not much of a smoker or a gambler.” She looks over at the Hearts section. “I wouldn’t mind a dance. But first I’d like a drink, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Of course not, Alissa.”

God, her name. It’s so melodic. Her name would fit perfectly into a verse of poetry or a classic song by one of the great rockers of the seventies.

It would sound even better being moaned out of my mouth while she sucks the life out of my dick.

All in good time, Maddox. All in good time.

I grab Alissa’s hand and lead her to the Spades section. We each take a stool at the bar.

The two bartenders, DeeDee and Dudley, look up at me. They always wear the same matching outfits here at Aces—blue-and-white-striped sweaters, creamy khaki pants, and white sensible shoes.

“Gin and tonic for me,” I say to them both before turning to Alissa. “And what’s your drink of choice, Alissa?”

She smiles at the bartenders. “I’ll have a dirty vodka martini, please.”

DeeDee and Dudley both nod and begin to work on the drinks.

Alissa lifts a hand. “Wait. What kind of vodka do you have here? The bottles aren’t labeled.”

Dudley looks up at her and then looks to me, his eyebrows raised.

“She’s new,” I tell Dudley. I look at Alissa. “They’re not allowed to talk to us.”

Alissa widens her eyes. “What?”

“It’s part of the club dynamic. Bartenders and waitstaff aren’t allowed to speak while serving. It’s to encourage patrons to socialize with each other rather than with the staff.”

“But how am I supposed to know what kind of vodka they have here?” Alissa asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “They only use the top-shelf stuff. Any drink you get here will be a hundred times better than a drink you’ll get anywhere”—I point to the ceiling—“in the mainland.”

She chuckles at that. “The mainland?”

“That’s what club members call the space outside of Aces. The place where everything is normal, rigidly focused. A city of rational business.”

She nods, her eyes narrowing. “Interesting. You guys have your own little culture here, don’t you?”

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