We see the businessmen—and women—a little weary from a long day of working out deals or whatnot. They are hotel guests. They linger in the small reception area, unsure where to go or what to do next. But someone greets them. Usually one of my employees, but not always. And they disperse into the growing crowd. They find their place and settle in, get their drinks, look around, and start wondering who they will go home with tonight.
The ‘no approaching women’ rule can make or break a place. Because lots of women aren’t inclined to take that first step. But a place like this has no use for women like that.
It’s often slow going in the early hours, but by the time ten o’clock rolls around, they’re ready to make a move.
McKay and I have been quietly drinking and watching a dark-haired woman sitting at the bar alone for the better part of an hour. There are other women around her. All pretty enough. All far more outgoing than the one we’ve got our eye on. But this one, she’s intriguing. Quiet. Drinking alone, unbothered—which must be nice for her, now that I think about it. Perhaps that’s why some women come here. They know they can sit at the bar and drink, and think, and not have to worry about men unless they want to.
She’s wearing a lovely lavender skirt. It’s sheer, with a slip underneath. And the hem has a flowing, flirty ruffle to it. Her blouse is white and billowy, tucked in and mostly unbuttoned. Her long hair is thick, and wavy, and nearly black. She has it pulled back away from her gorgeous high cheekbones with a glittering jeweled clip on the crown of her head. Her tan skin glows under the amber lights and her plump lips are painted a pale plum. I don’t know what color her eyes are, but they are light enough to see from across the room. Brown, or amber, or maybe even green. She is Creole. I can sense it in her attitude. In her confidence. In the way she sits at the bar, so in control and completely on her own terms.
She is one of those exceptional Southern beauties I gravitate towards.
Like Misha, I think.
And then I get a little sad. Because Misha’s dead now. She betrayed me and that hurt more than I will ever admit to anyone out loud.
I don’t trust many people and I trusted her.
On the rare occasion that this captivating woman turns to her right and looks in our direction, I catch a glimpse of her bra. It’s also lavender. Lacy. Pretty. Sexy. And the fact that she’s showing it off in this way is intriguing and makes me stare.
She is unbothered by my gaze. Her eyes drift up to mine, then over to McKay, and she lifts up her glass and mouths the word, Want another? And somehow I hear her seductive whisper in my head.
Want another?
And it hits me in this moment that, like McKay, I’m not really gay either. Because I was content with Misha. I was never gonna marry her. I wasn’t gonna bring her to Old Home to live. But I liked her. I maybe even… loved her. In my own way.
I do want another Misha. And this time, I want to share her with McKay.
But I don’t respond to this woman’s offer and I don’t think McKay does either. She snaps her fingers at the bartender and points to us. There are a few moments of conversation, then the bartender makes three drinks, puts them on a tray, and heads our way. She follows him up the five stairs that lead to the small private area where we’re drinking.
“Mr. Boucher.” The bartender nods to me. “Mr. McKay.” He nods to McKay. “This is Miss Violet. She is a member of the Club.”
McKay and I stand up immediately, our Southern gentlemen training taking over by habit. We smile at her in turn. McKay bows a little. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Violet.” She offers her hand and McKay kisses her knuckles. If I was worried about him understanding how this place works, that worry would evaporate immediately. But I wasn’t worried.
Miss Violet smiles at him. Blushes just a little bit. Just enough to let us know she’s softer than she comes off and she understands how to appreciate a conservative, but flirty gesture.
Then she turns to me. “Pleasure,” I say, then take her hand and shake it gently. The way one does with a lady.
“Drinks,” the bartender says. He sets down the tray, bows a little in my direction, and then retreats. Leaving us alone.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for a whiskey.
“You’re very welcome.” She smiles at me, then takes a drink and offers it to McKay. “Would you like one as well?”