The Blue Room Vol. 2: The Blue Room Series

by Gow, Kailin

  “Sorry.” I look up at him. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Scoping out the competition,” he says. “Smart.”

  “They're not my competition,” I say. I don't want that – to have a bracelet on my wrist, to be claimed as somebody else's.

  “What are they, then?” Ben's smile is better.

  “I don't know – people.”

  “They're not having you work the floor yet,” Ben frowns. “Why is that?”

  My heart flutters for a moment, and I wonder if I can trust him enough to tell him the truth. Part of me wants to hold back, to keep everything to myself. But Ben's sincere charm and kind eyes win me over. “They're saving me for someone,” I say.

  “Who?”

  I don't answer.

  “Listen –,” Ben says. “I know a lot of these guys. I've...been with a lot of these guys. You'd be surprised how many straight men on the register discover they're really flexible with their bracelet-giving after a few drinks, and a lot of these men from Hollywood prefer something different, but ...I could help you.”

  “I don't think anyone can help me,” I say.

  “You nervous?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I turn to him. “Mr. X,” I say.

  “No!” his mouth drops open.

  “It's true.”

  “I thought he was leaving the Blue Room – after Roz...”

  “I guess he's been tempted back again.”

  “Wow,” Ben says. His respect is tinged with cynicism. “I guess you're pretty special, huh.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  Ben sighs. “Not a lot. He's definitely straight – as far as I can tell. He goes to the same people, over and over again. He was with Roz for a while now. Before Roz there was Rita...”

  My ears prick up. Finally, finally, I'm getting somewhere.

  “Rita?”

  But before Ben can say anything else, Terrence Blue appears from the crowd.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” The way his eyes run up and down on me drives me wild. “What are you up to?”

  “We were just – uh...” I flutter for words.

  But somehow Ben is quicker than I am – as if he too knows the need for discretion. “I was just telling Staci about the music execs who are in the audience tonight. Telling her she should make some special friends.”

  I turn to Ben in surprise. He's a remarkably good liar. And he's willing to lie to cover up the fact we were talking about Rita. Does he not trust Terrence, either?

  “Special friends?” Terrence's voice is almost a purr. “I thought you were going to be my special friend, tonight.”

  “Can you get me a record deal?” My voice is mocking, but the bitterness is serious. I still remember how cold he was on the phone with his security, telling them to clean up Roz as if she were just another mess left behind by a careless hotel guest.

  “I can try,” Terrence's grin is unfeigned. “For you, my dear, anything at all. Come with me.”

  His hand is against the small of my back as he leads me to an older gentleman sitting in one of the shadowy booths. Now that I'm close I can make out his face: wizened, but kind.

  “This is Stephan Steinem.”

  I look up in surprise. After all, guests here are normally identified by their letters, not their real names. But Steinem doesn't look perturbed in the slightest.

  Then I see who's sitting next to him. Neve and Danny are at his side, their arms around each other. Like real lovers, I think. Lovers who actually care about each other without being paid to be.

  I guess some people really do come to the Blue Room for the music.

  “A pleasure,” Steinem stretches out his hand and I shake it.

  “Staci's a real live wire,” says Terrence. “She's got a killer voice. She performed here a few nights ago...”

  “I wish I'd seen it!” Steinem said. “I heard great things.”

  “We'll be sure to get her onstage again,” Terrence says.

  “Please,” says Steinem, “let me know when you do.”

  I feel my heart flutter in spite of myself.

  “Now, I need to talk shop with Staci for a second.”

  With that, Terrence leads me into his office. I barely speak. I barely have time to register anything at all before Terrence is pressing me against the wall, kissing me wildly.

  “I have to get some cocktail orders to Ben...” I murmur, but it's too late. His hand is already up my skirt.

  “They can wait,” he whispers into my neck.

  “Not these patrons,” I say. “You know that.”

  His fingers are already rubbing my clitoris, driving me wild.

  “Careful,” I whisper, trying to regain control over myself, “or I won't be your prized virgin any longer.”

