“And what happened?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips that he tries to hide behind his hand holding his pen as his elbow props on the armrest.
“Fucker wouldn’t let me in! I was dressed all cute, makeup looking sick—that’s like, ‘awesome,’ in old people speak—” I wink as he lifts a brow. “—and pulled open this super-sketchy blacked-out glass door, and the guy was standing there behind his little podium to check IDs. Handed him my driver’s license like any normal nightclub, and he looked at me all weird, asking me for my membership card. Duh, I didn’t have one, so I asked to fill out the application right quick and how much the fee would be. And. He. Laughed,” I say, outrage clear in my tone. “The asshole laughed at me! Now, I saw the type of people walking in before and after me. I’m from freaking LA, okay? Well, not the city limits, but close enough to count, goddammit, and I know what expensive-ass brand name shit looks like. And I might’ve rolled up in there in my little black Walmart dress, and my Steve Madden pumps I’ve had since junior prom, but I fucking looked good. There was no reason for him to laugh at me—”
“Ms. Quill.”
I ignore him, my rant feeling very cathartic. “—and I don’t know what kind of establishment you all are running over there—”
“Astrid.” He tries again.
“—but even on the run and in hiding, I had some goddamn savings I could’ve used to buy a membership to ya little dirty sex club in order to check it out and keep my baby sister safe—”
“Goddess!” he growls.
“What?” So much attitude. So, so much attitude.
Your LA came out reeeal strong with that one, the little voice says, and I cringe on the inside but keep my face sassy. If I’m going down, might as well go down with a fight.
“The fee, my love, to become a member of Club Alias… is $85,000,” Neil states, and my jaw drops. “And I’m sure he wasn’t laughing because you weren’t dressed fancy enough. We have members who show up in nearly nothing at all.”
That makes my teeth clack my mouth closes so quickly, an overwhelming sense of jealousy making my stomach feel hot. I certainly don’t like that idea. Judging by the reaction the bitches at the gym had to Neil, it makes me nauseous to think about naked bitches acting the same way. I narrow my eyes. “Then why do you suppose he did then?” I prompt, keeping up my haughtiness to hide the fact that there’s a green-eyed monster about to flip over his side table and shred his lamp shade with her cat claws.
“Because, Ms. Quill. There is no just ‘filling out an application right quick.’ There is a very extensive application process, which includes but is not limited to four therapy sessions with me in order to make sure the prospect is a good fit,” he answers, and my sassiness deflates.
“Oh.” I push my long, straightened blonde hair behind my ear and pull my legs up beneath me on the couch, spreading my skirt out around my calves. “Um… and what do these sessions entail?”
“Let’s start at the beginning of the process, shall we?” he prompts, and I nod. “You are special, because you already know about the club. But normally, a full-fledged member would invite a prospect, and only during special times of the year when new people can apply. The person would fill out the application, and after leaving a $1000 deposit, Imperium Security runs the background check. As you know, Seth is a technological genius who graduated from MIT, so this isn’t some generic background check. It goes highly in depth to weed out a lot of what we deem unfit. But if it all comes back clear, then we set up the first appointment with me, and they come once a week for a month.
“There are two reasons we do the therapy sessions before membership is offered. The first is to make sure the prospect has no ill intentions. You’ve read enough books and, from your past experience, know what sadism and masochism is. Sadism is the tendency to derive pleasure, especially sexual gratification, from inflicting pain, suffering, or humiliation on others.”
I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yeah. I know exactly what a sadist is.”
His voice gentles as he continues, when before, it was like he was reading from a manual he’d repeated countless times, which I guess he has, if every member of Club Alias has to come through him. “And it’s exactly men like him who we make sure to weed out through this process.”
I nod in understanding, a weight on my shoulders I didn’t realize I was carrying suddenly lifting.
“A masochist is a person on the other end of that scale. They derive the pleasure from being humiliated, hurt, or controlled.” A pause. One long enough that my eyes focus on his when I’d been looking through him while my mind absorbed his words. “And there we have it, my love, as you and I already knew,” he says. “God, I love your little microexpressions. So telling. If I didn’t already know you, I’d be able to read you like a book.”