Mr. Red sat on the black leather couch with his head in his hands, paying no attention to the porn that was running on the plasma TV on the opposite wall. The gold wedding band on his finger glinted in the soft lighting.
“You told me she was gone.” It was an even mixture of pain and fury from him.
“She was gone,” I said. He stood abruptly, his eyes wild and unfocused. Fuck, had he been crying? I lowered my gaze to the floor and pretended not to notice. “She’s only come back to Chicago recently.”
“You told me you fired her.” His voice gathered strength and rage.
“Yes, I did.”
Mr. Red was mid-to-late fifties with dark hair and graying at the temples. He wasn’t the type of man who visited the gym, but he also worked himself to death like I did, which meant he didn’t indulge much. Apparently, his only vice was my club.
It wasn’t surprising that a man like him wanted to play here. He was powerful, rich, and connected, which made him practically untouchable. If he ever got caught, his legal department would have him out in twenty minutes, and the public relations machine would grind out a story about him being unaware that his favorite wine club was actually a high-class brothel. The public would buy it absolutely.
But Mr. Red didn’t come to the club because he was a sexual deviant and got off on kink. He came because Anthony Rosso’s wife was a frigid bitch who wanted nothing to do with him. He’d confessed to me one night a few months back that his wife not only knew about his visits, but encouraged him to go. After having a kid, she had zero interest in any kind of sex.
I almost felt sorry taking his money. Almost.
“If you fired her,” he said, “what the hell is she doing here, running the place?”
“Please, lower your voice.” I remained calm and collected, hoping he would feed off of my subdued state. “I don’t know who could be in one of the guest rooms or in the hallway.” Mr. Red was smart and would understand what I was implying. There were plenty of other powerful men in Chicago who were members here. Some of them operated outside of the law, and catching Mr. Red at the club would be advantageous.
“I trust her,” I said, “to oversee things while I’m not here.”
“You should have told me. I had a right to know that she’s . . .” His gaze drifted away as he seemed to search for a grip on his emotions. “I’ve changed my mind. I want to talk to her.”
“I think that’s a bad idea.”
He refocused on me, giving a look that probably made men in his boardroom feel three inches tall. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“She’s not the woman you knew last year. And she doesn’t see clients—”
“Get her in here, now.”
I took a breath. “She’s getting married, sir.”
Mr. Red wasn’t equipped to handle a woman like Payton. That man’s name was Dominic. One night with him was all it took for her to chase him to Japan, and a year later she came home with a massive engagement ring on her finger. The girl who’d been like me—uninterested in relationships—was getting married. I’d called her a traitor as a joke, but it was half-true.
The concept of Payton getting married was a visible slap, and the sting didn’t ease for a long moment from Mr. Red’s face. “Married,” he repeated, probably for himself. “She said she didn’t do love. All those times I asked . . .” He seemed suddenly aware that he was speaking out loud. Maybe he felt like I was judging him, because he scowled. “You can’t be with someone, night after night, and not get attached.”
I disagreed, but kept the opinion to myself. Back when Payton had been taking clients at the club, we sometimes fucked afterward, when her client couldn’t get it up or had failed to get her off. Had I felt a connection to Payton? Sure, as we were similar. But I wasn’t attached. Nothing lasted forever, and we’d both been happy with our casual relationship.
Sex was just sex. I didn’t allow emotion to enter into it. It was about mutual pleasure.
“If that’s true,” I said quietly, “that you became attached, what about Clare?”
Her real name was Claudia, but I’d put a rule in place that the girls never gave their real name.
Mr. Red rubbed a muscle on the back of his neck. “I like her very much, but it’s never been the same.”
He didn’t have to tell me that, it was obvious. Mr. Red never asked Claudia to come home with him after. He never offered to buy her a penthouse apartment. He never lingered, hoping to catch her leaving the club, as he had with Payton. But he’d been seeing Claudia exclusively for well over a year, and it’d gotten to the point that she only saw him now. Well, figuratively. Claudia still wore the blindfold. She didn’t know who Mr. Red was.
He must have felt hope at the sight of Payton in the hall, and now crushing defeat. All his money and power wouldn’t be able to get him what he wanted this time.
“I still want to talk to her.”
He wanted closure, fine. I strode to the door, only to have it swing open. She must have been in the hallway, listening. Payton scanned the room and her gaze settled on the wounded man perched on the edge of the couch. Her posture was stiff and formal, but softened as he looked up at her.
Mr. Red’s voice was heavy with remorse. “I’m sorry I grabbed you.”