Woman Named Red

by Stasia Black

  Clubs can either become legend in San Francisco or they flame hot and die young. We’ve been open four years and in a town with this much history, that’s nothing more than the blink of an eye.

  With the Solomon Room, on the other hand—or hell, the entire Sutler Hotel—I’d be inheriting the legends with the deed.

  My back straightens. I’m going to fucking make this deal happen.

  My eyes shoot to the stairs that lead to the VIP section in the upper balcony—and all I zero in on is Scarlet’s sweet ass walking away from me.

  Holy shit. Did she really get that dress from a thrift store? And those shoes? The heels are at least four inches tall and they make her calves look fucking fabulous.

  Not to mention that ass. Shit. I swipe at my forehead as an image of me grabbing her hips and watching my cock disappear in between those sweet, plump ass cheeks jumps to the forefront of my brain.

  Which sends all blood south. Mind blank.

  Seriously. I just stare, watching her ass sway back and forth until she disappears into the crowd.

  Wait. No. She can’t disappear on me.

  My feet move me forward.

  “Hey!” a guy exclaims when I bump into him.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, continuing to push past people as I keep after Scarlet.

  The red dress helps me keep track of her. And those shoes. She’s already tall, but they make her even taller than normal. The shoes. Now I remember the box that came in the mail yesterday. A random detail for my mind to focus on at the moment, but there it is. The box from a place called ModCloth. It was about the size of a shoe box.

  I hadn’t heard of the company before but looked them up online after I took the box to the kitchen and Scarlet’s eyes lit up when she scooped them out of my hands and shooed me back out again. I figured she’d need some essentials right away, so I paid her the first week’s paycheck by giving her a separate prepaid card with two-hundred on it minus the amount for the Kindle.

  And the first thing she spends her money on, in addition to an e-reader, are completely impractical high-heeled shoes?

  Who the hell is this girl? And where is she going?

  She makes her way through the jumping, swaying, and grinding bodies toward the side of the dance floor. She stops by people milling along the edges of the crowd and pauses to run her hand down one of the constellation columns that holds up the balcony platform above us. Tiny inlaid lights glitter throughout the otherwise dark paneled columns. I had them designed to mirror actual star clusters. She traces Orion with her forefinger right as I catch up to her.

  She jerks when I put a hand on her shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  Wide, startled blue eyes flash to mine as a beam of light from the chandelier flashes over us.

  “Fine,” she says, obviously trying to cover the fact that she’s not fine. She smiles tremulously and pushes her hair back from her face. It’s loosely wound into a bun at the base of her neck, artful tendrils escaping everywhere. It’s more curly than usual, like she actually used a curling iron, though I didn’t think we had one of those in the house.

  No matter, the effect is devastatingly gorgeous. Now that I look at her more closely, I can see that she’s wearing the slightest bit of makeup, too. Mascara, a little bit of eye makeup, and some lip gloss. The effect is to make her blue eyes more luminous than ever and, shit, I’m staring aren’t I?

  “Why don’t we head upstairs?” I ask, taking Scarlet’s elbow. For a second I think she flinches, but then she relaxes underneath my touch. “It’s less crowded up there,” I explain, having to shout into her ear to be heard above the stomping beat of the music.

  Scarlet nods and allows me to escort her toward the stairs. As soon as we get back onto the dance floor, I notice the slightest falter in her footsteps. I look over at her and see her eyes flashing back and forth nervously at the crowd of people pressing in from all sides.

  She must not be comfortable with crowds. Guess she’s not familiar with the club scene. It’s early in the night and this is tame compared to what I’ve seen in some of the clubs that are more lax about capacity rules in between crackdowns than I am.

  Still, I hustle us to the stairs.

  “Hank.” I nod to the bouncer as we approach.

  He moves the velvet rope so we can pass into the VIP section.

  “Everything looking good tonight?” I ask.

  He gives me a sharp nod, eyes continuing to scan the club.

