Page 28 of The Daddy’s Girl

Sliding my key card against the lock, I open the door, and I walk into the room. The lights are dim and cozy, and the soundproofed walls are so thick it’s like being in a bank vault. I can’t hear a thing in here.

The room is split by a sheer curtain on a ceiling track. It’s currently pulled halfway across the room, but the idea is that people on the bed can be seen through the curtain if they want a hint of privacy…or they can pull it aside if they want none at all. Either way, the couch is available for viewing—or more.

But I happen to know from experience that this is the comfiest couch in this entire club. And not kinky experience. I’ve never actually used this room for its intended purpose. Only for hiding away from the distractions upstairs. And thanks to the world’s best cleaning crew, I don’t have any reservations about reclining across it, pulling a nearby blanket over my legs.

“Perfect.”

The room says reserved on the app for the next hour, so I shouldn’t have to worry about anyone coming in.

With my sketch pad on my lap and my headphones over my ears, I get back to work on my design. It’s like being alone without being alone.

It’s so nice in fact that I hardly notice when I feel myself drifting off to sleep.

Rule #8: First dates are for kisses, not blow jobs.

Matis

This isn’t me. I don’t feel like myself.

First, there was that very awkward moment when I called Amelia sexy…to her face. What the hell is wrong with me?

I blame this date. And that dating app. They have me out of my depth. Feeling like another man altogether.

Now I’m laughing at this woman’s jokes and smiling like a fool even though I hate every moment of this. If I had my way, we’d be in bed by now. There’s no awkward small talk in fucking.

She’d be screaming out my name and then I would feel accomplished, like I did something worthwhile.

I know everything there is to know about pleasing a woman (and a man for that matter), but talking to them? This is where I’m lost. I feel useless. I’m supposed to make her like me without using my hands or my mouth… How do I do that?

“So you mentioned you were retired,” Laura says, running her finger around the rim of her wineglass. We’re on our second round, and things seem to be going well. She stares at me from across the table like she’d like to eat me for dinner, which is exciting to me but doesn’t quite give me the impression I could see myself with her after tonight.

“I am,” I reply.

“Are you going to tell me from where or is it a mystery?”

Laura is Canadian and has lived in Paris for two years for her job for some retail company. She has a thick accent that I find endearing. Not nearly as cute as Amelia’s American accent from growing up around Americans with a hint of French from living in Paris her entire life.

I clear my throat as I consider how to answer this question. Amelia said not to lead with the sex club, but I’m not exactly leading with it now. It would be deceptive to omit it at this point.

“I owned a club for thirty years,” I say outright as I take a sip from my glass.

Laura’s eyebrows raise. “A club?”

“Yes, a…sex club.”

Her brows go even farther up her forehead. This is the point where she’ll either excuse herself and never return or lean in and show keen interest. There’s not much in between.

To my surprise, Laura chooses the latter.

Leaning her elbows on the table, she tilts her head with curiosity. “A sex club here in Paris?”

“Yes. Just down the street, actually.”

The corner of her mouth lifts in a flirtatious smirk. “How did you get into such a thing? At such a young age, I assume. Thirty years…you must have been in your twenties when you started.”

I smile to myself. This is where the story gets interesting. “Younger, actually. My mother was a burlesque dancer. It used to be a cabaret, and when I was only fifteen, I started working there to help pay the bills. Unfortunately, it closed down after a while, and the owner had grown to love me and my mother so much, he passed it down to me. He thought the property was useless. I was only twenty-three when I opened it back up.”

Laughing to myself, I remember that year, pouring every last cent and ounce of sweat into the club. I wanted to make it something more. Someplace I wanted to be.