by H. M. Ward
As I step over the threshold, the familiar scent fills my lungs and makes forgotten sensations come rushing back. I hate this place, but I love it. I need it. When things get like this, when I can’t find my way around my own mind anymore, I find myself here. My dealings with the district attorney’s office make this risky, though. That’s part of the reason I haven't come in so long.
There was a time when this place was the only way to get my mother out of my mind. I was sixteen when she died. I was eighteen when a friend first took me here. At twenty-three I'm still not over it. The people I met here in the beginning have moved on, found other vices. For me, this isn’t a fetish—it’s not something to do or not do—it just is.
I walk toward the black glass bar, past the tables with white linens and romantic music. This place embodies the nine levels of love, from pretty to perverted. The further back, the deeper you explore the building, the more likely you are to meet someone who’s into what you’re into. The bar in the front divides the happy-go-lucky types from the darker crowd. I know I belong in the back, but right now I just want a drink.
I pull up a stool and gesture to the bartender. There’s a decent number of people here, and almost every spot at the bar is taken. When I get my order, I tip my head back and shoot it in one smooth gulp. I slap the glass down on the bar and order another. I intend on sipping this one, and pick up the freshly filled shot glass. When I press it to my lips, I sense someone watching me. I glance around and see him.
My heart stops.
I can’t breathe.
I don’t move.
Bright blue eyes lock with mine and pin me in place. Sean Ferro sits at a small, expensive private table across from me. He’s alone, still wearing his suit from earlier. The tie is tight, and his jacket is still on. He has a bottle of amber liquid in an ice bucket and a crystal glass in his hand. His lips form a straight line, and his jaw is locked.
Fuck. I slam down the second drink and turn back to the bar. Maybe he’ll leave. I’m not leaving. I’ve never seen him here before. I would have thought a reporter or someone would have used this to smear him by now.
Before I can order a third drink, I’m given one.
“Compliments of that gentleman.” The bartender points over my head to the table where Mr. Ferro still sits.
I nod once and follow the protocol. A drink means interest. My accepting it means I’ll comply. I know the rules here. I grab my purse with one hand, the glass with the other, and walk over to his table.
Being here is stupid. If anyone sees me, I’m screwed. I’ll lose my job, and everyone will know I’m completely messed up.
I wipe all emotion from my face and slip into the booth across from him. I set the drink on the table and stare at the beautiful man. Those sapphire eyes swim with heartache, but they're hardening. It’s getting harder to see it.
When he speaks, his voice is deeper than I remember. “Are you following me, Miss Driskill?”
I’m not, but if I say I'm not, he’ll know I’m here for the same reason he is. So, I lie.
“Yes, of course. It’s my job to know about everything you do.”
“So you can use it against me in court?” He says it like we’re discussing the weather. He’s emotionally distanced himself from the conversation, from me.
“That’s the plan.” I lift my cup and grin. “Thanks for this.”
He nods and watches me as I press the glass to my lips. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat. When I finish, I place the shot glass on the table and prepare to stand with every intention of walking away.
But Ferro's piercing eyes are trained directly on mine and, when he speaks, I can’t remember what I was doing. “You’re not following me. If you were, I’d never have seen you. Give me a little more credit, Miss Driskill. Additionally, there’s no way you plan on reporting my presence in a place like this. You’d have to explain why you were here, and why you’ve already had more to drink than is socially acceptable. So tell me, why are you at Club Noir this evening?”
I stand stunned into silence. The longer he speaks, the more I want to hear. What the hell is wrong with me? I shake it off and let a lazy smile fill my face.
Leaning forward, I look at him from under my lashes. “The truth, Mr. Ferro, is simple and presumably the same reason you’re here.”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t lean in, mirror my smile, or speak. He’s perfectly still, watching me, waiting for the explanation I won't give.
