Page 44 of Perfect Assumption
Angie turns her ridiculously beautiful face from where she’s been staring out the window toward me. “No. I’ve always wondered what it was like after hearing such intriguing stories about it.”
I grab hold of the conversation gambit like it’s the bottle of Gatorade being shoved at me when I finished running the New York City marathon. “Who mentioned what Redemption’s like to you?” It’s not like the goings-on inside are state secrets, but most of the people who gain access to the velvet-shrouded nightclub tend to downplay what occurs to keep the mystery intact. Then again, owner Marco Houde rarely lets things stagnate for long. He’d never be able to keep up charging such exorbitant fees otherwise.
Angie’s dress rustles against the leather of the seat as she repositions herself. Instead of answering me, she grumbles, “Your sister’s a menace.”
“Carys?” I ease the car smoothly off Amsterdam Avenue onto Harlem River Drive. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I can’t figure out how to lean my head back without either permanently endangering the leather of your seat or jabbing myself in the head,” she clarifies.
I stifle the shout of laughter that wants to escape. Her sense of humor is like a beaming ray of sun. “You’re not worried about messing up your hair?” Any other woman I’ve escorted for any sort of event—including my sister—would be more concerned about ensuring they didn’t ruin their appearance for their grand entrance. Angie is so oblivious to hers; it’s refreshing.
“I think it might take an open flame for me to fear that, and Becks has never mentioned those when he talked this place up.”
Becks. Just hearing his name pass her lips makes my hands tighten on the steering wheel. “The two of you are close?” I phrase it as a question instead of the accusation of how she can tremble so hard from my lips and hug him so easily.
“We are,” she confirms without saying anything more, increasing my frustration.
“Were you a fan of his?” I glance over at her to find her face scrunched in concentration.
“A fan? I guess. I liked some of his songs, but to be honest we didn’t form the bond we have until a few years ago. He’s…” Her voice trails off, her face turning back toward the window.
“What?” Anything to keep her talking.
“Different. People make a lot of assumptions about him that just aren’t true. I know how that feels,” she concludes softly.
I’m about to ask her what she means when I realize even within the confines of the car, she’s drifting away. Instead of going down that line of questioning, I decide to yank her back to now. With me.
I figure it might be prudent to brief her about what she can experience once we get inside the club. “If you’ve never been to Redemption, there are a few rules you should know. First, no cell phones unless you have explicit permission from the owner.”
“What? Really?” Her head swivels back around so fast, it sends the gold at her ears dancing. I press my lips together to hide my smile. Carys must have shellacked her hair since it doesn’t move an iota with the swift motion.
“Yep. Everyone is scanned—though I’m not certain how. Must be something super high-tech. This includes VIPs—which for tonight’s purposes we are.” Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I forge on. “If you want, leave yours here in the center console.”
I lift my arm as Angie slips hers out of her evening bag and drops it in. After I snap it shut, I drop my arm back down. “I’ve been to the club numerous times, both with and without clients. When you first step beyond the curtain, there’s a moment of darkness that might throw you off.”
“Ohh-kay.” She drags out the word.
“The staff will be closing one set of soundproof doors and open another in the anteroom. And then it’s anything goes.”
I can’t prevent the smirk at the small squeak in her voice when she asks, “Define ‘anything’?”
I shrug beneath my silk shirt. I feel like I’m initiating a virgin to sex for the first time. “Picture the most tactile experience you’ve ever had and magnify it by a thousand. The lights bounce off crystal chandeliers, the floors shimmer under the lights. The music’s loud, but it heats your blood versus destroying your hearing. And every surface that doesn’t hold a drink in a public area is covered in velvet.”
“Now, I’m anxious to see it,” she finally declares after a moment of absorbing everything I’ve said.
“Let’s not forget about the dancers,” I tack on smoothly as I turn off 179th Street.
“Dancers?”
“Oh, they’re strategically placed. They’re, um, meant to charm the guests.”
Angie crosses her legs in a dress I thought it would have been a virtual miracle for her to be able to do so in. “Do you mean the half-naked exhibitionists Becks tells me about? The ones with the…instruments…they use on each other?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” I laugh ruefully. “And here I thought I was going to shock you with that bit of knowledge.”
“Gee, thanks for the pep talk, Ward. Like I’m not anxious enough as it is.”
I concentrate on driving, recalling when Angie walked into the living room at my sister’s.
