Page 51 of Single Malt
The woman at the back door was probably only an inch or two over five feet tall and had delicate features that probably made pretty much everyone underestimate her. I, however, had enough female members of my family who would have kicked my ass if I judged a woman to be safe based solely on her size. If the Meyers trusted her here, that was more than enough for me to assume she could do her job.
“Good evening.” I gave her my most charming smile and handed over the card I’d been given.
“ID, please.” She held out her hand, the hard expression on her face not showing a single crack.
Some men might’ve been assholes and told her to smile. I gave her my ID and waited in silence while she examined it. The fact that there was no way in hell that she thought I was under twenty-one spoke of someone who took her job seriously, and that definitely reflected well on the club.
I never worked with any bar or club that had been in trouble for serving underage patrons. That had actually been one of the things I’d been the most worried about regarding universities. Granted, whiskey wasn’t usually the drink of choice for frat parties, but that didn’t mean I wanted it easily accessible.
“You have a one-time guest pass,” she said as she handed the ID back. “If you leave the club, you won’t be allowed back in. If you have to smoke, there’s a private area clearly marked. While a guest, you are held to the standards of safe and consensual for all acts.”
The way she rattled off the impressive spiel told me she either had to say it a lot or was just damn good at her job. Considering how exclusive this place was, my bet was on both.
“Understood,” I said seriously.
Her eyes narrowed. “You makin’ fun of me?”
I shook my head. “Not at all, ma’am. Between my sisters and my mother, I’d get my ass kicked if I was anything less than respectful of a woman in a position of authority.”
She didn’t look suspicious anymore, but she didn’t smile either. She jerked her head toward the door, and I took that to mean I’d passed whatever test she’d given me.
So far, so good.
The staircase down was well-lit, and I could feel the pulse of the music behind the curtain at the bottom. I didn’t recognize the song, but it had the same flavor to it as what I’d heard in most other clubs around the country. Something meant to warm the blood and encourage people to come together.
And not in a platonic “let’s sit around a campfire and sing songs” sort of warmth and coming together.
I pushed between the curtains, surprised at how heavy and soft the fabric was. After stepping into the main room of Black Masque, however, it made sense.
Everything was black and red, silk and velvet. Sensual. A bar along one side, and I suspected, doors to private rooms on the other. Booths and tables surrounded what looked like a dance floor, and in the very center of that floor, a large circular stage.
“Welcome.” A tall, curvy woman smiled at me. Her dress was tight, red, and I could see the tiny thong and fancy black bra she wore underneath the shimmery, sheer material. “New member or guest?”
“Guest,” I said. “Brody McCrae.”
“I was told to expect you.” She returned the smile I sent her way, and I caught a glimpse of some extra heat in her eyes as she looked me up and down. “I’m Amberlyn, tonight’s hostess.”
She was gorgeous, and unless I was mistaken, interested. I told myself that if she hadn’t been working, I would’ve maybe taken some time to get to know her, but a little voice in the back of my head told me that I was lying to myself.
I shoved that little voice into a box and told it to shut up.
“You’re welcome to explore every amenity Black Masque has to offer.” She made a wide, sweeping gesture. “Visit our private rooms. Enjoy the music. A show will begin on center stage shortly.”
A show.
That sounded…promising.
As she moved away to greet other people, I walked toward the bar, taking in as much as I could about everything and everyone around me. Men and women in slinky dresses and lingerie, leather and full suits. Some had piercings and tattoos. Others looked like they’d just stepped out of the board room. All walks of life.
By the time I took a seat at the bar, the music had been turned down, and an excited anticipation thrummed through the room. I turned on the stool and watched as two dark-haired men and a petite brunette woman walked up onto the stage.
One of the men wore a full three-piece suit, and the other was only in a pair of faded blue jeans and a studded collar. The woman was in a corset, boy shorts, and thigh-high stockings. She held the leash that went with the collar on the jeans-wearing man, and in her other hand was a riding crop.
Apparently, it was time for the show.
Thirty-Three
Freedom