Chasing Frost

by Isabel Jolie

  The door opens, and a tall, muscular man blocks the entrance. He takes one look at Chase, and a big smile spreads across his face. From my hidden perch, his teeth glow white. The guy is enormous in a bodybuilder kind of way.

  Chase disappears inside, and the door closes again. The black sedan drives away.

  I cross the street. My heels click clack across the pavement. A stumbling couple turn the corner and approach the door Chase passed through. The woman is giggling and leaning on the man for balance. The man appears fairly intoxicated himself. He pounds on the door, and the woman squeals. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming here.”

  “You love it.” When the door opens, he’s sucking her face.

  I stand on the corner of the street, fully aware that I probably look like a prostitute. But, standing on the corner, I can observe without gathering suspicion.

  “What the fuck? Let us in, man.”

  “Members only. I can’t letchu in.”

  “Come on. It’s Caitlyn’s birthday.”

  “How much have you had to drink? Fuck. Did you take a cab?”

  The next thing I know, he’s leading the woman and man over to the far corner. All three are shouting at each other. That’s when I notice the door is slightly ajar. The bouncer left a wedge in place to keep the door open.

  Headlights appear farther down the street, and the bouncer waves his arms. When the cab pulls to a stop, the woman falls backward, and both men huddle over her while peals of laughter fill the street.

  I jump at the opportunity while the bouncer’s back is to the door and he’s working in tandem with the drunk guy to try to pick the woman up from the sidewalk and get her into a cab.

  The last thing I hear as I slip past the door is the cab driver shouting, “Aw, man, I don’t want no vomit.”

  A dark, velvety curtain hangs from the ceiling, feet from the door entrance. A pulsing beat with a deep bass plays and the lights are dim.

  The bouncer will be back any minute. I need to move. Exhilaration courses through me, my senses on high alert. I slip past the velvet curtain and find myself in a bar.

  I survey the area. Maybe ten small round tables line the perimeter. The front of the bar is wrapped in leather, and about fifteen bar stools are in front. A man and woman sit in one of the small tables with cocktails. Three men are seated at one end of the bar. A lone man sits about midway along the bar talking to the bartender. Club music pulses louder on this side of the curtain, uninhibited. Velvet curtains hang, covering all walls. There are no windows. It’s difficult to discern where the door is as the heavy drapes hide all exits. No emergency signs light the way. This room is not to code.

  I stand to the side, partially hidden by the velvet curtain. I don’t see Chase. I watch as the lone man stands and pulls back the black velvet curtain on the far side of the room and disappears.

  I straighten and nod to the bartender. He focuses on the drinks he’s mixing, disregarding me. I stride toward the same panel I saw the man go through. Behind the curtain is another door. The music plays louder.

  The man I followed is engaged in conversation with another man. They appear to be watching video on a phone together, with both heads bowed and focused on the screen. The man is standing behind something that looks like a hostess stand, and there are small cubbies behind him that are filled with phones and slim evening bags.

  I inhale and go for it, stepping past the men, aiming for a confident air, and slip past another velvet curtain.

  A blue light over a center stage lights the room. On stage, a woman is down on her knees, blowing a guy.

  So, it’s that kind of club. I’ve read about these places, but I’ve never been to one. I’m staring, transfixed. I force my gaze away from the performance and survey the room. Farther off is another dark stage, with a cross and swing. All along the perimeter of the room are dark alcoves. Rhythmic, low music pulses as a backdrop. The walls and floor are black.

  One entire wall is a series of alcoves with leather semi-circle booths. A man sits in the back of one booth, his head tilted back, eyes half-closed and a look of ecstasy plastered on his face. His hand presses on the back of someone’s hair, forcing the head down. The table is pushed back, giving them enough room. The space is dark, but the two are clearly visible.

  A woman parades by dressed in heels and a black leather thong. The piercings on her nipples shimmer in the blue light. She smiles at me as she passes. In another booth, the woman crawls onto her companion’s lap. She’s wearing a looser skirt that drapes his thighs. His hands grip her hips, and he guides her up and down.

