Page 3 of Sinful Mafia Santa
“Look,” Will says. “If this is a bad night for you…”
“William Lasker, that’s the third time you’ve asked if I’m having second thoughts. It sounds likeyou’rethe one thinking I shouldn’t go to this club!”
“No way, Ariel.” He’s called me that since the first day of classes, when my red-brown hair refused to stay put in a respectable ponytail. He said I looked like the Little Mermaid, and I told him I looked better in a seashell bra than any animated character. After that, our friendship was sealed.
The cab pulls over to the curb in the middle of a block that looks condemned, and Will taps his credit card to pay. When we climb out of the car, I realize the snow has been cleared from a narrow section of sidewalk. We make our way to a shadowed door.
A discreet brass plaque engraved with the name—KYNK—is the only sign we’ve reached our destination. The hinges on the door look like they should squeal, but they swing open with velvet silence. We step into a foyer that resembles a trendy hotel for superstars, complete with two massive, tuxedoed security guards just inside the door.
“Good evening, Mr. Lasker,” says a woman from behind a mahogany desk. Despite the fact that it’s after midnight, she wears flawless makeup and a welcoming smile. A sprig of holly is fastened to one of the lapels of her burgundy suit. On theother, she wears four pins—a replica of the brass oval from the front door along with three flags: the United Arab Emirates, Japan, and Germany.
“Hey, Lydia,” Will says. “This is my friend, Aeryn Reardon. She’ll be joining me this evening.”
Lydia doesn’t seem to notice that Will smells like a fry cook. Nor does she react to the fact that I’m a woman—hardly Will’s typical guest, I’m willing to bet. Instead, she gives me a professional smile. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Reardon. Have you played with us before?”
I catch myself smiling back, at maybe half the wattage. “I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“Well, welcome to Kynk.” She waves a manicured hand toward a pair of polished wooden doors. “We invite you to step into our greenroom—ladies to your right. Inside, you’ll find lockers for your convenience. We ask guests to undress to whatever level makes them feel most comfortable.”
I nod. With the bouncers at this place looking like they could take down the entire Chicago Bears defensive line, I’ll certainly feel comfortable taking off my black wool coat.
Lydia says, “We do require all our guests to leave behind any devices that capture audio or video, including cell phones.”
That’s another point in the club’s favor. I decide I can shed my bouclé cardigan as well.
Lydia continues with her welcome pitch: “A door at the far end of the greenroom will take you to the club proper, by way of a metal detector.”
There goes my silk shell. This is clearly a club that puts an emphasis on members’ safety. My black lace lingerie is about to get a viewing. And I thought I only wore it as armor against jealousy, when I dressed for an evening at Will’s elite restaurant.
“Once you’re in the Great Room, I’m sure Mr. Lasker will show you around. We expect all our guests to determine their own safewords. Our security staff is present to protect you andall other guests. Please don’t hesitate to ask for any assistance you require.”
Will is nodding like he’s listening to a favorite song, and I wonder how many times he’s heard this welcoming spiel. I thank Lydia, and we take a couple of steps closer to the greenroom doors.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” Will says. “Meet you by the main bar in twenty?”
Yes, Chef, I start to say, the way I answered all his questions during dinner service. I catch myself in time and say, “Sounds good.”
“Let’s have a codeword,” he says. “For when you want to leave.”
“Who says I’ll want to leave first?”
He grins. “For whenIwant to leave, then. How abouttiramisu?”
“Tiramisu,” I say. “Got it.”
“Aren’tyoueager to get out on the floor?” he teases. Then: “Twenty minutes.” He kisses me on the cheek, and I head into the women’s greenroom.
The dressing room at that Chicago brownstone was a closet with a pull-string for a bare lightbulb overhead. Kynk’s greenroom is a study in soft neutrals, gray and beige that have been kissed by lavender and peach. The air smells faintly of nutmeg and clove. A long mirror stretches to my right, reflecting a row of gleaming wooden lockers, each one decorated for the season with a large red bow. Through an alcove, I can glimpse private dressing rooms.
Two women take time from their whispered gossip by the mirror to smile distractedly at me. I can hear a shower running in the distance. Everything is peaceful. Calm.
Except the pounding of my heart.
I shake my head when I recognize the little flutter in my belly. It’s been nearly six months since I broke up with Shea, Da’s most recent candidate for a mob match. Although I’vegone through half a dozen batteries in my vibrator, I haven’t exactly been longing for male attention.
I’m half a continent away from home, from all the expectations that come with being Mickey Reardon’s only daughter. Will is going to find a pretty boy to play with. And I just realized how much I want to do the same.
There. Decision made. I’m entering the Great Room in my knickers, my bra, and my red-soled stilettos.