  “Do you have to remind me?” Terrence groans. He runs his finger through my hair. “This is killing me, Staci. I want you – virginal, experienced, wild, demure – I don't care. I want all of you. Every part of you. It's killing me.”

  “Unfortunately, so do paying clients.” I keep my voice cold. Professional.

  “It shouldn't bother me...” his voice is hoarse. “I don't know why it bothers me, but it does.”

  This surprises me.

  “I thought you'd be used to it by now,” I say. “Don't let it bother you. Keep your distance.”

  “That's the thing.” Terrence is so insistent I wonder if he means it. “I can't. I want you more than I've ever wanted anybody else.”

  “That's because you can't have me.” My voice is cold, almost angry.

  “I want you.”

  “For sex? Or for more?”

  “I don't know!” He seems genuinely upset. “I just know – when I'm with you, my mind goes blank.”

  My mind goes blank, too. But I have two murders to solve.

  “You don't even know me,” I say. “You just know what we have, physically.”

  “I want to know you,” he says. “Staci, I can't stop thinking about you.”

  “You don't know a thing about me. You don't even know my interests, my hobbies...”

  “Then let me know you!”

  “And then how am I supposed to fuck the patrons?” The words are cold, clear. True.

  “Stay as a bartender,” he murmurs. “I'll introduce you to some producers. Like Stephen. Make you a star. No prostitution. No nothing. Just performing.”

  It's tempting. So tempting. So tempting I almost give in.

  But there are two missing girls, and only one date with Mr. X. to find out their secrets.

  “Maybe I like this job.”

  He looks up at me in shock.

  “You...like it?”

  “Maybe I like the pampering. The world history lessons. The meaningless sex.”

  I don't mean a word of what I'm saying. Right now, all I want to do is run away from the Blue Room and never look back. Run away from Terrence Blue, and never look back.

  “Maybe I like the idea of fucking the world's handsomest, most powerful men.”

  “But Roz...” He bites his lip.

  “What about Roz?”

  “The fantasy – it got to her.”

  “If you think it's so bad,” I snap, “what are you doing running this place?”

  He falls silent.

  “The Blue Room is my father's legacy,” he says at last. “It's the one thing he trusts me to run – not my much-preferred brother. It's the one thing he thinks I'm good for.”

  His voice has grown bitter.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think I don't want Danny's life? His happiness with Neve? A relationship? Being a one-woman man? Sometimes, when I look into those intoxicating blue eyes of yours, I think – hey, maybe that could be me too. But my father knows me better than that. He knows I'm a coke fiend, a cad, a bad boy who's never going to go good. That's why he trusts me with this place – and no place else. Because it's all I'm good for.”

  I've never seen him look so...vulnerable.

  �
�There's more in you,” I say. My voice is softer now. I let him kiss me. I let him hold me. I let him hold me so tight I think I'm going to break. “There's got to be.”

  “You can walk away from this,” he whispers. “If you want.”

  I kiss him back, and for the first time tonight, I feel like I mean what I say to him.

  “I'm not going anywhere,” I say.

  Chapter 5

  Before I know it, the weekend of my mysterious Mr. X. is at hand. I am counting down the days, the minutes, the seconds until it happened – my nerves coiled up as tight as boxsprings. Three days away – and then it would be the day, I think, as I get dress – the day it all happens. The day I lose my virginity. The day I find out the truth about what happened to Rita. About what happened to Roz. All the mysteries life had put in my path: solved, solved at last. All I ever wanted was some answers. That's all I want now. All I wanted is the truth. All I wanted is to stop thinking about Terrence Blue.

  Ever since the last time I'd seen him, at the Blue Room, I haven't been able to stop thinking about the look in his eyes. It makes me wonder if Terrence is more than just some sleazy cad, some pimp who existed only to loan out beautiful women to the whims of men richer even than he. There is something else there – something soft, sensitive, vulnerable. I remember how he looked when I kissed him, how the tears stood in his eyes, how he let me run my fingers through his thick tousled hair and stroke his chiseled cheeks. How he let me love him, even for a moment. How that thing we shared, those kisses, that single heart-beating moment, was almost like love.