  The carnal scene is an assault on the senses. It’s dreamlike. A bizarre fantasy. I sink back against the black velvet curtain, thankful I’m wearing a black dress, but fully aware I’m not invisible. My demure, chaste black cocktail dress, as compared to the attire of the other women in here, hardly fits into this scene.

  What the hell is Chase doing?

  Nine

  Chase

  * * *

  “Do you wanna go in the back?” Brittney presses her barely clothed body up against mine, and her hand grazes my crotch.

  I lift her hand, polite and all, but I’d rather she not fondle my junk. I’m not anywhere near drunk enough for this shit.

  EJ sits back in the center of the booth, watching the show going on stage, while Blue Bell cradles up beside him. I step back. I have a hunch what her hand’s doing underneath that table, and I’d rather not see it. Sure, voyeurism can be great, but this right here isn’t my scene.

  It’s one thing to show up with a bunch of guys, sling some drinks back, watch some shows, get a few lap dances in. I’ve noticed the married guys are somewhat likely to take a chick into one of the back rooms. Me, I don’t need to buy it.

  Several of the domainers I do business with are Eastern European, and they fucking love this shit. EJ, the client who has been all over me to come tonight, is one hundred percent American, but he’s a bit guido. Can’t say I was shocked to learn he knew about this place or liked coming here. For all I know, this place is how Tom and Evan won his business. Can’t underestimate the value of networking.

  Still, it’s awkward as fuck. Me standing here holding Brittney’s wrist, a sex act going on behind me, and EJ sprawled out like a kingpin getting fondled in front of me.

  “EJ. Man. What the fuck am I doing here?”

  “Come sit.”

  “Nah. Man. Come on, now. I was at my buddy’s engagement party, and you made me come out here to sit?”

  “Aw, don’t be like that.” He shifts in the booth and grasps Blue Bell’s wrist, shoving her arm as if it’s a napkin he needs to dispose of. Then he slips out of the booth and hands his cell over to her.

  He zips his pants up and drapes an arm around me and, to Blue Bell, says, “Take a photo.”

  “What the fuck, man?” I shove his arm off me, careful to avoid touching his hand. “How’d you even get a phone in here?” They collect phones before anyone comes into this side. No one here wants photos commemorating this shit. It’d be powerful blackmail over half the suits that come to this place.

  A stupid-ass, sloppy, drunk grin spread across his face. Fuck. What a fucking waste. I had things going with Sydney, and this fuck…

  A bright camera light flashes, cutting through the blue wave strobe lights.

  “What the fuck?” EJ and I say in unison.

  “Dumb bitch. You can’t use a flash in here.” EJ reaches across the table and snags the phone.

  He messes around with it then hands it back to her.

  “Once more. For posterity.” Then he reaches out and pulls Brittney over, positioning her beside me. The black leather straps across her chest leave her breasts and nipple piercings fully exposed, and the black leather thong doesn’t cover much either.

  Blue Bell smiles as she holds the phone up, angling it every now and then. EJ’s so hammered he can barely stand straight. Brittney’s hand roams over my chest, and once again I sto
p her from going lower, this time with a pointed shake of my head that clearly says no.

  “Who else is here?” I ask without attempting to soften my annoyed tone.

  “Bennett and Mitchell are in the back. They’ll be out soon. Sit.”

  He gestures to the booth as a bouncer approaches.

  “I need that phone. You know you can’t have it in here.”

  “Fuck you’re gonna take my phone,” EJ slurs, getting all up in the bouncer’s face. The muscle-bound guy shoves his chest out, my cue to back away.

  One thing about Club Casablanca, they are on it protecting members’ privacy. No need to worry about those photos, ’cause they’ll never see the light of day.

