He looks as pale as death, his eyes hooded and watchful.
I want to get down.
The Cabinet minister wins the fourth hand. He isn’t up to much, so soon after I have drained him dry. He settles for a sexy lap dance and hand job, but he never gets fully erect, and lets me off after five minutes during which the others drum their fingers and roll their eyes.
‘OK, the big one,’ says the Russian grandly. ‘Get naked, my beauty.’
I daren’t look at them play the hand, so I kneel on the chair with my back to them, leaning over to present my bottom to their view. I let my hair hide my face so Lloyd won’t be able to see what I’m thinking.
Which is: Stop them.
Or at least he could join in the game and give himself a chance of winning.
Doesn’t he want to? Does he actually want to hand me over, give me away?
It occurs to me that this might be a test within a test – that, in order to pass, I have to fail. He might be waiting behind that bar, holding his breath for me to call time on it all and confess that I only want to leave this place with Lloyd.
If I did that …
There is a flurry of ‘lucky bastard’ type comments, and I gather that the worst-case scenario has come to pass and the assassin-faced one has won.
Before I can hold up my hand and pull out of this thing, though, he says something that halts me in my tracks: ‘Too bad it isn’t me she’ll be spending the night with.’
He sounds bad-tempered enough for it to be true. I turn and sit down on the chair, listening to the conversation. Of course, it excludes me. I’m just the prize.
‘You’re sure you aren’t standing in for him in every respect?’ chuckles the American, but the winner is already on the phone.
‘Yeah. You won. OK. I’ll bring her right over. Right.’
‘So, I’m not going to your place?’ I speak at last, looking between Evil Face and Lloyd.
‘I’m delivering you,’ says Evil Face flatly. ‘I’m here representing my employer tonight. He’s staying at the Hilton.’
What’s wrong with the Luxe Noir?
‘I see. So … is that it? Do we go now?’ I’m asking Lloyd.
He puts down a tea towel and nods. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he says.
Just that. But it sounds wistful, hopeful, and a bit scared.
He wouldn’t put me in danger. He’d never give me to somebody dangerous. He’d have vetted this
guy thoroughly. It has to be somebody he’s known a long time through this job. It’s OK; it’s fine.
I don’t feel fine, though. Evil Face flaps a hand at me when I start getting dressed.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he says. ‘Just put your shoes and jacket on.’
He hands me the satin tux. I slip it over my nude body and fasten the single button, just about covering my breasts, though my pussy will flash every time I take a step forwards.
‘Good evening, gents.’ I take a formal farewell of the other competitors.
They wave limply, already back to full absorption in the whisky and cigars.
‘Cheers, doll, take care,’ says the American, the only one to offer speech.
Evil Face puts his hand on my upper arm and steers me towards the immensely fortified door, which is opened by the huge goon, who has watched everything with a face suggestive of drugged stupor.