“You want me to scan this and shoot this over?” Sage asked. He had an office setup like no other in his apartment.
“Yes please.”
Ten minutes later, Sage was back in our front room and the signed contract had been sent to NOX. The nerves I had been fighting all day were starting to kick in. It was done. I was going to be attending NOX.
Just as I got up to grab a drink, my phone rang. I fumbled with the device, luckily avoiding dropping it for once in my life. “Hello,” I answered hurriedly. Sage and Amelia muted the TV and watched me.
“Tomorrow night. Seven p.m. Come fully shaved, no hair on the genital area, and be clean. Your hair must be tied up. You will be sent the address an hour before your arrival time. Don’t be late. You only get one chance at NOX, don’t waste it.” The call clicked off, and I looked at my friends with wide eyes.
“Tomorrow night,” I said and took a deep breath. “I go tomorrow night.”
Tomorrow night I would discover what was hidden behind the high walls of mystery that surrounded the infamous club. I would commit myself to getting the story, no matter what I must endure. I, Faith Maria Parisi, would enter NOX, my eyes—and, no doubt, my legs—wide open.
Chapter Six
“You can do this, Faith,” I chanted to myself as the cab began to slow. My black three-quarter length trench coat was pulled tightly around my waist. The man on the phone last night hadn’t given me a dress code. So I’d dressed in my sexiest get-up and hoped it would suffice. I wore a fitted black dress and my best five-inch heels—it was a tad ambitious for a lady of my balance ineptness to try for such great heel heights, but I felt the night required something bold. I was entering a sex club after all. Maybe I would discover some handsome man who had a fetish for clumsiness.
My hair was swept up in a mass of waves on the top of my head, a gazillion bobby pins holding it in place. My makeup was heavy and glamorous with my new red lipstick matching my nails. Chandelier earrings hung from my ears. I feared I looked like an extra from Jersey Shore. But I was here now, and I had to pull up my big-girl pants and face the floggers.
The cab came to a stop in the center of the Upper East Side and I stared at the towering townhouse, perfectly situated beside its pretty neighbors on the idyllic tree-lined street. It was made of white stone with Romanesque columns standing like guards at the all-glass entrance. The glass was opaque and I couldn’t see inside. It was all very Roman Pantheon in its awe-inspiring aesthetic. And its facade suited the name of the club. The goddess and daughter of Chaos would be proud of this Italian architecture. As beautiful as it was, it looked like just another ungodly expensive home in New York. This infamous club was hiding in plain sight. From the street one would never know the carnal delights it offered inside.
“You getting out?” the cab driver snapped, interrupting my inner musings.
“Calm your tits, Mike,” I said, seeing his name on his cab license, hanging from his mirror. “I’m out.”
I stepped out onto the sidewalk, my gaze traveling up to the very top of the building. It was at least five stories tall. How many rooms could a building like this boast? I could only imagine the amount of rope and latex that it must take to satisfy the clientele behind the thick walls.
“You got this, Faith,” I said again and began climbing the steps, carefully trying to stay upright on my skyscraper heels. I rang the bell and waited for the games to begin.
A butler, of all people, answered the door. He must have been at least in his late seventies, his gray hair and the heavy wrinkles on his face giving his maturity away. And he dressed as any butler would, in black pants and a matching jacket, with a white shirt and black bow tie around his neck.
“Do you have your card, Madam?” he asked, as though he’d been expecting me, his softly spoken English accent sailing to my ears like a gentle breeze. His accent soothed, where Harry Sinclair’s voice felt as annoying as a cheese grater over my ass.
I reached into my pocket and handed him the card. He moved to an iPad-looking contraption on the wall in the foyer and typed something in. “ID?” he asked next. I handed over my driver’s license. He scanned it on the same device.
He smiled at me when the machine beeped and flashed a green light. Handing me back my ID, he bowed and said, “Welcome to NOX, Miss Parisi.” He gestured for me to enter the large white marbled foyer. The front door shut and locked behind us. “All new sirens are required to meet in the basement.”