  The sex act on stage hits a climax, pun intended, and both men ejaculate all over a woman as she holds her tongue out like it’s marshmallow creme. Annoyance and anger simmer, and the whole scene on stage has the effect of someone raising the heat level on an almost boiling pot.

  Fuck EJ. Fuck these guys. This is all bullshit.

  My shoes pound the concrete floor as I head to the exit. A bouncer has some chick cornered up against one wall, and her fist clutching the velvet drape strikes me as desperate. It’s a small detail that barely registers. One step farther, and I see her face.

  What the fuck?

  Ten

  Sydney

  * * *

  A firm hand grips my shoulder. “Ma’am. This is members only.”

  He roughly pushes me toward the exit, and I stumble.

  “Sydney?” Chase’s voice calls after me.

  Busted. I close my eyes and breathe in and out deeply.

  “Surprise,” I offer up in a weak voice.

  “You followed me here?”

  “I wanted to see if you were meeting someone. You know, the girls said you were a player, and I didn’t know if they were telling the truth.”

  “So, you followed me? Out to Jersey?”

  “Crazy, huh?” I say, shrugging, hoping like hell he’s buying this.

  “Yeah, I’d say. You’re making my ex look sane.”

  A new act has stepped up on the stage, and the two men and woman are taking turns kissing and fondling each other. The guy takes the other guy’s dick out and the woman falls to her knees. I have to turn my back on the stage in order to focus on the situation.

  Chase smirks. “I told you. This isn’t your kind of place.”

  The bouncer steps right up to Chase and towers over him. “Is she with you?”

  “Yeah,” Chase answers, squinting, most likely full of questions.

  “You got to check in your guests. Did she sign the agreement? And you can’t have your bag.” He gestures to my clutch.

  Chase wraps his arm around me and guides me back behind the last set of velvet curtains. The bouncer hands me a clipboard and pen. I skim through a contract. It’s a non-disclosure agreement. This place isn’t at all legal, yet they are distributing NDAs? I sign and hand over my clutch, which happens to hold my FBI issued cell phone and credit cards. But there’s nothing in it that can blow my cover. No, I seem to be doing a remarkable job of endangering my cover all on my own.

  After I’ve signed what I assume is an unenforceable NDA, Chase guides me into the bar area.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  I shouldn’t. I’ve already had several, but my pulse is racing along at laser light speed. “Yes, please.”

  We both sit at the bar, and he orders our drinks.

  “What is this place?” I ask the moment the bartender walks away.

  “Uh-uh. I get to ask the questions. How did you follow me?”

  “I saw you get into the sedan, and I was getting into a cab, and I just wanted to see where you were going, and then I got more and more curious—”

  “More and more curious, huh? And what would you have done if you had come in here and seen me with a woman?”

  Chase leans forward, and I brace, unsure what he’s going to do, but all he does is slide my hair behind my ear. I search for any sign he’s threatening me, or considering hurting me, but his body language doesn’t show any signs of aggression. If anything, the tilt of his head indicates a level of confusion.

  “If I’d seen you with a woman, I would’ve been disappointed. I mean, I was just curious. I figured if I was entertaining crossing the line with a colleague, I should try to make sure it was worth it.”

  I lick my lower lip, remembering that earlier tonight, running my teeth across my lower lip had lured his focus and made me think he might kiss me. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’s buying it, while simultaneously mentally retracing my steps out the exit door, and weighing if the bar stool will work as a defensive weapon.

  “You know, I didn’t think you were interested in me.”

  “It’s that we work together. I want to be taken seriously. And I’m a new employee.”

  “But yet you followed me?”

  Desperate times, desperate measures. I move off my stool and stand between his legs. He cups my jaw, controlling. I match his position. My thumb strokes the grizzled late-night scruff along his jaw. We inch closer, eyes locked. The tip of my nose brushes his. I am close enough the warmth of his breath tingles. His hand caresses the curve of my ass and gently presses me closer. I capture his lips with mine.

