Page 38 of Lair

As the men are led away, I fall in step with the glamazons. I’m preparing a peace offering in my head when the tallest of them quips out of the corner of her mouth, “Welcome to the sugar babe parade.”

“What?” I splutter, feeling the blood rush to my face. ”Oh, no, I’m not—”

“I’m rather new to the whole yachtsman sex toy thing,” says my new best friend, flicking painted nails. “But... does your guy always send you back to your suite after fuck time? Like, I never actually sleep in the same bed as him.”

One of Spalatro’s girls chimes in. “And what’s with the suits, and always staying inside?”

I still at that. “Always?”

The girls nod. “I mean, it’s like they think they’ll burst into flames if they go out in the sun. Why bother owning a yacht if you can’t even enjoy it?”

As the models gossip away—“I’d watch that one... Anatoly? He likes ordering obscure cocktails so he can fire the stewardesses who can’t prepare them”—I watch Adrian’s back as he glides inside the Lair, my neck prickling. It’s the feeling of something concealed from me—all around me, but concealed—something I cannot guess at. Not dark with malevolence: a silly, tiresome, harmless little secret, surely. If anything at all.

What childish thoughts I am having.

We retire to the entertainment lounge with its plush leather seats and dazzling chandelier. The businessmen glide about in suits that shine like sharkskin, sinking onto sofas in lordly laziness. The women dutifully drape themselves over them as Adrian and I settle into armchairs beside each other, fingers brushing. I feel a reassuring crackle of electricity at our touch.

It doesn’t last long.

“My dear Voper,” Anatoly opens in a thick but refined accent, “whatever happened to your parade of blonde supermodels?” His haughty eyes alight on me before dropping to Adrian’s fingers all but joined with mine, and Adrian’s hand retreats into a clenched fist on the armrest of his chair.

Oh.

“People change,” Adrian says stiffly, and Anatoly’s lips seam back in a smile. His teeth, I note, are yellow, and very long.

“Do they?” he croons, and exchanges a smirk with Spalatro. “Well. Taste does, apparently.”

My heart is hammering as Thea and Mrs. Colding sweep in for cocktail orders. Thea gives me a hard, speculative look, and I shift my crossed legs, fighting a hot flush of shame. How ridiculous I must look in this shimmering gown, these earrings, this lipstick. A country rube playing dress-up with the adults.

The orders blur in my ears—“A Hangman’s Blood”, Anatoly sweetly purrs—and I wave off mine, my stomach revolting at the thought of alcohol. The stews withdraw behind the marble bartop, and Anatoly resumes his fun.

“The Commodore sends his greetings.” His voice is low and cool. A cat playing with a mouse. “He’s missed you.”

Adrian’s voice, in turn, is hard as granite. “I’ve been busy.”

Spalatro regards me with faint amusement, one long, pale hand resting on a bare thigh beside him. “We see that.”

My cheeks grow hot. There is a tension here, some old wound these two pasty parasites obviously delight in reopening, but I don’t care to learn the details at the moment. My head is roaring, my shoulders trembling with suppressed anger. So when attention turns to a kerfuffle behind the bar, I seize the opportunity for an escape.

“Be right back,” I promise and saunter away, not waiting for Adrian to respond. His eyes are down, his hands fisted, and despite my anger I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

Thea and Mrs. Colding look up from their hushed conference as I approach. “What is it?” I whisper, and they glance at each other. Thea is pale and trembling.

“His drink,” she mumbles. “Anatoly’s. I can’t remember the recipe. It’s not in the mixology book, and the wifi is shit right now.“ She waves her phone, voice rising in a frazzled panic. “If I can’t give him what he wants—”

“Okay, okay. Here. Let me.” I scoot past behind the bar, switching smoothly into bartending mode. A calmness settles in me as muscle memory flows back into my hands, and I start grabbing bottles.

“How do you know this?” Mrs. Colding hisses.

I shrug. “I was always doing exotic cocktails to impress my friends, back when I tended bar. I’m... not great at small talk, so this was how I could socialize. By doing something.” I swallow back a flood of self-consciousness, glance over to see Adrian is watching me, having heard every word, and shake a lock of hair out of my face. “Anyway. This one’s double measures of gin, whiskey, rum, port and brandy.” I slide open the back bar cooler and peer at the selection of beers nestled in chips of ice. “Do you have a stout beer?”

Another exchanged look. “I can get one from the beach club bar,” Thea offers.

The stout’s added, and I top it up with champagne. The end result is a dangerously dark-looking concoction. Thea deflates in teary relief, runs a hand through her hair, sniffles—and crushes me in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers fiercely, and pulls back. “I’m sorry if—if I’ve been a dick since—”

“No, really, it’s okay,” I smile. “Just—let me do the honors?”

She nods, and there’s a small, admiring smirk on Mrs. Colding’s face as I turn and march up to the waiting guests. They’ve all been watching this scene with undisguised interest, eyebrows raised. I hold out the drink to Anatoly like a coronation tribute. “I hope it’s to your... taste, Anatoly Anatolovich.”

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