Page 13 of Devoured
CHAPTER 4
Roland
The receptionist’s eyes fluttered up to me. I flashed a grin. Recognizing me, she flinched.
“You’re here,” she said.
I leaned on the counter. “I am.”
Flustered, she went around the desk. “Follow me, sir.” Sir.Hah. The formality was amusing, different from the staff at my nightclubs. She opened the doors to the main building of the Dahlia District, leading in from the side. Harsh black walls. Velvet red curtains on a raised stage. A bar. A restaurant. A lounge with high booths. I recognized some of the men and gave my greetings. A few of the servers looked at me. Some of their eyes widened. My picture was often in the tabloids; they must have recognized me.
“I can take it from here,” I winked. “Thanks, doll.” The receptionist blushed, and I turned, scanning the space. The women were in various degrees of lingerie, some more covered than others. The waitresses at my nightclubs wore champagne bras under black bustiers; a little eye candy never hurt. The men were in suits, save for the bouncers wearing black button-up shirts and black trousers. One man in gray sweatpants sat in the very back booth. He might have paid an expensive monthly fee to get in here, but sweatpants? Really? That would have to go.
A curvy blond with two thick braids came towards me, her hips swaying with each step.
“You’re new around here,” she said, her voice sultry. “What’s your name?”
“Roland,” I said.
“Roland,” she purred. “That’s a sexy name. What does it mean?”
I chuckled to myself; she laid it on thick. “Not sure. But be a babe and show me where I can get VIP service.”
She smirked as if I had said something funny. “The entire club is VIP.” She cocked her head. “Were you looking for bottle service?”
That was another thing that would need to change. The space needed to be utilized properly. Even in a club that catered to the wealthy elite, there needed to be privileges. Status upgrades. Billionaires loved to show off their clout.
“How about the lounge?” I asked.
I offered her my arm and she took it. We went past the bar and restaurant, but when my eyes caught the stage, I stopped. A slender box laid in the center. With a loud crack, the box popped open. The music’s volume increased, and two feet reached over the side. Next the knees. Then the hips. The performer, still bent backward, her head presumably by her feet. When she shot up, she turned her head to the front, her eyes locking on me.
Iris. That woman from the other night.
“Come on, Roland,” the blond server said. “The lounge is over here.”
“You go along,” I said. I made my way towards the stage. “Order whatever you want. On me.”
The blond huffed under her breath, then disappeared. I sat in a seat in the back, looking up at the stage, watching as Iris bent and twisted her body in time to the eerie music. She balanced her entire weight on her hands as her legs bent in a loop, her feet by her shoulders. Then she unraveled in less than a second as if nothing strange had happened. Her hips and shoulders moved, turning in half, bending in ways they shouldn’t be able to. As if her spine could dislocate one disc at a time, until it looked like she might snap in half. Whenever her eyes met mine, she glared at me, as if daring me forward.
Iris, the contortionist. How had I missed that on her profile?
When the song ended, the audience cheered and she exited, taking a door labeledGreenhouseto the side of the floor. I went to the lounge, finding vodka in a bottle chiller, thanks to my blond friend, who had apparently found someone else to work her magic on. She sat on his lap, twirling a braid. Good for her. I wasn’t there to play; I was there to observe.
The Greenhouse doors burst open, and Iris emerged, now dressed in a black ensemble that wrapped in thick black bands around her small breasts, one around her waist, and one down over her slit. It looked as if a spider were gripping itself around her. Her eyes locked on mine, and she narrowed her gaze. I pulled at my shirt’s collar. Her glare put me on edge. Always ready, always willing to ask questions. She wasn’t trying to please anyone. Especially not me. I wasn’t used to it.
I lifted a shot towards her, and she declined the offer, so I tossed it back. I should have taken that sample of Molly before coming here.
“Take a seat,” I said, scooting to the side. She sighed, then slid in next to me, leaving space between us. I glanced down; the tattoos on her legs, a forest burned to the ground surrounding a deer’s carcass; next to it, a mouth swallowing an eye; her skin covered in lace designs; stitches etched into the skin; a three-headed faceless monster. Each piece of art blending into one another, each space filled with another black and mauve design, as if they were all part of the same chaotic universe in that brain of hers.
“You’re here early,” she muttered.
She didn’t have the voice to match the daunting gates she erected around herself mentally; her voice was smooth and rich, melting against me. It reminded me of an echo of light. I checked my watch.
“It’s—” I paused, “Eleven? The night’s just getting started.”
She scoffed, unimpressed. “I thought you weren’t coming until Monday?”
“Plans change.”
