Black Velvet (The Velvet Rooms Book 1)

by Linnea May

  The urge to throw up torments my insides.

  I know what I'll have to do. It's a long overdue decision.

  I'll have to talk to Miss Barry.

  Chapter 38

  Damon

  This is bullshit. I don't even know what I'm doing here. Is it just to punish myself for being so fucking stupid? How could I make such a gigantic mistake? How could this ever even fucking happen?

  I should have known better. Scott was acting so strangely at so many of our meetings, he postponed deadlines, it took him forever to come up with a halfway cohesive business plan. He was nervous every time I saw him, but I never thought much of it. Why not? Usually, my sixth sense about people isn't that far off.

  Was I too distracted because of her?

  No. Don't fucking blame Elene. It's not her fault that you're such an idiot.

  My thoughts are running a marathon in my head. I don't want to turn into my parents.

  It's almost as if I want to repent, as if I am willing to accept their mistake because I've made mistakes of my own. But our mistakes are so different, despite both being seeded by stupidity.

  I'm waiting in the visitor's area, not outfitted in my usual business suit but in a casual shirt and dark blue jeans, nothing too fancy, but still dressed nicely enough to not feel like a slob. My hands are fiddling nervously in my lap and I’m staring at the table in front of me. No man should ever be this nervous to see his mother.

  Yet, here I am, feeling again like the helpless little boy I thought I'd left behind. Here, seeking my mother's company for the first time in years. She cried when I let her know on the phone that I'd be willing to come visit her. Holy fuck, she didn’t cry, she howled. I don't think I've ever heard her voice breaking like that, or trying to speak through suffocating crying fits.

  Is it bad to say that it made me feel powerful? That it made me proud and filled me with a sense of relief?

  Hearing my mother react to me like that replaced that feeling of abandonment and the eventual indifference I felt toward her. Hearing from me made her happy. Having me tell her that I was coming to visit her for the very first time since she got locked up made her collapse in exuberant tears.

  I can't help but wonder if she would have liked Elene.

  But what does it matter?

  I let out a burdened sigh, burying my face behind my hand.

  Shit. I shouldn't have come here.

  Was this really the only thing I could think of to get myself out of the house? I've spent the past few days locked up inside my penthouse like a caged animal, pacing back and forth in the living room with a drink in hand, and only leaving to meet with Dean and my attorneys. They are working hard to get our asses out of this fucking mess, but things aren't moving fast enough.

  I need to see Elene – or decide to let her go.

  She knows my full name, and I know she could figure out how to contact me, even if the madam refused to give her my contact details. She could look me up and find a way to get to me. Unlike me, who knows absolutely nothing about her, besides her first name — if that even is her real first name — and that she works at The Velvet Rooms.

  The ball is in her court, and so far, she hasn’t done anything.

  What does that tell me? That she no longer wants to see me? I doubt that Miss Barry disclosed the full story behind what kept me from coming back to The Velvet Rooms, and the mere fact that I wasn't coming back could be enough for her to void our agreement. I was just another customer, a well-paying client who was willing to pay a premium to claim her exclusively. For all I know, it helped to make her life a little easier, because she no longer had to focus on landing other clients while still earning the same amount of money. She might be cursing me now, not because I left, but because my sudden disappearance made her work life more difficult.

  A morose thought strikes me. She could be happy that I am gone because she’s grown tired of our repetitive routine.

  No. I refuse to believe that.

  Does this feel like work? I had asked her, and when she shook her head in response, it felt fucking sincere. But she is a trained liar, maybe even capable of fooling me...

  "Damon!"

  The voice doesn't sound familiar, but I know it's my mother's. I look up to find her standing at the other end of the room, still about thirty feet away and separated by half a dozen other tables. She's standing there, looking so small next to the officer who accompanied her to the visiting area, her hands clutching her face on both sides as she stares at me with those same gray eyes I inherited from her.

  I get up from my seat, acknowledging the guard with a short nod, and then my mother is rushing toward me. She has always been a slim woman, always keen on maintaining her figure, but it seems that prison has slimmed her down even more. She looks tiny and frail. She approaches me in a near sprint, wrapping her thin arms around my waist. I reluctantly lower mine around her. I tower above her by almost a foot.

  "You came!" she cries out against my chest. "My boy, you really came!"

  She's sobbing with happy tears and shaking so violently in my embrace that I worry her heart may give in, despite her young age.

  "I'm not a liar, mother," I say, unintentionally sounding colder than intended.

  I gently push her away from me, which proves to be harder than anticipated because she refuses to let go of me. I can't remember the last time my mother hugged me like this.

  "Please," I say in a lower voice. "We don't have a lot of time."

  "Right, right," she stutters, finally retreating and hurriedly wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. She's wearing make-up and has styled her brown hair in a simple up-do, maybe in an attempt to impress me, maybe to feel better about herself.

  "Let's sit," she says, pointing to the chairs arranged at the tables as if she was inviting me into her living room. "Let's talk."

