Page 6 of Tarek

“Sir, Ms. Veronica Tate is at the house. Should I send her away?” Walter, as always, sounds clear and calm.

I look back at the ladies on the bed. One is already between the legs of another, while the other has gone to an antiqued Chester drawer searching for only God knows what.

I should have the feeling of wanting to hang up and get back to bed. Rubbing my forehead, I wait for the desire to enter into my body. Nothing, zip.

“I give up,” I mutter, bending to pick up the jacket again.

“What is that, sir?” Walter asks.

“Nothing. I will be there soon.” I close the phone, stuffing it into my pocket. With my jacket over my arm, I stroll over to the bed.

“Ladies, as much as I want to stay, I have to go.” I give them a charming, empty smile.

As expected, they all clamor, rising to the bed with their hands outstretched, begging me to stay.

“Do you have to go?” The brunette asks, as I hold her chin and peck her softly on her lips.

“I do,” I reply.

The red head is vying for my attention, coming up to her knees and softly turning my head to hers.

“We are just getting started. Your new girl can wait.” She closes her eyes and places a soft kiss on my lips. It was so practiced, so fake? Is that what it is? Does it all feel fake?

“I would love to stay, but... Enjoy your night, Bella.”

After kissing the last one, I give them a small salute and I exit the room. Now I have to get home to end a situationship that never should have started in the first place.

The halls are dimly lit, accent lights hover over pieces of erotic art. The first painting that catches my eye is one by famed artist Gustav Klimt. Some people may be aware of his famous painting called The Kiss. I needed something more scandalous on these walls and Gustav Klimt has never been one to shy away from a scandal. I was in England when I attended a party hosted by Lord Tristan Blackstone, and after an unnecessary game of strip poker, I won this painting. The painting depicts a woman with her dress thrown over her knee as she masturbates. Her hand is placed on her vulva, but the reality is, nothing is really seen. In fact, it’s your mind that imagines the scene for you. It’s fucking brilliant if you ask me.

Walking further down the halls, I’m presented with only silence. When people hear the words sex club, they think of different themed rooms and moans streaming through the walls. They always think people are fucking moaning.

The truth is, yes there are themed rooms. My favorite just happens to be one made for voyeurs, people who get turned on by watching. We have what we like to call viewing galleries for that. It’s really a win-win situation because the exhibitionist, the attention seekers, they welcome voyeurs with open arms.

Rooms do vary. Nowhere has five floors. The fourth floor is reserved for VIPS. The ornate design of the gold and black bird cage elevator stands before me. This was the main reason I bought this building; this beautiful elevator was created by an old company called Otis. I paid a hefty sum to have the glass paneling and some of the steel replaced. It adds a timeless sophistication to Nowhere. I shrug into my jacket, pulling at my lapels and sleeves.

Closing the gate in front of me, I press the G for the ground floor.

The elevator hums as it gently ushers me down. Nina Simone's sultry voice echoes as through the halls as the elevator come to a halt.

Opening the elevator gate, I walk into the bar and theater area. No one pays attention to my presence. Not that I can blame them, since Teresa, a new Brazil burlesque hire, dances across the stage with two large white fans. Hiding her voluptuous body behind her fluttering feathers, she drives patrons into a frenzy as she teases the fans slowly her over her legs, but never over her ass.

“T,” someone shouts. Not many people call me T. As a matter of fact, it’s a selected few. But that deep baritone dipped in honey can only come from one person.

“Jasp.” I move to the bar, smiling at my childhood friend Jasper. Who has now grown a full beard, and his noticeably long hair is wrapped on top of his head, only to showcase his undercut.

I slap his shoulders, slipping onto the barstool next to him, and he sips on what I am sure is white rum and sprite. It happens to be his favorite drink.

“Well, if it isn’t the rock star of the 21stcentury,” I tease.

“I hate that fucking article so much. I can wait to get my hands on that fucking reporter. He is dead,” Jasper grunts.

I nod to my bartender Candy and within seconds, a bourbon and ice slides in front of me.

“I thought your ass got a fucking DUI. Are you supposed to be drinking?” I ask, chuckling to myself since I know that very question is going to piss him off.

“Fuck that DUI.” He snaps “I’m a fucking adult. I drink when I want to.” In defiance, he knocks back the glass of rum and taps his finger on the bar for another.

“Where is your sexy librarian babysitter?” I glance around the room expecting to spot Jasper’s curvy little shadow hovering nearby.

---