by Skye Jordan
“Hey, handsome,” one of the beauties called from the roof. “We've got a bachelorette party going on here. Want to be the beautiful bride's last hoorah?”
Laughter bubbled from the limo, and Troy's mouth curved. To his surprise, his mood lightened. Maybe a night hanging with a bunch of happy, drunk, celebrating chicks was more what he needed after all. He wasn't lecherous enough to touch the bride-to-be, but there were a handful of other hotties in there.
Before he had a chance to say anything, Becca tugged him toward the rear of the vehicle so they could pass. “Sorry, ladies, we found him first.”
They fell into step with the crowd again. “Sure you don't want me to check closer?” Troy teased. “Diamond might be hiding in there among all those women somewhere.”
“You're too handsome for your own good,” Becca said with a half pout, “you know that?”
He just chuckled. In fact, he did know, but only because he hadn't been all that attractive in his youth. He'd been skinny, struggled with acne, and worn the male equivalent of a perpetual bitch face. So the frequency of women's attentions over the last four or five years continued to surprise, flatter, and amuse him. And for the last few weeks, he'd have to take any flicker of amusement he could get. Now, he found solace in the fact that his role in the film was almost over. He could move on to the next project, where Giselle wouldn't push her way into his every waking moment.
A woman emerged from the shadows of the alley, turned toward the strip, and fell into step with the crowd. The fact that she was alone in a sea of couples and groups caught Troy's attention first, but her hair was what held it-a spill of fat golden curls to the middle of her back. A deep, shiny gold. Not blonde, not wheat, not red. A true, rich gold. The rare but natural color of Giselle's hair.
The woman was alone, dressed in black, wearing a felt hat, and walking with purpose. She'd come from the direction of the Mirage's rear entrance, where all the loading docks and backstage doors lived.
He cut off the little “Is that…?” floating through his mind before it could invade his common sense, and tried to smother the tingle of awareness burning in his belly by reminding himself he would not run into Giselle on the strip in a city of over half a million people. The color of the woman's hair probably had more to do with the Vegas lights than reality. Besides, she'd never go anywhere in this insane city alone. She was too famous, too recognizable, and her show that night had ended barely an hour before. She'd be soothing her strained vocal cords with a steam bath in one of the Mirage's penthouses right about now, with a staff of thirty to fulfill her every need. Probably had a handful of boy toys fanning her with fucking palm leaves.
The sidewalks were packed. People moved in two main swarms, one in each direction, a standard crowd for a Vegas Friday night. But Troy couldn't let his gaze pull from those curls bouncing gently against the woman's back…
Stop.
This was becoming a real goddamned problem.
Troy purposely slowed his step, letting Goldilocks drift into the sea of people ahead and disappear. And without that little spark of hope, his chest went dark again.
Casey and Becca paused in front of the Bellagio to watch the water show, but Troy couldn't stand still, so he paced along the edge of the crowd.
When he found himself at the alley leading to the club, he peered down the dark, quiet walk. The unmarked purple door was illuminated by a single light and guarded by one big man in a simple tan suit.
The promise of oblivion made Troy's mouth water like a Pavlovian dog.
He turned, searching the crowd for Becca and Casey, but the body count was too high. So he continued toward the club, head down, wondering just what it would take to get Giselle out of his head. Out of his heart. When would he finally be able to put her behind him?
He paused at the discreet entrance and displayed his ID.
“Welcome, sir.” The man pulled a royal blue satin half mask from his pocket. “Enjoy your night.”
“I have two guests,” Troy said, taking the mask. “They stopped for the water show next door. Brunettes. Their names are Becca and Casey.”
“I understand.” He gave a single nod. “Please, stay near the lobby so you can identify them when they arrive.”
Troy agreed, secured the mask, and entered Rendezvous. He lingered in the lobby, waiting for the ladies. The seating areas of the main salon were crowded but not full. From where he stood, he couldn't see any more than various corridors leading to other areas of the club, spaces designed to suit a variety of fetishes and fantasies.
