I hang up the phone. Entitled piece of shit. I could fucking kill him. I take another drag, letting the weed soothe the anger bubbling inside me.
You handled it. Don’t let emotion take over.
But the thought of Taylor’s fear, even if it only lasted a few minutes, can’t be so easily cowed. My fingers curl around the phone, and rage burns through my system.
I’m done with this life. Done with men who think they can take whatever they want. Done with putting girls in situations where they end up calling me, terrified out of their minds. I’m fucking done.
I let loose, flinging the phone as hard as I can against the opposite wall, but the shattering plastic does nothing to calm my temper.
“I have to get out of here.” I shove out of my chair, joint in hand, as I stalk toward my bedroom to change.
Fuck men. Fuck Moses. Fuck everything.
I’m going to the club to see Desiree and handle shit myself. Just like I always do.
Eight
Magnolia
When the car drops me off in front of the sprawling plantation house, I barely notice the massive trees with moss dangling from their limbs over the banks of the bayou. I’m not here to be filled with wonder and amazement like the new members who have been added to the roster since I bowed out of managing the club.
Then again, no one was surprised when I stepped aside a few years ago when my well-ordered life went through a proverbial wood chipper. Nothing is the same as it used to be, especially not me.
The sense of disquiet that’s been haunting me all day chases me up the grand steps of the antebellum mansion. The doorman smiles beneath his mask when he sees me.
“Ms. Maison. It’s a pleasure to see you this evening.”
“Thank you, Gerard.”
“Do you need a mask?” he asks, his gaze lingering on my face.
One of my eyebrows shoots up. “Do you think it’s going to help me fly under the radar or something?” The question is more rhetorical than anything, because it doesn’t seem to matter what I do. Everyone knows who I am wherever I go.
“Club rules,” he says evenly, a reminder that I’m not part of the management anymore.
“Mine’s inside.” I have a locked cupboard in the ladies’ dressing room, which contains all sorts of interesting things.
“Enjoy your evening, ma’am,” Gerard says with a nod of approval.
The door sweeps open, and he gestures for me to enter. I step inside, barely noticing the shimmering crystal of the new chandelier or the throbbing bass beat of the music coming from upstairs. I don’t turn and stare at the gold gilt covering the sconces on the walls or the art hanging between them.
That’s not what I’m here for.
I head straight to the manager’s office, turning three corners and clipping down a hallway. The door is closed, so I knock twice and wait.
The knob turns, and the door swings open a foot.
“Can I help— Oh, Magnolia. It’s so good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Paige, the club’s manager, says to me.
“Unscheduled visit. Business, not pleasure, darling,” I tell her with a smile. “Is Desiree around?”
Paige nods. “Yes. I saw her on the monitors in the bar. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s always okay in my world,” I say, lying to her with a smile that hides everything I’m thinking and feeling.
“Good to hear. Also, good to see you. Enjoy your night.”
I turn up the wattage of my smile. “You too, Paige. You too.”
Thankful that I don’t have to scour the entire club to track down Desiree, I pop into the ladies’ dressing room, put on my mask, and take the back stairs up to the second floor. The large and stately room that houses the bar is the hub of all activity in the club. This is where most members’ nights start and end.
It doesn’t take me long to find Desiree. A small crowd of men surround her, no doubt dying to get the madam into bed. Like me after I took the reins of the house, Desiree doesn’t take clients unless she feels so inclined. And it hasn’t hurt business in the least. Exclusivity means big dollars in this world.
Rather than burst into her circle and have to talk to any of the men drooling over her, I belly up to the bar and lay my small clutch on the long expanse of wood.
“What can I get for you, Ms. Maison?”
“Three fingers of Seven Sinners. Neat.” I shake my head at Paul and chuckle, vindicated. “I told Gerard it didn’t matter if I wore a mask, and you just proved me right.”
Paul’s smile beams behind his half mask as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey. “He should know you’re unforgettable.”
The compliment is sweet, but the last thing I want to do is encourage Paul in any way. He’s nearly thirty, but still way too innocent for a woman like me.
Oh, and what kind of man is right for you? Ho-It-All is back and hitting me with a question I’d do better not to contemplate.
As Paul pours the whiskey, I think about the answer.
A man who has some miles on him. Jaded. Scarred with battle wounds. Someone who is ready to ride off into the sunset and live a different life. Clean and brand new.
I stop short on that thought.
Ride off into the sunset? Really, Mags? Now you sound like a girl who believes in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters, and we know that’s a waste of time.
“Here you go, Ms. Maison,” Paul says as he slides the whiskey toward me.
As my hand curls around the glass, I open my mouth to thank him, but Desiree slips onto the bar stool next to me.
“Hey, boo.”
I glance to my side. “Desi. You look good.”
“Thanks. You too.” She leans back on the stool, pushing her tits damn near out of her bustier as she arches her back.
Paul nearly swallows his tongue, even though he sees plenty of skin in this place. Desiree is just that gorgeous with her blond mane and tip-tilted cat eyes. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.
She orders a vodka rocks, and he nearly drops the bottle and the glass while making it. She shoots him a wink and then shifts her gaze to me. “What’s happening, lady?”
She’s making small talk, but what I have to say isn’t small or fit to be discussed in this room.
“We need privacy.”
Some of the languid grace of her posture dies. “What’s wrong?”
“Privacy,” I repeat. “You have a room for tonight?”
Worry lines her normally porcelain-smooth brow. “Of course.”
“We’ll talk there. Lead the way.” I slide off the bar stool, and when Paul stares after Desiree as she struts away from the bar, I turn back to him for a beat. “Close your mouth, Paul. You’ll drool in the drinks, bud.”
His lips snap shut, and he busies himself with a towel, wiping down the surface of the bar.
With a quiet chuckle, I follow Desiree across the room. A current madam and a former madam heading to a private room at a sex club draw the eyes of everyone in the bar. No doubt the men are picturing us naked and grinding on each other already. I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Less than three minutes later, I shut the door of the elegantly appointed room behind me. Inside is a four-poster bed with red silk cords tied to each corner post. A dark brown leather chair flanks the wall, next to an armoire that I know from experience is filled with a treasure trove of sex toys and implements.