Infernal: Bite The Bullet
Page 3
I stripped out of my clothes, changed my bra so the lace would show above the neckline of the dress, and shimmied into the sleek black silk I hoped would be classy enough for a private club.
Mission: Check out the club. If anything bad happened, at least I’d all but left a trail of breadcrumbs for Detective Dalton.
The black cab pulled up outside a sombre looking front door that was more Ten Downing Street than nightclub, and I frowned at the low-key entrance. There was no bouncer, no signage. The street was deserted.
“You’re sure this is the place?” I asked, swapping my flats for the pair of heels I’d snagged as a last minute option.
“Yup. You getting out?”
I knew better than to argue geography with a London cab driver. He tapped the meter, and I handed over a twenty-pound note before shuffling to the curb and making sure I was unrumpled from the ride.
With the night breeze whipping my hair, I rapped once on the brass knocker, preparing myself for what might be on the other side.
The person who opened the door was not who I expected. Supermodel tall and slim, the woman’s blonde hair fell over her shoulders, partially concealing the priest’s dog-collar that topped off her tailored black suit. It was a striking combination, and I stared dumbly at her until she arched a brow and smiled, “May I help you?”
“Oh, yes. Raider sent me.” Regretting that I’d let it get so crumpled in my pocket, I showed her Gracie’s card, and tried not to squirm as she scrutinised it, and me.
“I see. And your name is?” She handed the dog-eared card back and I slipped it into my bag.
“Roxanne. Roxanne Bailey,” I lied, throwing together a fake name.
“Well, Roxanne, the performers’ entrance is at the rear of the building. I can have Robert let you in. I assume he’s expecting you?”
What? She thought I was here to work? My outfit wasn’t cut for free-styling. “I... No, actually. I’m here as a... customer?” I hoped that was the right phrase for whatever went on inside.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Forgive me,” she said, her manner changing to the bright professionalism of one pretending to be sincerely happy. She ushered me into the warm interior, and slipped the coat from my shoulders. “Welcome to Infernal.”
She took my coat, and I hoped she wouldn’t notice the label. I doubted the clientele here shopped at Primark.
“We require a credit card imprint. Just as an insurance policy. I’m sure you understand.” She smiled expectantly.
I handed over the card, hoping it wasn’t secretly charged. I doubted I had the credit on it to cover it anyway.
She examined the plastic and gave me a look I couldn’t decipher, until I realised it had my real name on it, and I stuttered to explain. She waved her hand, passing it off and quieting my attempt at an excuse.
“Everyone here is being somebody else.” She laughed softly, swiping the card through a reader. Apparently satisfied, she gave it back with a smile. “Mr. Raider explained the rules, I assume?”
The rules. Shit. “Eh, yeah, briefly.”
“Did you bring your own mask?”
“A mask? Crap, you know what, I left it at home.” I cringed. Dammit, Neva.Way to sound like a scolded schoolgirl.
“Perhaps you’d care to borrow one of ours? We have a house selection for you to choose from.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Masks are compulsory, I’m afraid. Our clientele puts a high price on discretion. I’m sure you understand,” she said, reaching beneath the sleek, black counter to produce a velvet-lined tray of exotic eyewear.
The masks were exquisite. All in silver, some were animal – a butterfly’s wings; burnished ears and a sloped nose that turned the wearer into a vixen – while others were simply elegant. I chose a plainer one, without ears, that tapered gently across my cheeks when the hostess helped me tie the black satin ribbons at the back of my head.
I adjusted the mask across my eyes as she led me through a svelte curtain that had been artfully camouflaged against the silken walls. She retreated behind it, leaving me alone in the body of Infernal.
CHAPTER FIVE
While my eyes adjusted to the low lighting, the church-like hush of the space enveloped me like a robe. Set into backlit niches, an array of religious paraphernalia adorned unapologetically black walls: an erotically posed statue of the naked Magdalene here, a bleeding Christ nailed to the cross there, and grotesque Medieval paintings that looked straight from the Book of Revelation. The juxtaposition of ancient and modern was über -chic, in a Gothic-fabulous way, and in keeping with the dark religious theme. Even the bar looked to have been fashioned from reclaimed confessionals.
