Page 13 of Whatever Lola Wants

“Oh. I guess that makes sense. Hey, Grant?”

Lola heard a muffled, “Yeah, sugar?” from the other end.

“Did Michael ask for references from you before you joined the club?”

“Yeah,” she heard Grant say, his voice closer to the phone. “And he watched me like a hawk until he was sure I was a safe player. Is that Lola?”

“Yeah. She says he’s checking references.”

“SOP, baby.”

“SOP?”

“Standard operating procedure,” Grant explained while Lola flipped open her kit.

Needles lay individually packaged, arranged according to gauge, their colorful hubs visible through the clear packaging. There was a little spray bottle labeled ‘alcohol’, a sharps container, black nitrile gloves, a tube of antibiotic ointment, some medical grade absorbent pads in sterile packaging, and a medical stapler.

“Lola? Are you still there?”

“Hmm? Yeah.” Lola scanned the kit, making note of the things that needed replacing before tomorrow night. The needles didn’t expire, but she’d want new gloves and ointment, alcohol, and it wouldn’t hurt to turn in the sharps container for a new one. Closing the kit, she reached back into her toy bag and came up with a pair of leather cuffs. “I’m just going through my toy bag.”

“You have a toy bag?”

The shock in Anna’s voice had Lola snorting out a laugh. “Of course, I have a toy bag.”

“What’s in it?”

Lola grinned, fingering the rope. “If I pass my audition, I’ll show you.”

“Not the poky bits,” Anna said immediately.

“Not the poky bits,” Lola agreed. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

She clicked off, setting the phone aside as she continued to pull items out of the bag. Vampire glove, steel claws. Beloved old friends, out to play again. She hummed with pleasure, then turned to look back at the closet.

What was she going to wear?

At eight-twenty-five Friday night, Lola stood outside the building that housed Odyssey. She knew from Anna that Michael lived in an apartment on the top floor, and that the first three floors were dedicated club and play space. She’d only seen the club level, the night she’d accompanied Anna last fall to meet Grant. She’d come as moral support that thankfully hadn’t been needed, but she’d enjoyed a very nice glass of scotch—and put it on Grant’s tab.

She’d figured it was the least he could do.

She shouldered her bag, automatically adjusting her gait to account for its weight as she strode to the entrance. She’d dressed simply in jeans and a white t-shirt topped by a black blazer, and her footwear—red vinyl boots that peeked out from under the cuffs of her jeans—matched the just-in-case outfit she had stashed in her bag.

She reached the heavy double doors. Assuming they’d be locked, she lifted the heavy door knocker, gave it two bangs and stepped back to wait.

It took a few minutes, but the door finally opened with a creak. The face that poked out wasn’t friendly—shaved head gleaming white in the security light, black goatee, obsidian eyes. He scowled when he saw her, and the scar that slashed through one cheek deepened. “We don’t open for thirty minutes. Come back.”

“I’m here to see Michael,” she told him.

He paused. “You’re Lola?”

“Yes.”

In any other context, the up and down scrutiny he subjected her to would’ve pissed her off, but she understood it was part of the game. Finally, his gaze returned to her face, and she arched a single eyebrow. His lips twitched once before he scowled again.

“He said you’d be by,” he finally rumbled and shoved the door open.

She stepped past him with a gracious smile. “Thank you.”

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