But now, I will hear it playing from her lips on a never-ending loop for the remainder of my days. She says it like it’s adare and a demand. The question and the answer. The risk and the reward.
“I accept,” I tell her, as if the choice was ever mine to make. Harper doesn’t break eye contact as she takes a step back and shifts her body back to Tessa.
“When you are done with Marcus and showing him around, please set up a meeting with Sadie so he can learn about the security measures and get set up with all his passes.” Tessa nods emphatically along, scribbling down notes on a tablet while Harper doles out tasks.
“Lead the way,” I say to Tessa, who gives a small, excited hop in my periphery as she turns and starts yapping away about the décor and history of the club, quickly moving out of the office and already several strides ahead of where I’m stuck in place. I look to Tessa, having to practically drag my eyes away from Harper’s, not quite ready to be released from the ring of fire in her eyes.
One deep breath in, and I shift to trail after her, hoping I can catch up before I miss too much information I will desperately need.
Harper moves in front of me to head back towards her desk, her hand lightly coming up to rest on my chest, halting my exit as she leans up, red-painted lips coming up to skate her words across my jawline.
“Good boy,” she whispers, patting my chest before gliding away, fingers leaving little kisses of shock where she touched.
In this moment, I realize two things with complete certainty. I would welcome Harper’s punishments, but I crave her praise.
Draggingmyself away from Harper’s office must be what kids feel like when their parents give them money for treats andthen don’t let them venture into the candy store. Devastating, but probably for the best.
“Sorry, for a tiny thing you sure move fast,” I tease Tessa as I catch up to where she paused to wait for me, hovering at the back section of low-lit tables. My steps slow as I look around the main floor ofCirquefor the first time since being ushered quickly inside, and my brain is buffering to keep up with everything I’m trying to take in at once. I think Casanova himself would be jealous of the allure of the space.
How can such a plain-looking exterior hold an atmosphere that screams seduction? There is a low-lit lantern at each table, some fitted to accommodate two people, but no table bigger than what could comfortably sit four, ensuring the groupings stay small and the atmosphere intimate.
The bar lines the entirety of the back wall, with mirror-backed glass shelving that climbs to the ceiling, the whole thing framed in iron and wood.
Deep red silks are draped from the center of the ceiling to the corners of the main arena, giving a peaked illusion that you are really in a circus tent. Nestled in the center of the layered canopy drapes is one massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling over the center of where the audience sits. It drips with crystals, held together with a tarnished golden framework. As I continue my slow perusal of the accents and tables, I notice that the chandelier is the only adornment of the main floor that reeks of luxury. All the metalwork gleams like gold that has seen better days. Not bright and shiny, no starlight reflecting back to its patrons like a beacon for impropriety. It looks worked over, like hundreds of hands have felt its body and struggled to let go.
I would have expected a club likeCirque, which prides itself on being ostentatious and a meeting place for seduction, would want to draw the eye and provide thewowfactor whenever it could. My contemplation is cut short as a slow beat starts toplay from the live band, in their own separate hideaway to the left of the stage. The outer curtains are pulled to the sides, but the second layer, set back a few feet from the front of the stage, remains dropped to the floor, concealing the action and bustle of backstage work.
“Oh! This will be perfect for you to see one of the aerial performances. It’s one of my favorites,” Tessa says, appearing at my elbow to watch with me, keeping close to my side.
A single performer stands center stage, clad in a shimmering black bodysuit that looks like a second skin. The spotlight shines, not on the performer, but on the singer who has stepped out of the shadows to accompany the band’s melodic trance, her voice weaving tales of witchcraft and spells to make you hers. The way her siren's call dances through the space, I believe the spell may already have been cast. It’s the most beautiful voice I have ever heard, sweet and low with an intensity that makes it hard to hear anything else.
The stage is cast in a low red light, allowing you to see the performer, but teasing you from taking in any real details yet. One bare leg begins to tap along to the beat, an arm reaching up to the heavens as a long red silk descends to meet her outstretched hand as the red light fades to white, lightening up the scene. Her movements are sensual, slow and seductive as she begins to twine the silk back and forth between her legs.
The notes of the song drift through the audience as she leisurely moves from her legs to wrapping the red silk tight around her midsection. Each movement is composed and graceful, like it could be done in her sleep.
The back curtain begins to lift as the lone performer is lifted into the air, revealing an entourage of look-alikes, several feet off the ground, but wrapped in black silk instead of red. Like a perfect wave, the beat shifts and the silks begin to unravel, slowly lowering each performer one by one, leaving only the red silk performer above the rest. The movement ofeach is slightly different, but perfectly blended as they fall from grace.
The song moves along, and I’ve been left behind. I can’t seem to drink it in fast enough, and my eyes don’t know where to look. With every breathless note, the performers shift one fraction closer to the stage, wrapping the silks even more as they rise again to rejoin their red leader, just to descend once more in unison.
Without warning, men in black pants, white pressed dress shirts, and gold-clasped black suspenders join the stage, each one coming up to stand directly below their partner’s path. The men reach up to grasp a leg or arm of each performer, easing them to land on the stage.
Without the silk coiled around their bodies, I can see the outfits much clearer, some are two-piece outfits, with a strip of bare skin in the center, others are bodysuits like the first performer, but with black mesh in areas instead of solid fabric. Each outfit matching, but slightly altered between performers.
The men use one hand to hold their partner’s waist, their other hand gripping the silk as they begin to twist and weave it around their partners, just as the first lone performer did to herself. Throughout the stage, the women shift and sway to the beat, moving with their partners hands as the silk is layered over fabric and exposed skin. It’s a dance between two partners who are finely attuned to the other’s body. A slow caress of a thigh or a bend at the waist. I know that each touch lands with its own purpose, that each wrap of fabric is critical to the next steps of the act. And yet, I forget entirely why they are moving as one, that there is anything beyond this need coursing between partners.
As one, the men lift their partners, one hand gripped at their waists, and the other entwined with their partners’ hand as the silks pull them up and away. The hands adorning each waist drop away first, while the other hand holds on as long asit can, desperate to keep their partners close. They continue to hold their arms out a beat after the two are separated, like they could bring them back through sheer force of will.
I feel their desperation in the hands that continue to reach for the object of their affection, a final agonized plea to stay, to not be left behind.
It’s less touching or nudity than most R-rated movies, and yet I feel stripped bare. I look to my side and realize Tessa stands several paces behind me, a knowing smile beaming my way. Before I can ask why she stepped back, I realize she isn’t the one who moved. I return to her side, starting to understand why the lanterns remain low and the gold is dulled and lacking boldness. The space around you isn’t designed to draw your attention away from the main event.
Honestly, I don’t think it would matter. I’ve only seen a snippet of what this place has to offer, and I am left without an ounce of attention to spare. The back-lined bar could be set ablaze, and I don’t think I would blink an eye.
Who cares about a little burn when the fire feels so good?
4
HARPER