I expect him to deny it, but he doesn’t. I breathe in slowly, watching the muscles in his jaw tighten. His hands are in front of me, holding the glass. He’s not white-knuckled, so he’s controlling that temper very well. He does have a temper. I’ve seen pictures of him, hands in the air, screaming, his chiseled face twisted with rage. He hides his thoughts well, now, much better than when the trial began.
I tap my pointer finger on the table once, then twice. On the third tap, he reaches out and covers my hand with his, stopping the movement.
“I know why you’re here.”
The breath is sucked from my lungs. Those azure eyes bore into me, and I feel trapped. His hand grows hotter and heavier as it rests on top of mine. I want to run, but I don’t. I sit there, waiting for him to say words I can’t hear—words I’ll never say myself. I swallow hard and watch him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to come spilling over those sexy lips.
I hate him. Why'd he have to be right here, right now? Damn it!
I fake a smirk. “Really? Then tell me. Why am I here?”
Sean glances to the side and then tips his head forward. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to smile. He presses my hand harder to the table, and I let him.
“Level Nine. You’re here for the activities on nine.”
* * *
My heart slams into my ribs and falls to my feet. I start to pull my hand away, but he holds onto me.
“I should go.” My voice sounds hesitant.
“You should stay, and show me around.” His voice is softer than before, more careful. He lifts his palm from my hand and returns it to his drink. That suit fits him well, accentuating his lean body. I wonder what he looks like under all those clothes, what his skin would feel like beneath my hands.
No.
I shake my head and push the thought away.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t work with beginners.”
“Who said I’m a beginner?” Sean leans forward, and I feel his foot slide between mine. My knees separate slightly. His touch feels charged. I wish I could feel more, but I shouldn’t.
There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on, and it has nothing to do with the murder. Prior to Amanda, Sean Ferro was a manwhore. He had a different co-ed on his arm every night. He slept with everyone and loved no one. Then--poof!--he was a committed husband for years. The District Attorney's dossier on Sean Ferro includes tons of dirt—just none from during his marriage to Amanda. Either the man is a mastermind…
Or he truly loved her.
I want to know which one. Curiosity is going to kill me, assuming David doesn’t when he finds out I was here.
My gaze sweeps over Sean once again, considering. Would it be so bad? What if I could find out if he really did it? That would abate my guilt regarding the public perception I've fostered toward him.
“Miss Driskill, you can stay, or you can go—it’s all the same to me. You know what happens here just as well as I do, though I don’t frequent this place as often as you.”
“I don’t frequent Club Noir.” I spit out the words, irritated, enunciating each one as disgust clouds my face. “Screw off, Ferro.” The alcohol is dulling my senses, but still I know I need to leave. I can’t be here, not with him. Not now, not ever.
He’s so calm, so completely in control of himself. He leans back in the booth, placing one arm on the backrest and surveying me with those gorgeous eyes.
“Go, then. No one is holding you here.” The corners of his
lips twitch into a smirk. “As much as you’d enjoy it.”
I roll my eyes and decide to leave. At the same moment, a woman stops in front of the table and blocks me in. She leans toward Sean, acting like I’m invisible. She pulls the collar of her shirt down--way down--revealing ample cleavage beneath a pink collar set with two gleaming gemstones. If she falls into that set of DDD falsies, she’ll drown.
“I’m looking for a partner tonight. Come on back.” Her massive Louis Vuitton bag swings forward, slapping me in the head as she pulls away.
“Hey!” I snap, pushing the purse out of my face. “Watch what you’re doing.”
Her overinflated lips snake into a smile. “Oh, I am. Better try again, honey. This one is mine.”
Sean says nothing. He sits there watching, his eyes moving slowly between the two of us. If he thinks I’m going to fight some bimbo for him, he’s out of his mind. At the same time, I’m not letting her think she’s better than me. I reach into my purse and pull out my own collar. It’s black leather and studded with nine gems.
“This thing is so bulky,” I say, placing the collar on the table with a thud, then digging deeper into my bag. I pull a packet of mints from the bottom and pop one into my mouth.