In place of pews, high-backed booths, lushly upholstered in velvet and leather, orientated themselves towards an ‘altar’ that was actually a stage, complete with a spotlight and more black curtains. If anything was being worshipped here, it was surely wealth: the place oozed money, and I struggled to reconcile it with the gritty rawness of Vinyl Scratch. I definitely couldn’t picture Daniel hanging out in a place like this, unless it had been as a dancer. The supermodel on the door had mentioned performers. Could that be the link?
Both men and women populated the booths, I saw to my relief. Some sat single, others as couples or threesomes, all wearing dark clothing and ornate masks. I was thankful I’d opted for a little black dress. Any splash of colour in this black on black colour scheme would’ve been beyond conspicuous. The waiters and waitresses wore in the same style as the woman at the front of house: slim fitted black suits with priestly dog collars. Their matte black masks reminded me of the Phantom of The Opera. Masquerade … Hide your face so the world will never find you … I hummed internally. People thought this was seductive? It struck me more as creepy.
A handsome, dark haired man swished by me with a tray of cocktails, and offered me a bright blue concoction. I was tempted, it looked good, and under any other circumstances, that drink would have been mine, but here? I refused with a smile and head shake. The place was lush, but I wasn’t ruling out drug money, and there could be anything in those drinks. I took a seat in an empty booth by the stage, and it seemed I was just in time for a show.
The music started first, and I recognised the re-mixed bell-toll piano keys and gravelled intro to Beastrider’s latest hit: Infernal. How appropriate, I thought. The curtains swept back and the spotlight pivoted to reveal the sculpted musculature of a tawny back and shoulders. Suspended from a set of chains with metal rings he hung, arms extended, neck flexed, in the manner of a man crucified. More shocking by far was what was on his back. Emblazoned across the performer’s powerful shoulder blades was an intricate circular tattoo of a winged serpent devouring its own tail. There were symbols inked inside the circle too, and though I was too far away to make them out, I had a very good idea what they were, because I’d seen that exact tattoo before, a hundred times and more, on the skin of my own flesh and blood.
Heart hammering, I slipped out my phone and snapped a shot of the dancer’s back, but just as I did, the beat kicked in and he dropped to the floor.
I frowned at the motion-blurred image and went to take another, holding the phone still, waiting for a break in the dancer’s routine. Still with his back to the audience, he teased the crowd with sinuous grinds. I managed a cleaner shot and grinned, peering at the picture.
A tap on my shoulder spun me in my seat, and I looked up into the face of a politely smiling man. His golden mask highlighted dark eyes and rose in horns from his forehead. A scar on his right cheek tugged one side of his mouth higher than the other.
“If you want to take pictures, it will cost you more than you can afford, young lady.” His accented voice gave me the shivers, the tone deadly serious, despite the smile. “Amateur photography is not permitted.”
Flustered, I stumbled into an apology, my cheeks hot. “I’m so sorry. Raider must have forgotten to mention that. I just wanted a souvenir to show my girlfriends. I’ll de
lete it.” I smiled, assuming that would be enough to send him away.
It wasn’t.
“Please do so,” he said, breathing over my shoulder, waiting to see I deleted the picture from my camera roll. He obviously didn’t realise I’d taken more than one shot though, and the second he leaned back, seemingly satisfied, I pocketed the phone.
“My patrons pay top dollar for discretion.” He smirked and I smiled politely.
“You’re the owner?”
“You may call me the Friar,” he said, nodding. He leaned back in, his handsome jaw-line brushing close to my ear. “Friar-Fuck if you know me intimately.” His words whispered suggestive against my skin, but what I felt in them was a thinly veiled threat. “Enjoy the show, Miss... Bailey.”
I exhaled relief when he finally turned and left me alone.
In spite of his charm, he made my skin crawl, and wishing I’d kept my coat, I rubbed my bare arms to get rid of the prickly feeling he’d left me with.