  I smile inwardly at her attempts to be nonchalant, when I know how stirring this is for her. She has been begging me to come see her for so long, and I've been rejecting her every time, until she finally gave up trying.

  And now I'm here, just because I didn't know where else to go when I was feeling lost and alone.

  I feel pathetic.

  "You look horrible," my mother observes, cocking her head to the side as she studies me intently. "Have you been drinking?"

  I throw her a sinister look. This is the first time she’s ever posed that type of question to me. She never worried about me using any kind of drug. On the contrary, she and Dad used to try to convince me that cocaine would make my life easier, more productive, more successful.

  "If I had, would you ground me?" I ask with a note of cynicism.

  Her expression hardens because she knows that there is an accusation, blame hidden in that question. Parenting has never been her strong suit, and never once was I ever grounded growing up. My parents barely knew or cared whether or not I was doing something bad, let alone punish me for it.

  "Did you talk to your father, too?" she asks next.

  I shake my head. "No, just you."

  She nods silently, prohibiting herself from asking any further questions. To say that my relationship with my father was bad would be a massive understatement. We never really had a relationship. Unlike my mother, he never even pretended to be a parent to me. The only advice he ever gave me was to rely on coke when I wanted to be successful. 'It's the rich man's aspirin', he used to say.

  "So, what's wrong?" my mother asks, her voice as hard as mine.

  "Why do you think something is wrong?"

  She scoffs. "Well, son, you didn't even call on my birthday, and Mr. Cook told me you weren't exactly excited about the idea of your father and I getting released on parole early — which, by the way, there is a very good chance that may happen. But..."

  She lowers her gaze, a shadow of sadness passing over her aging face. "Am I wrong to worry that you might be in trouble or came here to tell me some bad news?" />
  I shake my head. "It's none of that."

  Her face brightens for a split second, and then she furrows her eyebrows. "But why then? Why today? Why now, Damon? After you've rejected me for so long?"

  "Does there have to be a reason?"

  "There is one," she insists. "I may not have been the greatest mother to you, but I still am your mother. I can tell when something is not well with you."

  I'm almost impressed at her shrewd observation. Almost. I guess after two days of not shaving and surviving mostly on liquor, any person would look a little rough, even to a stranger.

  Before I can say anything, she responds to her own question.

  "Is it because of a woman?"

  The subtle flinch of my body doesn't go unnoticed by her. A knowing smile spreads across her face as she leans forward.

  "It is, isn't it?" she pries. "Only a woman can make a man look like this."

  I shake my head, smiling weakly.

  "You know what?" I say. "I don't know why I am here. I don't know why now all of a sudden, I thought it would be a good time to come and see you, but for some reason I did. And yes, that reason may be a woman."

  The smile on my mother's face widens.

  "Would it be heartless to say that I am happy to hear that?" she asks.

  I frown at her. "Yes."

  A suppressed giggle escapes her.

  "Oh, but I am," she says. "She must be quite a girl if she managed to send you here, to me."

  "She didn't send me!" I protest. "She doesn't even know that I'm here."

  I cough slightly, averting my eyes. "And she probably wouldn't care."

  I recoil when I feel my mother's hand on mine, a caress so familiar, yet so foreign. My first impulse is to pull away from her, but I don't. Instead I place my other hand on hers, squeezing, holding on to her, so fucking desperate for comfort.

  "Why don't you tell me about her?" my mother says, her voice soft and patient. "I want to know about this girl who has the power to put a stop to my restless boy's stubbornness."

  I respond to her request with an exasperated sigh, but a moment later, the words start pouring out of me like a flowing river. It's the first time I have ever given voice to my contemplations about Elene.

  And it feels fucking good.

  Chapter 39

  Damon

  “Don't let her get away that easily.”

  My mother's last piece of advice resembles a threat, but she has a point.

  I need to know. Even if it's true that Elene no longer wants to see me, she should tell me so face-to-face. I need to fucking hear her say it. I need her to confirm all those conclusions I've been making in her absence, purely based on the fact that I haven't heard from her since I was banned from The Velvet Rooms.

  My heart is pounding in my chest, way too fast for me to act casual. I hate that. How am I supposed to face her when I'm trembling like a leaf? I don't want to appear weak in front of her.

  I already feel enough like an idiot for sitting here, in my car, outside the club, like an outcast or a common criminal. My eyes are glued to the entrance. The doorman has taken his position, and he’s currently browsing languidly on his phone as he waits for the first guests to arrive.

  I might be too late already. The club doesn't open for another half-hour, but I'm sure that most of the staff shows up earlier. If she's working tonight, she might be inside already, getting ready to be felt up by other clients, by men who weren't stupid enough to land on the blacklist by getting involved in a fraud lawsuit.

  My insides churn at the thought of it. Images of when I first saw her keep popping up in front of my eyes. The way that guy — that fucking Bartlet — fondled her leg, the way she reacted to it, disliking his grabby hands on her, but letting him proceed nonetheless because it was part of her job.

  I shake my head violently, trying to erase the disturbing thoughts out of my head.