  Scarlet’s halfway up the stairs by the time I’ve finished my mini-exchange with Hank. Fuck if that woman can’t move. And double fuck if the view from down here isn’t a-fucking-mazing. That ass, shimmying up those stairs in those hot-as-shit heels?

  I spend a second while she can’t see me and bite my knuckle, then start jogging up the stairs after her.

  “You’re a difficult woman to keep up with,” I say once I get to the top, sliding an arm around her waist.

  She turns, arches an eyebrow and then slips out of my grasp just as smoothly. “Guess you should be quicker on your toes then.” She looks around us. The balcony is full of people in slightly fancier duds than the crowd below mingling, laughing, and drinking. Some sit around the tall tables set up at intervals closer to the walls, others dance in the open space. Even more just stand around, looking over the balcony at the revelers below and chatting with their companions, hips or toes bopping absently along to the music.

  At the back of the ‘theater,’ there are stairs to a secondary balcony for Super VIPs. That’s where I take care of business meetings. It’s quieter there than here in the regular VIP section and I always want the utmost privacy. When I’m not using it, I rent it out for high-end parties and celebrities to use. Naturally, I charge a premium for the privilege. That’s where I’ll be meeting Jackson Vale in a little while.

  Almost immediately, a brunette waitress wearing a barely-there silver sequined halter top and matching sequined miniskirt comes up to us.

  “What can I get you to drink, Mr. Benson?” She leans forward in a way that makes it obvious she’s trying to flash her cleavage. Which is kind of sad because she’s barely got anything there. It’s also rude as hell because I’m with a woman.

  No Rack Waitress flits her eyelashes and tucks some non-existent flyaway hair behind her ear, leaning in even further.

  “First, some personal space,” I say bluntly.

  No Rack’s eyes widen and she pulls back abruptly. “Of course, sir. I’m sorry.” Her cheeks flush.

  “And I’ll take a glass of the Glenlivet 25. My acquaintance will have…” I turn to Scarlet.

  Her eyes flick back and forth between me and No Rack.

  “Tequila,” Scarlet says with a warm smile. “Cheapest crap you got. Bottom shelf.”

  No Rack’s mouth drops open slightly but then she nods and is about to back away when I shake my head.

  “Ignore her. Double the Glenlivet order. Thanks.”

  The waitress nods and then scurries away before Scarlet can get in another word.

  “I can order my own drink, thank you very much,” Scarlet snaps.

  “I asked you to come out with me tonight. I would treat any guest to I invited to my club.”

  Scarlet’s arms cross over her chest. Or more accurately, under her chest, only serving to prop up her ample bosom. “You didn’t have to be so rude to that girl.”

  I scoff. “You think flirting with one’s boss is professional?”

  Her eyes go wide, then she looks mortified.

  Oh shit, that didn’t come out right—

  “I didn’t mean you. It wasn’t like that when we— You aren’t an employee employee—”

  She spins away from me. “You think ordering your employees to wear these so-called uniforms is professional?” She gestures around us, pointing out cocktail waitresses dressed in skimpy silver sequined outfits similar to what our waitress was wearing. Scarlet’s still not looking at me.

  “Hey now, don’t be roasting me o
n any feminist pyres. All the Chandelier handbook asks for is silver sequins on three-fourths of the floor waitresses’ clothing. It’s not my fault they feel they get better tips with more skin showing.”

  “And the men?” She glances over at me, only to skewer me with a glare.

  But I have a grin ready. I nod toward one of the male servers. “The men actually have more of a uniform. They’re required to wear all black and then have a choice between silver suspenders, a silver bowtie, or a silver beret.”

  At her skeptical look, I shrug. “It’s a little Vegas, sure, but it does the trick of identifying the service staff.”

  With me, Scarlet watches as one of our new hires, Rick, buses tables. He’s wearing regulation black slacks and has opted for the suspenders over a black muscle shirt. Rick definitely hits the gym hard. Dude puts my runner’s physique to shame, no matter that I lift every day, too. That guy must join Bull for body-building workouts.