Rihanna's voice pumped out “S&M,” and the rich sounds pulsed through Troy's body, releasing a little stress. He wandered into the large room holding the main stage and took in the act playing out there, a live display of erotic dominance. But his gaze glazed over the edgy scene of a woman on her knees, the man standing behind her gripping the end of a leather strap looped around the woman's throat.
He wondered if Z was right. If seeing Giselle now might help him finally let go. Maybe seeing how she'd changed, seeing how completely she'd sold out for fame, would kill his romantic memories. Maybe showing her how well he'd done for himself despite her abandonment would give him that elusive power to cut the last lingering tie she held on his heart.
Getting ahold of her would be tricky, not to mention awkward…
The smack of leather against flesh sizzled through Troy's body and focused his gaze on the stage again. Intricately placed spotlights cast the performing couple in dramatic, almost artistic, shadows. The man brandished a crop in his free hand and brought it down for a swift crack on the woman's bare ass. Her cry of pained pleasure flooded Troy's groin with heat. He was already half-hard.
Lil Wayne's “Pussy Monster” rocked the room as Troy let his gaze roam the woman's body, curvy and luscious and partially naked. Some type of costume that had been pulled down to expose her tits and pushed up to show her ass. Another set of roving lights titillated the audience with flashes of the performers' bodies and gleamed off her spiked heels.
He scanned the space, filled mostly by couples and groups lounging to watch or engage in foreplay before they took their activities into another room. The sight of attractive couples, semi-naked, touching and kissing added blood to Troy's cock, turning it rock hard. He was definitely overdue for a night of mindless, rabid fucking.
“Sir,” the bouncer whispered to him from the door. “Your guests are here.”
Troy returned to the front, where he vouched for the women, who had donned purple masks, marking them as guests, not members.
“Where should we start?” Becca asked, giddy.
“Let's see what's going on in the other rooms before we decide,” Casey said.
When she tugged on Troy's arm, he stayed put. “You two check it out and report back. I'll be…”
His words evaporated as two women emerged from a corridor that led to Champagne Court, an upper-crust sex playroom with plush lounges, soft lighting, and pretty much anything pleasurable that money could buy-from toys to drugs to sexual services.
Goldilocks. The woman from the street strolled out beside one of the club's guides, someone who gave newcomers a tour and explained the rules and prices that accompanied special services. Goldie wore a crimson mask, the color of a prospective member, which meant she'd passed the rich-and-famous requirement. Troy's mind immediately twisted back to Giselle, and nerve endings sizzled in his belly.
And goddammit, he hated how this relentless hope of seeing Giselle kept tipping his brain off axis.
“Hel-lo…” Becca waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you with us?”
“Sure.” He refocused on the women. “Go ahead. I'll be right here.”
They shrugged and disappeared down the hallway leading to the Dungeon.
Troy scanned Goldilocks from the tips of her shiny black rhinestoned spikes to the top of her golden head. She wore a trendy black leather trench that hit her just above the knees, and now held her hat in the tight c
url of one creamy fist. And damn those masks. They did an excellent job of hiding a person's identity. It covered her face from her hairline to her nose, curving down to hide most of her cheek. There was really nothing but the woman's hair color to link her to Giselle. Well, that and her size, a smallish five foot three, maybe one hundred and ten pounds. Yet her mere presence made Troy's gut turn somersaults.
His mind spiraled and spiraled, first convincing himself the woman was Giselle, then assuring him she wasn't. Couldn't be. Giselle wouldn't be caught dead in a sex club. And never alone.
The guide tucked one hand intimately into the crook of Goldie's arm, head bent close to speak quietly. As the women inched closer to Troy on their way toward the main salon, the guide said something that pulled Goldie's gaze from the partial view of the stage through the arched opening. The action there now drew deep moans and pleasure-drenched mewls. Goldie glanced toward the guide with a little smile on her lips, but instead of meeting the guide's eyes, her gaze slid past the other woman to Troy. And locked on.
He felt the punch of excitement at the center of his body. Tingles spiraled through his torso, raced down his spine. His mind toggled like a pendulum.
Yes, it's her.
No, it's not.