Her jaw drops, and she looks at me again, I mean really looks.
“So, the librarian type does get all the action?”
“More than the Barbie type. Everyone knows what they’re getting when it’s all hanging out.” I point at the twins, which seem ready to burst out of her blouse.
Sean’s gaze drops to the table and lands on my collar. He reaches for it and lifts it reverently. “This is the highest level here, is it not?”
The woman nods.
“And the gems, there aren’t more she can receive—are there?” He brushes his thumb over the center stone. It’s a black diamond. I wonder if he knows how I earned that one. Most women don’t have that--Barbie included. She sucks in a breathy gasp and puts on her pouty lips.
“I might not have as many, but that just makes me more eager to please. I’ll be in the back, waiting for you.” She says the last sentence in a porn star voice. She probably is a porn star. “Bye, sugar. Good luck.”
My gaze narrows and I’m seriously considering slamming my fist into her nose job. Sean’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Miss Driskill. You won’t like the consequences. Club Noir isn’t the type of establishment that enjoys a chick fight.”
“Good night, Mr. Ferro," I say with a laugh as I stand up from the table. "Have a lovely time fucking a real Barbie doll--because that never gets old.” I roll my eyes and toss down a twenty. “For my drink.”
“I wouldn't know. I don’t have an affinity for plastics. They seem crass, but maybe that’s just me.”
My face contorts. I want to hit him. Sure, people have accused me of being gay, but I’m not. I may have tried it once, but that was a long time ago. Based on how he said it, I think he knows that, though. I freeze my face and lock my emotions away.
I fold my arms across my chest and blurt out, “What do you want?”
“You have memories you’d prefer to forget. So do I.”
I cock one hip to the side and shoot death rays at his heart with my eyes. “Find a different partner. I’m not your type. You couldn’t survive me.”
He swallows hard, an unintended movement. He’s still holding my collar, and I can’t leave without it. I did all sorts of things to earn that, and I won't toss it away like trash. I unfold my arms and tap the table once, pressing my finger against the dark wood indicating I want the collar--now.
He looks down at the center gem and rubs it with his thumb, slowly in small circles. The sensations he evokes overload my senses, and I can’t stand here anymore. I reach across the table and snatch it away from him. “That's as close as you’ll ever get to touching me.”
“Of course, Miss Driskill. Have a good evening.” He lifts his glass and sips his drink.
As I rush to leave, I hear another woman trying to entice him. Before I push through the door, I look back into the room. If he went with her, I’d be able to see his back following her down the long hallway.
The corridor is dressed in gold and black. Amber lights dim softly against the walls making it look like a passage into Heaven.
It’s empty.
* * *
A week passes at zombie speed. In my attempt to release my frustration, I destroy my favorite dildo. It's no wonder why I don’t have a boyfriend. Guys probably sense I could break their junk and avoid me to keep their jewels safe. I should reconsider being a lesbian. There are no body parts on a woman to snap off accidentally. Too bad I like men.
My attention is barked back to the present by the tone in the DA’s voice. David is nearly yelling, “But the problem is that he sounds distressed. You can clearly hear him swallow a sob. The jury is going to eat that up! The bastard planned it. We need to prove his tone during the call was all an act.”
Janna Bent is an older woman with frizzy dirty blonde hair that curls uncontrollably. She’s a little thick around the middle, but has a killer rack and a pretty face. She’s also a bitch on steroids when it comes to winning.
“So we don’t use it!” She’s sitting across from David, on the other side of his desk in a well-used chair.
“Then they will! This recording is already admitted into evidence. We’ve been over this, Janna.” David slams his hands down on his desk. He inhales sharply and looks up at me. I’ve been quietly sitting in the corner, picking at the hem of my skirt. “What would you do, Paige?”
He likes that I’m definitive and that I usually have an answer ready to go, but this time I don’t. I buy time. I drop the fabric and look up at him. “Play me the recording again, please.”