  Scarlet nods, her argument obviously out of steam. She walks toward the balcony. Her hands rest on the balustrade and she looks down on the dancing, gyrating bodies below. She seems totally relaxed now that we’re above it all, though still the tiniest bit pensive. The flashing strobe lights reflect off her face.

  “A week and a half ago I was homeless and here I am, all dolled up and standing in the VIP section of one of the city’s hottest clubs.” She shakes her head, still looking out on the crowd.

  Another light flashes, lighting up her blue eyes and making them look almost translucent.

  “It can happen that fast.” I snap my fingers. I’m only having to speak a little loudly to be heard over the crowd now. We don’t blast the speakers as high on the VIP level for just this reason. “Life twists one way and you ride it and then boom, it twists again and everything’s different.” I lock eyes with her. Moments ago we were just arguing inanities, but goddammit, this woman guts me.

  What she just said, how many times have I felt that? Even when it’s been years, it’s all still right there on the surface. Like it’s just happened, like I was just that starving boy and now I’m surrounded by wealth and plenty and I’m staring down on it like Scarlet is now and it’s just a total fucking disconnect.

  Sometimes I’m terrified I’ll always be that ten-year-old boy. That no matter how much wealth I acquire, no matter how much security I build up or closets I stuff with food, it won’t matter. I’ll never feel safe. I’ll always be stuffing food in my mouth, terrified it’ll be stolen out of my hands if I don’t.

  “You said the other day that I can’t understand you because we’re at different places in life.” I lean in so close our foreheads are almost touching. “But you’re wrong. Poverty never leaves you. It marks your fucking soul. You can leave it, but it’ll never leave you.”

  I don’t see so much as feel her shocked inhale of breath. I close my eyes and lean my whole body into her, my nose to the side of her nose, forehead to forehead.

  Christ, what the hell is this? What am I doing?

  But then I just let go of all questions and inhale her. A mix of vanilla and coconut hits me. I brace one hand against the balcony railing behind her and just breathe her in. She smells like everything good and whole and pure and right and sane.

  Her breath starts coming in short gasps and I nuzzle against her, moving ever so slowly across her cheek, back and forth. So soft. So fucking soft. How on Earth did something so delicate ever survive this cruel bitch of a world? Someone so delicate? So soul-crushingly soft and beautiful?

  I lift a hand and rub my calloused fingers in the whisper-soft blonde hair at the base of her neck, massaging up the back of her head into her scalp.

  “So soft,” I breathe out into her cheek, then come back to nuzzle my nose with hers again. She trembles beneath my touch. Noise, lights, every other thing around us mutes and there’s only her and me in the universe.

  Her skin. Her hair in between my fingers. Her scent. Her warm breath puffing against my lips. Her lips. Lips.

  My face gravitates even closer and my lips brush hers. It’s the softest touch but it’s like the meeting of two electric wires completing a circuit. I know she feels it too because her body jerks closer to mine and one of her arms raises to come up around my shoulders.

  Still, I take it slow. This is too exquisite. The wine of her lips too perfect to swallow. I sip. One touch. Two. And then, just as I’m about to take her bottom lip in between mine and suck hard, to draw out every last drop—

  “Here’s your Glenlivet 25, Mr. Benson.”

  I wave a hand, motioning for the distraction to go away.

  “Mr. Benson? I was also told to let you know as soon as Mr. Vale arrived? Well, he’s waiting for you on the Upper Balcony.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my forehead against Scarlet’s again. Screw the real world. I’m not ready for it to intrude.

  “Should I tell him you’ll be late?”

  Fuck, this idiot needs to get a goddamned clue.

  I turn, ready to snap her stupid head off, but Scarlet’s hand shoots out and grabs mine right before I blow my lid. Just the touch of her skin on mine and my eyes close. I’m right back there with her, in our world. Just like that. One touch. How the hell does she do that?

  But the real world. It’s pressing. It’s on the other side of my goddamn eyelids.