  She might have gone back to working as a devil since I last saw her. She might have flirted with other men, been touched by other men. She might have fucked other men.

  And I couldn't even blame her. I knew who she was when this started. You can never have a whore all to yourself, that's not part of their job description.

  She's not a whore, though. She's so much more. She's the epitome of beauty, of elegance; she's purity, she's brilliance.

  She's Elene. My Elene. And she’s the most beautiful in her rawest form.

  Fuck. How am I supposed to take it, if she really sends me away? What am I supposed to do if she just rolls her eyes at me?

  “Oh, God, no,” she would say. “Another idiot who didn't get it. Another fool who fell for me, when I was just doing my job.”

  What if I'm not just putting those words in her mouth? What if they are true?

  Do I really need to hear her say that?

  Just as I'm about to turn the key to start the engine of my car, I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye. A woman, walking toward the entrance of The Velvet Rooms.

  A woman with a familiar face.

  Chapter 40

  Elene

  The evenings are the hardest part. The time I usually spent with him. Until a few days ago, they were the highlight of my day. I was always counting the hours down until I could finally get out of the house and make my way to The Velvet Rooms. I couldn't wait to see him.

  I can still feel the way my heart raced with joyous anticipation the closer I got to the club, and I can still feel my core throbbing at the thought of him, my body elevating at the memory of being with him.

  It's all still there, but buried under a massive heap of misery. I thought letting go would be a lot easier once I stopped working at The Velvet Rooms. I gave Miss Barry my resignation the very next day after she told me that Damon was no longer a member of the club, and thus no longer a part of my life. I didn't wait until the next day because I needed to sleep on my decision, not at all.

  I waited because I hoped that it was all just a mistake, a bad dream. When I walked up to Miss Barry the next day, I was still hoping that nothing had changed, that she would reverse everything she'd said the day before and tell me to go upstairs to our room, our sanctuary, so I could do my job.

  But that didn't happen. Instead, she repeated that she hoped I would dress up as a sinful creature of the night, every night from then on out walking out to the guest room in black lingerie, ready to continue my job as a call girl, as if the last few weeks never happened.

  But I knew I couldn't do that. I was ready to quit this world months ago, and I only stayed because I figured that being an angel in this establishment would be different, that it would be easy and safe, something that would keep me financially secure until I knew what else I was going to do with my life.

  Instead, it threw me into the worst emotional turmoil I've ever experienced. Those who say that having loved and lost is better than never having loved at all are just fucking idiots. That couldn't be further from the truth. Okay, I wasn't exactly happy before I met Damon, but at least I was content. I wasn't trapped in this painful hole, tormented by loss and crying myself to sleep every night.

  It's even worse now, though, because I have nothing else to do, nothing to hold my mind at bay. I'm spending my time just wandering around my small apartment, a glass of wine in hand. I hate wine, but I always have some at home because Sandi and my sister are regular visitors who love it. I grimace every time I take a sip of the putrid stuff, but I drink it anyway because it helps me sleep.

  Even my apartment feels emptier now that he's gone, even though he's never been here. We've never seen each other anywhere outside The Velvet Rooms. We never shared a kiss outside those walls, I never caressed his marvelous skin outside that black room.

  It was always there. At work.

  But did it feel like work?

  Not in the slightest.

  The deep sigh I emit echoes through my living room. I take another sip of the red wine from
the crystal glass in my hand. I used to love this apartment. It's my very first home after moving out of my mom's place. I was so proud that I could afford to live on my own in the city. Most of the people I went to high school with had to live in shared accommodations wherever they went. Of course, most of them opted to attend college, something I never aspired to. My sister did, but I don't think she was happy with her choice, either. It seems like the grass isn't always green no matter which side of the fence you’re on, at least in that regard.

  Lila sent me a text today, and in a way, it was why I opened that bottle of wine. Her news hit me hard, not only because it was so unexpected, but because it has a way of rubbing salt into my wounds.

  She's told me that she has something to celebrate.

  She's engaged. To Jim. To the same guy she wanted to break up with just a little more than a week ago.

  How does it even make any sense? What is the universe trying to tell me? Is Lila truly happy with this guy all of a sudden? Or is she falling into the same trap my mother kept falling into over and over, again and again?

  Either way, I bet she's happier than I am right now, and even if she ends up regretting her decision, the sorrow won't last long. It never did for my mother. She always recovered in a minimum amount of time, falling head over heels for the very next guy who showed an interest in her. And there always was a next guy.

  I don't think I can do that. I don't think I am like they are. I've never felt the way I do toward Damon. I've never had an experience, a connection, like I do with Damon. There's still so much I wanted to learn and know about him, so much more I wanted to share with him.

  Shit, we could have been good together. No, we could have been fucking perfect. I resonated with him, and he with me. We balanced one another, we completed and complemented one another. Nothing about us was normal from the beginning, and I loved that about him. About us.

  Maybe I even loved him. Love. A word I'm reluctant to use after such a short time, but it seems fitting.