Page 35 of The Finish Line
Her voice is pure sex, her body an offering, but I do my best to keep my wits about me, despite the quarter gallon mix of wine and gin coursing through my veins. But she’s dead-on in her assessment. I’ve never been to a place like this, and even I know this club is as upscale and exclusive as they come. And since we strolled in just past midnight, bellies full of the finest French cuisine and expensive wine—that I immediately acquired a taste for—we’ve gained the attention of a majority of the dancers, especially since Preston has no shortage of money and has been so generous with it. The woman intent on breaking my concentration gently sways her hips in a deliberate taunt as I avert my gaze back to the man sitting in VIP. It’s clear he’s not a first-time patron. The section where he’s taken up residence is just across from our booth, elevated just a few short steps above the main floor to make sure we know our place in the food chain.
What separates us is a velvet rope and an insane amount of influence and money. Though I’m sure if Preston flexed his bank account, he’d be a contender for the highest roller in here.
I’m not obsessed with money, I know the evils of it, but more than once tonight, I’ve been slapped by the reality of my standing due to lack of it. I think of Dom, still sleeping on the same fucking twin mattress he’s had since he was five, the roof leak in the corner of his bedroom, and the black mold growing in his closet because of it. My lackluster room at the hostel is a palace in comparison.
“Je pourrais te permettre de me toucher. Mais pas si tu continues à m’insulter en détournant ton regard.” I might allow you to touch me. But not if you keep insulting me by looking away.
Light-brown eyes scold me as she arches her back against the pole in another attempt to gain my interest. It’s a tempting offer, but I’m too distracted, my reasons for staying in Paris dwindling by the second. I could hang it up now, let some of my aspirations go. I could attend an Ivy League university back home and find a way to pay for it. Four or five years from now, secure a job with a six-figure salary, enough to move Dom out of Delphine’s shithole and secure his future.
But it’s a gut feeling, combined with the hairs rising on the back of my neck, that has my thoughts shifting again. A tangible tension has been building since the three suited men walked in a half-hour ago. The staff scattered like rats. And from what I’ve witnessed, it’s due to a mix of fear and respect, which leads me to believe they are someone important or work for someone important, and I’m determined to figure out which.
“Dis-moi sur quelle chanson danser. Tu vas voir, ça en vaudra la peine.” Tell me which song to dance to. You’ll see, it will be worth it.
It’s the man tucked in the corner booth who I’m most curious about. He hasn’t paid a bit of attention to the dancers. Everything about his demeanor screams organizational man. He’s a decade at most past his prime and very, very well paid, which I deduce from his dress, the high dollar bottles being delivered to his table every few minutes, and the cigar he’s chewing on. It’s cliché gangster 101, so obvious and obnoxious. Chances are, they’re more drunk on their effect, on the attention they’ve gathered, than the liquor they’re tossing down their throats.
“Arrête de regarder, si tu ne veux pas qu’il te remarque.” Stop staring if you don’t want him to notice you.
“Qui est-il?” Who is he?
“Un homme qui n’aime pas qu’on pose des questions à son sujet.” A man who doesn’t like people asking questions about him.
Placing one of the higher bills in my hand at her heels, she glances down and then back to me before subtly shaking her head.
“Je ne sais rien. Personne ne sait rien ici. Et personne ne te dira quoi que ce soit. Mais tout ce que je sais, c’est que si tu poses trop de questions, si tu suscites le moindre soupçon, tu disparaitras, ou tu le souhaiteras fortement.” I don’t know anything. No one here does. And no one will tell you anything, either. But what I do know is that if you ask, if you even so much as arouse suspicion, you’ll disappear or wish you had.
I look down at the wad of cash Preston pressed into my hand in the car before we arrived and know if I pocket some of it, it will make life a bit easier for me. Both angered and shamed by the thought, I lay it all at her feet.
“Quelqu’un sait quelque chose. Et si ce quelqu’un c’est toi, je serai très reconnaissant.” Someone knows something. And if that someone is you, I would be appreciative.
Just as the man’s eyes lock onto mine, she blocks his view of me, brushing her nipples along my lips. Both her allure and the gin take over, and I do my best to keep from getting hard. This isn’t the place, and though beautiful, she isn’t the girl to indulge with.
She grips my shoulders and turns me to face Preston, who’s sitting in our booth, two popped bottles open and sweating in buckets. A dark-brunette beauty bounces in his lap. At this point, he looks only half-conscious, the only sign of life a dopey smile on his face as she grinds against him. My dancer runs her palms from my shoulders to my chest, encasing me from behind. Her breath hits my ear a second before she digs her nails through the fabric. It’s then my cock can’t take no for an answer. Hissing through my teeth, I’m thankful for the cover of the jacket.
“Si tu ne croyais pas aux fantômes avant de venir ici ce soir, il en est la preuve. Il a un intérêt dans ce club. Une danseuse. Elle ne parle à personne ici. Jamais. Elle est escortée partout où elle va. Un des videurs les a suivis une fois et a disparu. Ce ne sont pas les hommes avec qui plaisanter.” If you didn’t believe in ghosts before you came here tonight, he is proof. He has one interest in this club. A dancer. She doesn’t talk to anyone here. Not ever. She’s escorted everywhere she goes. One of the bouncers followed them once and disappeared. These are not the men to be messed with.
“Merci.” Thank you.
Just after our exchange, I stop drinking, and after politely declining several appealing suggestions from my dancer, I pry Preston from the brunette. Wrapping his arm around my neck, I begin the task of hauling him out of the club while he struggles against me, whispering declarations to his abandoned dancer standing feet away.
“Je te retrouverai, mon amour.” I will find you again, my love. Palm on his chest, he grins at her. “Finally, I have found true love in the city made for lovers. And now I have to leave. Au revoir, ma chérie.”
“I’m willing to bet she’ll move on quickly,” I huff as he struggles against me, slurring his sentimental goodbye.
He turns to face me, not at all pleased I’ve cut this part of our night short. “What do you know about love, man?”
“That it’s distracting your feet; do me a favor and try to remember what they’re for.”
“That blonde was into you. Why didn’t you pounce on that?”
“Not my type.”
“What is your type? You like a whip cracker and rope, don’t you? It’s always the quiet ones. Tell me, King, am I right?”
“Use your feet,” I grunt as I practically drag him across the room.
“I bet you like ’em mean,” he says, stopping the two of us in the middle of the club. “I need to take a piss.”
After waiting an eternity outside the bathroom, we make it to the entrance, which is now deserted, thanks to the lateness of the hour and the rapidly dropping temperature.