With her eyes on his, her smile grew. A tentative, nervous smile. And a tiny dimple created a sweet little divot just outside her lips on the left.
Everything inside Troy froze and heated, stalled and raced-his heart, his lungs, his mind.
That dimple confirmed it-this was Giselle.
Every muscle in his body pulled taut, poised to act-to do what, he had no idea, because for the first time in over half a decade, since he'd pulled his shit together after she'd walked away, Troy didn't know what to do or say or think. He couldn't make sense of her presence, still half questioning his own sanity.
The instant recognition he'd expected to see in her eyes never came. She scanned his face, curious, maybe intrigued, then let her gaze slide down his body in a slow search, as if she were trying to place him. But when her attention returned to his face, her expression had shifted in a way Troy could only label as…distant? Disappointed? Aloof? He didn't know. All he knew was she didn't recognize him. All he knew was she turned away.
The grip on his heart tightened.
Yes, he'd changed. Yes, between his mask and his beard, his face was pretty much fully covered. But that didn't stem the pain. It didn't keep the knife from driving into his heart or the irrational insecurity from the past rushing back. In fact, those torturous months of transition at the end of their relationship, when Giselle had risen from unknown wannabe to golden child, flooded back into Troy's head and heart as if it had been seven days ago, not seven years. And he felt the pain of his humiliation at the hands of her new groupies with the strength of a sledgehammer. He'd been downgraded from her best friend to a leech, from her lover to her lesser half, from her strongest supporter for years to her greatest weakness in a matter of months. He'd turned from her everything into absolutely nothing.
And now, even she didn't recognize him.
The guide settled Giselle into a small table toward the back of the room along the far edge of the stage. She faced the door but didn't look at Troy again, and his insides smoldered with irrational hurt and anger. All his issues, issues he'd fought to put behind him, resurfaced, instantly transforming him from a strong, capable, grown man to an angry, abandoned asshole.
The guide exited the salon, and Troy stepped into her path but kept his voice soft when he asked, “Is she alone?”
Her wide dark eyes appraised him before answering. “She is, but she's observing tonight. Prefers to get the feel before she jumps in.”
“Thank you.” He refocused on Giselle and found her watching him. Their gazes clicked, and fireworks lit off in his gut. But her gaze cut toward the stage, as if she didn't want to get caught looking. Which begged the question-did she recognize him after all?
She sat straight, legs neatly crossed, hands resting in her lap. In the midst of a relaxed, sexually open crowd, she looked uptight and out of place. Troy's mind spun and spun, trying to figure out why she'd be in a place like this if she didn't want to be. Or why she was so tense if she wanted to be here. And why in the hell had she come alone? A beauty like her in a place like this…alone? That was just a traumatic experience waiting to happen. One more scar a woman like Giselle didn't need.
He caught his train of thought. What in the hell did he care? She was not his concern. She didn't even deserve his concern. For all he knew, this was some sexual fantasy she was playing out with a guy already here in the club. Or she was waiting for someone to come in. Or…shit, it didn't matter.
A man approached her, lowered to a crouch, smiled, shook her hand. She responded in a perfectly appropriate way-with a smile, a shake, small talk. And a rejection. All very tense, uptight, and rigid.
Troy rubbed a hand across his mouth and turned his back on the salon. He wasn't going to be able to stay now. He wasn't going to be able to engage with anyone else tonight. Maybe not for weeks. Or months. And goddammit, that just sucked. He was still so seriously screwed up.
Becca and Casey returned and, in the process of wrapping their arms around him and rubbing their bodies along his, turned him partially toward the salon again.
“Ready to get it on, handsome?” Casey purred.
“Let's head straight to Ecstasy,” was Becca's suggestion, referencing one of the free-for-all sex rooms where one could purchase the drug of the same name.
Troy glanced at Giselle again. He caught her watching him just before she cut her gaze away, then scraped her bottom lip between her teeth.