I turned back to the stage, and it was perfectly, or badly, depending on your view, timed. As I faced the stage the male dancer faced the audience, and what I saw made my heart stop.
It was him: Konstantyn Lazarenko.
In the flesh.
He was instantly recognisable in spite of the Zorro-style eye-mask concealing his face and the dog-collar around his throat.
Holy crap.
I couldn’t look away from the sensuous, down and dirty grind he was taking across the stage. Oiled muscles rippled as he wound out moves and pumped his hips, putting the sexuality of my dance with him to shame. We’d been fighting. Now, he was screwing everyone in the audience without even touching them.
I swallowed as heat flushed under my skin, and when he moved closer, gyrating to a bass that oozed eroticism, I sank back into the semi-darkness of the booth, openly watching, confident the shadows would conceal my shameful gawking.
But then he made eye contact.
I saw it the second he recognised me. Clearly, Infernal’s attempts at maintaining anonymity didn’t work, because he sure as hell knew who I was, from just half my face. He glared at me through the eyes of the mask, the flare of his nostrils and the punch of his hips at odds with the anger that burned in his gaze.
I couldn’t look away.
I’d been in my share of playground staring matches, but nothing could have prepared me for how badly I didn’t want to look away. He was mesmerising and furious, and clearly trying to glare me down, and all I could see was the colour of his eyes in the stage lights when he ground close to me. They glittered a molten brown that darkened as he moved.
I should have been relieved when he broke the gaze, but in the fraction of a second that my eyes were unpinned from his, they dropped to the bump and grind rhythm of his hips as he danced, an undulating tempo that rolled his muscled body close to me. Maybe the club dealt in stolen breaths, because I was struggling to breathe, as red-blooded as any other woman watching, and trying desperately not to stare at the distinctly un-priest-like bulge beneath his black silk pants. Either performing aroused him, or he was just extremely well endowed.
He almost distracted me from the real reason I was there. Except then I glanced sidelong at the other booths, and what I saw snapped me out of my daze. A masked woman had straddled her partner’s hips, and while his hands pushed up her dress, revealing her naked ass, she fisted his hair and ground herself down into his lap. In another booth, two women openly French-kissed whilst their joined hands stroked the erection of the man sandwiched between them. His hands were up their skirts, playing between their legs. The room was rapidly descending into an orgy, and I was spiralling into a panic.
I lifted my gaze back to Lazarenko, and saw naked anger in his eyes as he glared right at me. I didn’t understand. It was a free bloody country. He was free to dance, and I could club wherever the hell I wanted. Except this place was not what I wanted, at all. I was way out of my depth and I needed to leave.
“Hello pretty,” a feminine voice purred behind me.
I looked back to see a slim brunette standing over me. A mask of silver peacock feathers hid her eyes, but the fine lines around her red-painted mouth betrayed her age.
“Are you here to play?” she said. Her accent reminded me of the Queen’s speech at Christmas: pure posh. “Rafe spotted you the moment you entered the room. He always has an eye for new blood. There’s a private party, after the show. He and his friends like to watch. Would you care to join us?”
Heat flooded my cheeks and I was grateful for the mask as I blustered a reply. “I, ah, I prefer just to watch myself. The first time, anyway, you know?”
Her full lips pushed into an exaggerated pout. “Rafe will be disappointed,” she sighed, “but we’ll look for you, next time.”
“Next time.” I smiled knowing there would never, ever, be a next time.
She grasped my hand and bent her head to kiss my knuckles, lifting sultry eyes to mine. I caught a waft of expensive, powdery perfume mingled with chardonnay. “Until then, pretty.”
As the woman melted back into the darkness and I contemplated the lipstick stain on the back of my hand, I realised the music had changed. When I searched the stage, I found it empty, the spotlight extinguished. I caught a glimpse of Konstantyn’s tattooed back as he stalked towards a stage exit. Snatching money from the waistband of his pants, he counted the notes as he disappeared through the curtain without a backward look.