  I breathe out through my teeth and open my eyes to take in the waitress who looks scared shitless as she holds out a tray with two scotch glasses, each filled with a couple fingers of dark amber liquid. I snatch the Glenlivet and swallow it in one go, ignoring the fact that I pay five-hundred bucks a bottle for the shit.

  I hand Scarlet her drink. “Don’t down it like I did. Sip and enjoy. It’s supposed to be creamy with notes of fruit and even hints of chocolate and wood spice.” Then I grin. “Or some high-brow shit like that. Drink it and let me know what you think.”

  She’s looking at me, but I’m not sure anything I’m saying is registering. She still seems a bit dazed from the intense moment we shared a second ago. And fuck, if that isn’t the most beautiful expression on her face, as she blinks and looks up at me with those big blue doe eyes of hers like I’ve just posed the biggest quandary in the universe and now she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

  I lean in and put my nose close to hers one last time. “Business calls. I’ll arrange for your every need to be taken care of while I’m gone. I’ll try to be back in twenty.” I kiss her temple—the barest press of my lips—and then pull back and force myself to stride away.

  I don’t look over my shoulder for one last glimpse of her. If I do, it’ll break my resolve to leave, even for the short time it will take to meet with Vale, even knowing it could fuck up the biggest deal of my life. I ball my hands into fists and force my feet to keep going forward. Her blue eyes flash in my mind. I inhale and the coconut scent of her is still in my nostrils.

  The Sutler. The Solomon Room. Legends. Legacies. Security. Focus.

  My feet carry me up the stairs even while my head is back with the woman standing at the balcony’s railing. I hit the landing at the top of the stairs.

  I grab my phone from my pocket and hit speed dial two.

  “Yeah, Boss?” Xander immediately picks up.

  “Where are you?”

  “On the main floor by stage left. Watching flow.”

  “We got a VIP. Mega VIP. Blonde in a red dress, last seen in section A, served on my tab. Full treatment, no hassles. Got it?”

  “On it.”

  I’m about to end the call, but I pause. “Xan?”

  “Yeah, Boss?” He sounds surprised I’m still talking. I usually don’t say a thing beyond the bare minimum of instruction and the shorthand I’ve developed over the years. Things shift fast with so many moving parts and everyone’s got a job to do. But even though I’ve brought girls around the club before, there’s never been a VIP like Scarlet.

  “When I say no hassles, I fucking mean it, you got it? She better feel like a fucking q
ueen, full stop.”

  There’s a second of silence, then, “Got it, boss.”

  I hang up and slide the phone back in my pocket. Then after another quick breath, I paste on a confident, charismatic take-the-world-by-the-fucking-balls smile and stride into the curtained off upper balcony area.

  * * *

  Jackson Vale stares at me coolly over the top of his Guinness after I’ve laid out my pitch and mentioned the other investors who’ve already signed on to be involved in the project in addition to myself. We’ve known each other socially for a couple of years now and I would even go so far as to say we’re friends. Hopefully I’m not stretching the bounds of that friendship by bringing him the proposal, but I just have a feeling about him and this project.

  “So if you put in ten million,” I further explain, “then we’ll just need to approach one more investor for the last ten and then it’s a go. I already have someone in mind. I also have a relationship with the real estate broker working with the bank that’s managing the foreclosure and, just between you and me, he’d much rather the hotel stay within the local economy than go to another Saudi Prince or Chinese holding group if we can make the price right.”

  Vale nods, now looking thoughtful. He leans forward on the plush leather sofa, elbows on his knees. “I’ve been wanting to diversify my personal portfolio and you make a compelling proposal. You also happened to have touched on one of my,” he rubs his knuckles and smiles self-deprecatingly, “well, I won’t say weaknesses, but let’s say…personal interests. I love the history of this city. I love being in a room, touching a piece of furniture and knowing it has a past. A story to tell.”

  I smile. There’s a grin inside bursting to get out, but I bite it back. I’ve got him and we both know it, but it would be ungentlemanly to gloat. “What stories the Solomon Room could tell,” I say.