He presses the button, and I listen. Through the cheap speaker, Sean Ferro makes a strangled noise, as if his voice won’t come out. With the sound of his voice, an image forms in my head. I picture him crying silently, cradling his dead wife in his arms, and not noticing her blood stain his hands and clothes. And if I can see it, the jury will, too.
Without that part at the beginning, the remainder of the call sounds stoic, precise, like a man thinking clearly. I push up and walk across the room to David's desk. I stop the recording and play the beginning a second time. I play it and stop. Play it and stop. I’m sitting on the edge of his desk, staring into space, and consider it.
“What are you thinking, Paige?” David knows by the expression on my face that I’ve thought of something. The problem is that I'm not sure if I can be this horrible of a person. What if Sean really was cradling her body? What if he really was crying?
This angle will destroy him completely. Any empathy he has left will be eradicated. My eyes sweep the room, considering the stacks of papers and hours of research spent building a case to nail this man. In all that time, we couldn’t find anything to prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he planned his wife’s murder or that he committed it. Nothing except his being the one to find her in the crime scene. The pieces of this puzzle fit both ways.
I blink a few times and stop the recording. I can’t listen to his voice like that anymore. Sean Ferro doesn’t sound like that. There’s no control in the tone of the recording. It’s like he’s trying to hold back tears--or another equally jarring emotion.
I say it. I say it because I have to crush him. I have to come at him with everything and know I did my job to the best of my ability.
“He’s laughing.”
“What? No, he isn’t.” Janna sits up and grabs the recording. She presses the button, and her eyes light up. A smile spreads across her face. “Oh, my God! He is. He’s trying not to laugh. That sick son of a bitch.” Her jaw hangs open, and words fail her.
David takes the recorder and replays the call again and again. He’s staring at the metal box in his hands without seeing it. He’s picturing the jury and their reaction to my suggestion.
“W
e need a story to go with this, to make it real for the jury. Comb back through the case files and find out what Sean Ferro was doing the night of the murder.”
I nod, slip off the desk, and pick up the police report. Before I open it, I turn back and tell them the rest of my plan. “Get him to laugh, just once, while he’s on the stand. Then play the recording. The jury will hear it, and you won’t need a story--they’ll believe for themselves.”
* * *
The pit of my stomach is sinking. I feel like I’m going to be sick, and that’s not something that happens to me often. When I was a girl, my mother joked that my stomach must be made of steel. I could eat anything, then go on a carnival ride, get whipped every which way, and jump off, only to stuff my face more.
But this isn’t a carnival ride. Maybe that’s the problem.
I’m destroying someone’s life and it’s not because I'm certain he did it. How did I get to this point? Why am I willing to flush away my principles for a crappy paycheck? Nailing a Ferro for murder would bring more notoriety, more opportunities. But can I live with myself, condemning a possibly innocent man?
I finish painting my face and grab my leather jacket before heading out. Jess is coming up the stairs as I’m rushing down them. I’m in the right frame of mind, and I can't let her soften me.
“Hey, Jess. I'm headed out to work for a little bit, but I saved you some fried chicken. I ate all the biscuits.”
She grabs my arm, stopping me. “Look at you! Hot thang!” She grins as she visibly checks me out. Then she teases, “You mean you saved me chicken because you ate bread for dinner again? Are you turning Vegan or something?”
I laugh. Loudly. “No! I just—”
She finishes my sentence, “--love buttermilk biscuits and can’t control yourself. Got it. Thanks for the chicken! See you later! You look hot tonight, Paige!”
As I race down the stairs, I call back to her, “Thanks!”
The air is crisp, and it smells like snow. I tuck my chin into my coat and run down the street to a cab. I slip into the back seat and tell the cabby, “54th and Madison Avenue.” He nods and takes off. The traffic isn’t too bad, so the ride won’t be long. The cabbie does his thing, and I get lost in my thoughts.
