Ray’s grin widens, and the glint in his eye bursts into flames. “What can we do to Hector Dimpsey to ensure he endures a lifetime of pain?”
Fuck, I missed my turn-off back onto I-290.
I never let myself think about The Club. About what we did to Hector Dimpsey. He was a dick, but he didn’t deserve?—
No. I shut the thought out.
Right now, my only focus is getting home. I keep getting lost in thought. First about Bianca, and then about Ray…
Where even am I right now?
It’s a rougher neighborhood. Lots of rundown buildings lit up by flashing police lights.
I can handle myself, but I don’t like being here in the dead of night. I’m not sure where the best place to pull a U-turn would be.
It’s starting to rain, and visibility is shit.
I’m completely turned around.
I’m going to have to pull over and plug the address into my GPS.
A seedy-looking motel—The Caterpillar Hotel, it’s called—with a parking lot is half a block down the road.
Funny, the lot is empty, but I see lights on in the rooms. Must be people who couldn’t afford to rent a car. You don’t really need one in Chicago anyway with the L.
I don’t truly give a flying fuck. All I want is to get out of this area, out from the place where I was first initiated into that so-called club of Ray’s.
My phone is in my jacket pocket, and as I pull it out, Bianca’s business card flutters out.
I grab it quickly. It smells like her perfume.
Damn it all.
I’m hard again.
14
BIANCA
The audience goes wild.
I just finished up my third set of the evening. Rouge forced me back onto the stage after Harrison was kicked out. I was thankful for it, to be honest. I needed something to get Harrison off my mind.
The way he took me in the grand suite, not caring a lick that we had a silent witness to it all in the corner.
In a way, that turned me on even more.
I’ve never been particularly adventurous in bed, but he ignited something in me. A curiosity for something more, one that hasn’t existed in me since my NYC days.
I take a bow and gesture to my musicians. Even without Harrison there, my third set was some of the best singing I’ve done in months. It’s incredible how much my voice is affected by my emotions. I can still deliver on a day when I’m not feeling good, but it’s like pulling teeth to get some of my notes—especially those in my upper-middle register—to shine. Tonight I barely had to think about my technique. The music flowed through my body.
Of course, that’s not to say my focus was entirely on my performance. As a rule, I never have my phone on me when I perform. If anyone needs to get hold of me during a performance, they have to wait until my next break. A small vibration—or God forbid, an actual ringtone—could take me out of the moment and keep me from giving a good show.
Normally, I have no problem parting with my phone. I use it far too much in my day-to-day life anyway. But tonight, I can’t help wondering if Harrison has texted me.
I passed my business card into his jacket pocket discreetly as Chet was escorting him out. I had a boyfriend back in NYC who used to be a pickpocket, and he taught me a few tricks. I haven’t had much use for them until tonight. I didn’t want Rouge to know I wanted to get into contact with Harrison outside of the club.
But I may have been too inconspicuous. It’s entirely possible he hasn’t looked at it yet.
