I nod and she continues.
“There are literally hundreds of women out there who’ve never been with a woman but have always been curious. The ones who got married young or never took the opportunity to experiment. The ones who might feel theattractionbut equally feel like they can’t identify as bi or pan because they’ve never tested the waters.”
She pauses then continues. “You can’t truly know who you are if you’ve never tried what you’re curious about, right? Could be a goldmine if we market it sensitively. A little bit of daring, a promise of safety, our signature judgement-free vibe…” She trails off. My mind wanders back to Emmy and I mentally smack myself in the head.
“I like it. Let’s run with it, Jess.”
“You sure, boss?”
“I’m sure. It’s your baby. And something tells me you’ll be able to tap into our target audience a bit more effectively than I will,” I reply. I’ve played with plenty of women together in scenes, but I’m no expert at guiding bi awakenings for London’s metropolitan elite.
“Right! You got it. I’ll get a plan together and will have it on your desk within a week!” She beams and rubs her hands together excitedly. “This is going to be epic!”
“Can’t wait,” I reply, smiling at her enthusiasm. “See you on the floor later?”
“You got it boss,” she says with a wink and strides out, closing the door behind her. Jessie and I are strictly platonic, which is essential, really, when you’re co-running one of the city’s most exclusive sex clubs.
I made a lot of money in my 20s running hedge funds and poured most of it into Salt when we opened last year. We’ve grown slowly – deliberately – because discretion is everything. From the street you’d never know you’re a few feet away from a haven for hedonism. The themed nights we added a few monthsago have been a hit. Jess is right about a ladies’ night. I’m surprised we haven’t already done one.
I’m not the most obvious contender for the owner of a sex club. Most of the people in my life believe I still work for a hedge fund because they tend to tune out when you start describing the ins and outs of different clients and funds. I keep a small circle anyway, so it’s not much of a double life. Discretion suits me.
I’ve been single for a few years with no intention of changing that. Things got so messy with my ex that I stopped looking for anything other than friendship or pure sex. It’s the middle bit where everything gets ugly. I have my friends, I have my staff, and I have dozens of women at Salt who I can enjoy a night of fun with, without the need for mortgages and diamond rings.
My thoughts drift back to Emmy. I rub my stubble, sighing, as my mind replays the way she ricocheted between bravado, vulnerability, and defiant optimism. It was so very . . . Em. How the fuck could Colin be so stupid? He’s always been a chinless wonder, but throwing away someone like her? My fists clench on the desk. Rage surges within me again, surprising me with its intensity, and I can’t seem to shake it.
I reach into my bottom drawer and pull out the bottle of bourbon I keep stashed there for emergencies. I pour a healthy measure into a tumbler and knock most of it back, savouring the burn as it slides down my throat. I pull out my phone and call up my message thread with her.
Our last exchange was only a few words long and it was about one of Nick and Priya’s dinner parties a couple of months ago. I sigh. What would I even say to her? It’s not like we chat a lot. I’ve known her for most of her life but we don’t exactlychit chat. Our friendship has been defined by our mutual love for Nick. But I can’t shake the urge to reach out and check she’s ok.
I take another sip of bourbon and shove my phone back in the desk drawer, giving myself a mental shake. EmmyWarner is my best friend’s little sister. She’s absolutely not my responsibility. And I have no business whatsoever trying to be her white knight.
The club is heating up as I lean against the bar and sip another bourbon. The main room in Salt is set up like a cabaret, with a stage at the front and plenty of booths around the edge. There’s always a crowd around the stage. We have a range of performances, from burlesque to Shibari, from aerial silks to contortionists.
Tonight, we’ve got a real crowd pleaser. Claire, a curvy blonde dancer, is up on stage in a cage, pouring hot wax over her body. The crowd gasps and applauds as she lets it drip from her tongue down her bare breasts. She has them rapt. It’s just as satisfying to see the appreciation—and hunger—on the faces of our members as it is to see the performances themselves.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think the lounge was the only room in Salt.
But beyond the velvet curtain to the left of the bar lie the playrooms – elegant, draped in sumptuous fabrics and deep colours, and furnished with every tiny detail in mind. They’re perfect for exploring desire, and we really do cater to most kinks. Rooms rent by the hour, some with windows for voyeurs and exhibitionists. You’re never short of company at Salt.
Consent is our most important rule – break that and your membership is instantly revoked. Every member and every guest signs an NDA when they’re signed in and everyone goes through thorough vetting. I know most of our clients by first name and make it my business to know theirs. I will not riskthe safety and sanctuary of Salt by letting any rogue elements in, which means I keep more secrets than a confessional booth.
I sip my bourbon, scanning the room. I tip my glass in silent hello as I see a few friends and former playmates. As fond as I am of Salt’s facilities, I’m not in the mood. Something tastes sour, and it isn’t the Woodford Reserve.
I’m scanning the crowd again when I see a flash of shiny chestnut hair and my heart stutters in my chest. The woman turns slightly, laughing to her companion and I realise with relief it’s not Emmy. I let out a breath and curse myself. Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
I shake my head. Time to head home. Jessie’s got the club covered; my mind’s a mess. I head upstairs for my coat and bag, pocketing my phone. Time to banish thoughts of Emmy Warner – before I do something I’ll regret.
CHAPTER 5
Emmy
By the weekend,the shock and adrenaline have worn off and I’m feeling less and less like an independent woman and more like a pool of rainwater slowly going stagnant.
On Sunday, I was fuelled by rage as I threw Colin and Stacey out. On Wednesday, I was channelling my most optimistic self. I know I put on a bit of a brave face in front of Nick and Luke but I couldn’t face totally falling apart in front of them, not when Nick’s already so wound up about becoming a father.
It’s Saturday now and I’m walking from the train station to Chloe’s house in suburbia, with a bottle of gin clutched firmly in my fist. I round the corner and see Annabel’s face pressed up against the living room window, waving manically as I approach their front door.
“Darling.” Chloe opens the door and instantly folds me into her arms. “What an utter bastard.”