  The adrenaline coursing through me intensifies the kiss. I close my eyes and savor his intoxicating bourbon flavor. His fingers cup the back of my head, angling it to his liking, while his other hand massages the curve of my ass and rubs my core against his. Our tongues collide and spar, and it’s as if a million synapses fire at once.

  None of this is part of my assignment. My breathing quickens, as if I’m running. Danger heightens all my senses, but I had no idea the impact it could have on something as simple as a kiss.

  He breaks the kiss but keeps me close. “Well, hello.”

  I give a breathless Hi back, playing the part better than I ever thought I could.

  “Why don’t we get out of here?” Dizziness clouds my mind, and I hold on to him, waiting for the room to stop spinning and for my breathing to calm.

  “What is this place?” I ask the question softly, out of breath.

  One of his hands remains on my ass, while the other caresses my hip. He smirks and brushes my disobedient strands behind my ear once more before answering. “It’s what is referred to as a gentleman’s club. If we were going anywhere else, I would’ve brought you, I promise. I didn’t come here to meet another woman.”

  “You like it here?”

  “It can be very erotic.” Chase’s lips brush my ear. “But we can go. The client who wanted me to come out is currently being entertained.”

  “What does that mean?” I trail kisses along Chase’s jaw, to stay with my cover and defray suspicion. His cologne is attractive, a subtle deep woods scent. Stubble grazes my lips, and I lean into him.

  “He’s busy.”

  “With a lap dance? Do you get those when you come here?” I aim for sultry as I ask the question, hoping I come across as sexy, or tempting, and not like a weak, jealous girl.

  He places a kiss on the sensitive skin below my ear, and goosebumps instantly rise all along my arms.

  “Are you the jealous type, Frost?”

  “No,” I blurt.

  He smiles. I don’t get the sense he believes me.

  “My ex, he wasn’t faithful. I think it played with my head.” He leans back, away from me, reaching for the drink the bartender set down. “Not that we are anything or going anywhere. I just wanted to be sure. You probably think I’m bat shit crazy and don’t want anything to do with me.” Holy shit, I do sound crazy. Weak and stupid and crazy.

  I give what I hope is a somewhat girly smile, bow my head, and back away, searching for the section of the curtain that will take me back to my clutch so I can escape. My cheeks are flaming I’m so embarrassed by the make-believe crap that spewed out of my mouth. I scan the black velvet, searching for an exit point, and spot Mitchell a
nd Bennett. Both men look like a man caught with his pants down.

  Mitchell approaches, but he doesn’t speak to me. He looks directly at Chase. “Are you two together?”

  Chase shakes his head but doesn’t offer more. I glance back, and Bennett is gone.

  “Did you go in? The back?” Mitchell asks, this time directing his question to me.

  “Not yet,” I answer before Chase can answer for me. Shit, could this get any worse?

  Mitchell runs his hand across the top of his head, and the remnants of hair stick straight up. His eyes are bloodshot and glazed, and I notice his zipper is down and his shirt tail sticks out of the gap.

  Mitchell stumbles forward toward the exit. “My car service is here.”

  I watch him lift the velvet curtain and disappear, and sit back on my stool in a daze.

  “Evan Mitchell comes here? You guys watch—”

  “It’s a voyeurs’ club. A private club for the sexually adventurous. Some people find the sexual experience more intense with others watching.” He sips his drink then adds, “Or while watching others.”

  “You bring your dates here? Or do you prefer the private entertainment?”

  He rocks his head back and forth then repositions himself on his stool. “Some girls get into it. You saw couples in there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it turn you on?”

  “More like shocked the hell out of me.” Play it honestly when you can.

  “Yeah, I can see that, especially if you didn’t know what you were walking in on.”

  “So, you do bring dates here?”

  “No. I use this place for connections.”

  I find that hard to believe. He can tell.

  “Seriously. It’s been better for business than you can imagine.”

  “Business?” I scoff. This is not the kind of place I see as useful for business meetings or networking.