  But I can't think about that now. How can I think about it? Knowing that Terrence might want me – not merely as a fuck-buddy or a toy or a plaything, but as a person, a woman, a girlfriend? How am I supposed to go through with all that I'm supposed to do – knowing that? How am I supposed to sleep with someone else, be so intimate with someone else, play the fantasy of love with someone else – when Terrence and I share more than just a physical connection?

  I tell myself it's nothing. I remember what my mother always used to say about men, what they really wanted, what they really meant. Love was a distraction. It was a distraction that cost her her career, her dreams, everything she really and truly wanted out of life. It wasn't something to prize or cherish. It was something to guard against.

  And besides, I think to myself, why would I want someone like Terrence Blue anyway? Someone who rolled around in sleaze and sex the way a pig rolls in the mud. If I did want a relationship, if I did want to fall in love…

  Without meaning to, I let my thoughts drift back to the gym, and to my encounter with the man there. It strikes me all at once that I forgot to ask his name. Whatever he is, he isn't a Mr. A, a Mr. B., a Mr. X. He was so nice – so handsome, so calm, so normal. Mr. Nice and Normal, I think to myself, with a little laugh. No, too insulting. Nice and Handsome. That's what I'll call him, to myself at least. Mr. Nice and Handsome.

  Unfortunately, there's another Mr. on the agenda. To my surprise, Mrs. Walters summons me to her office the Thursday before my date with Mr. X.

  “You've been requested for a dinner date,” she said. “For tonight.”

  My mouth falls open.

  “But...” I have so many questions. What about Mr. X? What about my much-prized virginity?

  “Our patron understands the situation,” says Mrs. Walters, sensing my discomfort. “He expects nothing of you except dinner. Mr. S – that's what he's called – is more curious about your mind than your body.” Her smirk is palpable. “At least for now.”

  Somehow, the thought of dinner with Mr. S. makes me feel queasier than sex with Mr. X. One I was expecting – mentally readying myself for, knowing that it would have to happen. But dinner with another client. Playing the whore mentally if not physically – acting alluring, seductive, acting a part – that's not something I feel ready for. That's not something I want. I feel like I'd almost rather have just plain sex – casual and meaningless – than having to sit across someone at a dinner table and impress them. Right now, I'm not feeling very impressive.

  “Remember,” Mrs. Walters says, “Mr. S. likes the femme fatale look. So don't hold back. I'll send someone down to do your hair and makeup.”

  Great, I think to myself. Why couldn't I have found a client who just wanted the girl-next-door. Or even the girl-who-just-got-out-of-the-shower-and-is-wearing-sweats?

  I decide to go to the gym – work off a little more tension. At least, that's what I tell myself. Get the heart pumping, get the adrenaline shooting through me – that'll help me calm my nerves enough so that I can play a convincing femme fatale over truffles and caviar with Mr. S.

  But when I spy Mr. Nice and Handsome on the treadmill next to me, I know – with a pang of sadness – that a desire for endorphins wasn't the only thing that prompted me to the gym. I'm glad he's here. Relieved, even.

  He smiles when he sees me – a smile so genuine it almost breaks my heart.

  This is the kind of guy I should be dating, I think to myself. Someone honest. Someone real. Someone who smiles when I walk in not because he knows what's about to happen – knows that I'm going to fulfill his fantasy – but because he doesn't know anything at all. He's celebrating the unexpected. He's excited because I'm excited, because we're real people, laughing, talking, joking, getting to know one another, and because that reality sustains us.

  “I thought you'd be wiped out,” he says, mopping the sweat from his brow as he motions for me to take the treadmill next to him.

  “Me?” I laugh. “Never. I'm up for everything.” More than you know, I think.

  I feel almost ashamed when I talk to him. Every word I'm saying, I think, is a lie. Every minute I don't tell him I'm a Blue Girl is a moment he's dealing with a girl who's maybe more a fantasy than the femme fatale who will be sharing a tiramisu with Mr. S. in a few short hours.

  “I like a strong girl,” he laughs. “Although given the rate you're going, I bet you could probably beat me up.”