The very real possibility that she recognized him and was ignoring him snapped his very last thread of human decency. If he were normal, if he were mature, if he were everything he should be, he'd simply confront her. But he wasn't. He never had been. And even though his logical mind knew he should walk away, even though his logical mind knew nothing could come of watching her here but pain, bad feelings, and disappointment, his heart…or his emotions…or his psyche…something…was festering deep inside. It was as if seeing her had tripped a self-destructive switch inside him. As if it was just a matter of time before the fuse burned out, reaching the explosive, and Troy imploded.
And in some sick and screwed-up way, Troy looked forward to it. He relished the anticipation of submerging in the pain that was all he had left of Giselle.
Swinging both arms around the girls' shoulders, he sauntered toward the salon. “Let's warm up in here first.”
Giselle had been at the club only twenty minutes, and she was already coming out of her skin with unease. She didn't like the mask color coding. Didn't like being marked as a newcomer. But, if she were being realistic-probably not the best mindset for this environment-she was sure everyone here could tell she was new at this with one glance her way.
She was well into her first glass of wine-wine she shouldn't be drinking-when her cell vibrated. She drew it out of her purse to find exactly what she'd expected-a text from Chad: Everything okay?
Giselle tapped out a quick I'm here and I'm fine, barely resisting the leave me alone for a change that tingled on her fingertips. He was only doing what a good manager did-trying to take care of her.
She was about to stuff her phone away when another text came through. This one from Brook: So? Is it as bad as you thought?
Giselle smiled at her personal assistant's question and texted: Wild. Will call when I get back. Turning my phone off.
She zipped her silenced phone inside her clutch, then sighed as she picked up the glass and finished off the chardonnay. She'd have to hydrate well tomorrow to counteract the drying effects of the alcohol on her vocal cords.
Letting her eyes fall closed, she tried to collect her scattered thoughts and winging emotions, but the sounds of sex and rap music filled her ears-a female's moans and the slap of sweaty flesh to the beat of raunchy lyrics, only half of which she understo
od.
It had been so long since she'd felt a man's hands on her body, she'd been both electrified and unnerved by the club's tour alone. The sight of others engaged in hedonistic sex excited and disturbed her in the most…provocative way. And this raw spotlight on sex only amplified the pressure building between her legs. Now, not only were her panties wet, but she felt every pump of her heart, every brush of her skin. She was hot and damp and light-headed.
She opened her eyes and focused on the stage, where a very fit, very intense, very naked man shoved his partner back on the settee center stage. She was as curvy as he was muscular, and threw her arms overhead with the type of abandon Giselle craved but was never allowed. Everything in her life was scheduled, planned, measured, and calculated. Normally, that gave her a sense of security. Until she saw these wildly unscripted pleasure, and she realized what she was missing. What she'd been missing for so very long. And the years of restriction seemed to pile up all at once, giving her a deep and urgent need for abandon and raw connection.
That's not why you're here.
Giselle refocused on the stage. The man dropped to his knees, shoved his partner's thighs wide, and dove between them, ravaging her pussy with his mouth.
The woman's cry coincided with Giselle's sharp gasp of surprise. Lights brightened and faded and swept over their bodies like a sensual touch. The woman's hands reached for the back of the lounge, fingers digging into the shiny fabric as her hips lunged rhythmically against the man's face.
Giselle's sex throbbed. She switched the cross of her legs to ease the ache, but she still felt split in two, half of her wanting what the woman on stage had found while also wanting to bail on this whole idea.
But she couldn't leave yet. Not until she got what she needed.
She let her gaze travel over the spectators. When she heard the term “sex club,” she'd always envisioned skeezy, which was what Brook had been referring to in her text, but there wasn't one skeezy inch at Rendezvous. The club definitely catered to the elite. From what she could see, the membership was attractive, well dressed, heavily bejeweled, and on the younger side, between twenty-five and forty-five. The rooms she'd seen on the tour, while wildly varying in theme, were all exquisitely appointed with granite, slate, glass, and stainless steel. A guide monitored every room at all times, keeping it stocked and clean in the most unobtrusive manner she'd ever seen. Of course, the patrons were too busy to notice much of what was going on around them, but the guides, just like the waitresses, were hardly more than shadows.