Shit! Scooting out from the booth, I grabbed up my bag and hurried around to the back of the stage, but another waiter intercepted my path, bearing a tray of some red and orange concoction in phallic-shaped glasses. By the time I’d turned down his offerings and slipped through the curtain, the musty corridor was empty, and I found myself faced with a firmly shut door marked ‘dressing room’ and ‘staff only’.
I knocked tentatively and waited, shifting my weight from foot to foot. When there was no response, I rapped again, harder this time.
I was about to give up and turn away when the door flew open in my face.
The person standing there, stark naked and scowling, was not at all who I’d expected. I recognised her though, as the anorexic girl from the audition.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I muttered, trying to settle on a safe place to look, “I thought Lazarenko was in here.”
She folded her skinny arms under breasts hardly bigger than two fried eggs, and chewed on her gum. “Hey Konstantyn,” she called over her shoulder, “it’s that girl from the audition earlier. The one who offered to blow you.”
He was in there? With her? Naked? Damn it.
I felt the blood rush from my cheeks, sure as if she’d slapped me, but any smart-ass comeback I might have formulated died at the sight of Lazarenko looming over the girl’s shoulder.
“What does she want?” he said.
“Dunno,” the girl replied, turning away with a bored shrug.
“Please, may I speak with you?” I said softly, watching the muscles in his powerful neck tighten. “I just have a couple of questions.”
He stepped out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.
He turned on me, spinning so fast I stumbled back. Unprepared for his anger, I’d hardly time to catch myself before he crowded me to the wall, his huge body taking up my space. With one arm anchored to the wall, his brown eyes were lit with green flecks that sparked with danger, and sex. That, I hadn’t been expecting, and it made his eyes beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.
“You followed me?” His accent fell rough against my lips. He was so close I could have kissed him. “We have a saying in my country,” he growled. “She who licks knives will soon cut her tongue.”
I opened my mouth, my retort not yet fully formulated, when I heard the familiar voice of the Friar. “Bravo Konstantyn,” he said, applauding as he emerged through a swish of silk curtain, “I have three clients in a bidding war for a private dance with you...” His voice trailed off as he realised they were not alone.
“Is this client bothering you?” the Friar asked.
“Yes.”
I glared at Konstantyn.
The man in the golden mask turned on me. “Miss Bailey, I have had to chastise you once already tonight. Do I need to have you escorted off the premises?”
“Oh, an escort won’t be necessary,” I said, sweeter than saccharine, and plastering a sardonic smile on my lips. I was so beyond angry and with my pride in tatters, I didn’t even care if I was blowing another chance to question Lazarenko. The arrogant son of a bitch deserved a taste of his own humiliation. “I’m leaving. I just wanted to show my appreciation to the talent.” I slapped a ten-pound note on Konstantyn’s bare chest. “Here’s to not being bought,” I said.
CHAPTER SIX
The note I’d thrown at Konstantyn turned out to be my last, forcing me to take the broke way home, the one that sat me with the drooling drunks and twitching addicts on the late-night public transport. I could’ve afforded a cab at least half-way if I hadn’t thrown the money at Lazarenko just to prove a point.
Well, if that was the price of victory over the frighteningly boorish and inexplicably sexual Mr. Sanctimonious, it was worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, I told myself, even as I trudged wearily into my apartment an hour later with blisters on my feet. I only hoped the club hadn’t maxed out my credit card with suspect charges, and I made a mental note to cancel it first thing in the morning.
Having zapped the cold noodles from earlier in the microwave, I slumped on the couch and stabbed at them with a fork, with only the images of Konstantyn’s dancing and the confused tangle of nothing-fits thoughts for company. Was I getting any closer to finding out who murdered Daniel? At least I knew the connection between the studio and the club: Raider was providing Infernal with dancers, and judging by what the Friar said about bidding wars and ‘private dances’, there was more than just dancing going on. Hell, the clientele were getting in on right there, for all to see. Infernal was some kind of a sex club. I didn’t want to think about Daniel working there, but why else would Gracie have given me the card?