  “I'd never do that!” I laugh back. “You're too nice.”

  “Oh, am I?' His smile glimmers. “That's a pretty big judgment call you're making there.”

  “I have a good intuition about people,” I say.

  You have to be, if you're going to be a hooker.

  “Do you?” He looks faintly amused.

  “Don't you?”

  “I like to think I do,” he says. “Go on, then – what else can you tell about me. Other than that I'm nice.”

  And very handsome, I think, but don't add out loud.

  “You're – relaxed,” I say. “You don't seem to let life get you down.”

  “I try not to,” he says. “After all, if I let life get me down, nothing would ever get done.” His smile fades, and for a moment I wonder if I'm not wrong, if Mr. Nice and Handsome hasn't suffered after all.

  “You seem trustworthy,” I say. “That's rare in this town.”

  “You don't seem to like LA too much.”

  “I don't know how I feel about LA,” I say. It's the honest truth. Once it was the field of dreams – of my dreams – and in my more idealistic moments I wonder if it still could be. Other times, I wonder if I'm trapped in a nightmare for good. I could be a singing sensation – or just another used-up junkie prostitute. “It's kind of a love-hate relationship.”

  “I know what those are like,” Mr. Nice and Handsome sighs.

  I grin at him.

  “Bad experiences?”

  “Lots of experiences,” he says. “Some good. Some bad.”

  “With girls?” It just slips out. I don't mean to pry, to be too personal – but he takes it almost as flirtation.

  “Not at the moment,” he says. “I mean – there was someone in my life. I used to come out to LA for her. But we're not together anymore. So I just find other ways to fill my time.”

  “Like working out?”

  “Exactly,” he smiles. “Gotta keep fit on the market.”

  “Are you on
the market, then?” I mock-raise my eyebrows in disapproval.

  “I told you,” he laughs. “I'm in finance. Everything is a market.”

  “Not everything,” I say. I wish it were true.

  “What about you?” he asks me. “What brings you here so often? Surely it's not insecurity about your looks?”

  “It gets out the tension,” I say.

  “Are you tense?”

  “I've got...a big work presentation coming up.”

  He offers me some water; I gulp down a big sip.

  “You'll do great,” he said. “I'm sure of it. Audition?”

  I had forgotten I'd told him I'm an actress. “Uh – yeah. Right. Audition.”

  “Just relax,” he puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let things happen. Let your natural abilities shine through.”

  Oh, if you only knew...

  “Listen,” he beams at me. “I wish I could stay – I really do. To be honest, I could talk to you all day. But I've got a big project to do, and if it falls through, there's quite a few companies in quite a few countries that will be going down the drain.”

  “Sounds important.”

  “Hugely,” he rolls his eyes. Then he takes my hands and, to my surprise, pretends to bow.

  It was charming.

  “Until next time,” he says.

  “Until next time,” I say.

  It's only when I've made it back to my room that I realize I've forgotten to work out at all.

  Chapter 6

  It's almost eight o'clock. Or, as I have taken to calling it in my head: showtime. Time to be a femme fatale – to be everything Mr. S. wants me to be. Kinky, wild, savage in bed, totally uninhibited. Willing to do or say or be or try anything – at least once.

  Outside, at least, I look the part. I've sat silently and let Mrs. Walter's wonder team work their mysterious magic on me. They've done everything, absolutely everything: top to bottom, back to front. I've been shaved, waxed in places I didn't even know I had hair, been exposed to the most uncomfortable intimacies as every mole and pore on my person is pored over, in turn, and covered up. My eyebrows have been plucked to perfection. About twenty different products and creams have been massaged into my hair, and then Mrs. Walters and her redoubtable crew have taken a blow dryer and several styling mousses to it, so that it falls in glamour-girl ringlets around my bared shoulders. My skin they've treated with a light tanning solution, making me sun-kissed without making me look orange. My breasts are encased in a bra so flattering I think it's something out of science fiction. But it's the dress that's the real kicker. Gold sequined, skin-tight, off-the-shoulder, so form-fitting it looks like it's been poured onto me in the style of molten gold.