It's seven-thirty in the evening as I settle my black purse on the bar counter. Black, glossy heels prop on the stool spindle graciously before I hoist my curvy bottom onto the soft cushion embedded over the wooden frame. I sit on it comfortably, exhaling a strained breath with my heart beating so erratically after the five, tense minutes of waiting.

I order a gin and tonic with an instruction to have it flat, intending to keep it sober for as long as I'm here, and thankfully, Sheer and Latex is not an average club where sweat, alcohol, music, and sex commingle vicariously. Alas, it's a VIP lounge that I barely got in thanks to an old man named Victor Bartholy who took pity on me at the door by saying we're together.

He was a gentleman, honestly. He only asked if I was looking for someone, not sure how he came to such a conclusion, and my answer was as stealthy as it could be. I told him I'm here to meet Madam Francesca for a job interview and whatnot. Of course, he knows the old hag, and it rang to me that he's a regular here, and maybe a VIP.

However, he probably came here for some serious business matter. He's an attorney, said the business card he gave me if I ever needed help in my tonight's endeavor. No pun intended, but he came out like a sugar daddy when he told me that, but the fact that he didn't even offer to buy me a drink or ask for my number could only mean he was genuinely concerned.

A tall glass slides my way; ice cubes, lime slices, and sparkling water are filled inside it. I finger the rim and draw the glass toward my blood-red lips right away. The lean, tall bartender in a white dressed shirt, tucked nearly under the black apron dangling over his thighs, smiles indulgently before he regards a gun-chewing chick handing over a tray of empty cocktail glasses.

Just like me, she's also wearing a blonde wig, hers longer than mine.

"Big Jack and two glasses." She slaps her tired palms over the polished wooden surface of the bar countertop, spreading her long fingers painted in blue... or violet that she begins to tap violently against the wood.

The walls in this lounge are of dark bricks, with a very faint lightning system that has a blurring effect synching with the soft music in the background. The rest of the club, which is another floor below this, is just a typical venue with cramped booths, a herd of youngsters grinding against each other, and lots of music loud enough to block one's inner thoughts.

And just like the BDSM club in Adrian's hotel in Las Vegas, this one is also a club within the club and it requires membership or an invite. The fact I'm here all alone, makes me look like a golddigger sub on the hunt, or just anyone with an incredibly beautiful relationship with money and sex given the very short, figure-hugging dress I'm wearing with fishnet stockings, and a diamond-studded necklace.

"I swear I hate doing rounds down here! It was supposed to be me in the cabin and not that Janelle bitch who plays like she's the most polite of them all!" the blonde goes on, drawing her thinly covered little boobs toward the counter until they're jerked up against the wooden edge.

I sip my drink, listening subtly with the pretense that I'm not.

The bartender's smile lingers—although very faintly as if it's as far as he can go—as he takes a stride rightward toward the long shelf of expensive liquors lined up exorbitantly. And I realize that if there are cabins, just as the blonde mentioned, maybe that's where members with special requirements will be taken to. It's exactly where Victor headed, somewhere through a set of stairs a few feet to my right.

And if Adrian is here, then he must be in one of those cabins, and for that, I need to know where Francesca is. That old hag is the key. Sadly, in here I see no one getting whipped, or wearing a latex bra with an ass bared to be slapped by the horny Dom. I see no spanking benches either, and not a single person is chained or bonded somewhere.

"Jack Daniels. Two glasses." The bartender places the stuff on the silver tray that he slides artfully toward the blonde. "Now off you go, Chica." He grins at her.

The blonde's lips pucker. "You're heartless, Jimmy."

Jimmy's smile turns big for a change, and he doesn't miss the blonde's little ass that she purposefully wiggles with the sly turn she makes after retrieving her tray. She walks her slim body away and my breath flies out of my lungs as I sip my gin.

"You're not really a drinker, are you?" I hear the voice I recognize as Jimmy's, the bartender.

Slowly my eyes find his face, a bit of light bathing the films of his eyes whose color I can't tell. Smiling feebly, I let the indentation of my glass remain in the vicinity of my lips, but I don't take another sip yet. Instead, I incline onto the counter and rest my elbow atop it.

I sigh. "I'm trying to stay clean but old habits don't die easily, so here I am... fighting the temptation," I lie flatly without blinking an eye, the kind of art I've practiced over the years for several reasons.

At times I even believe my own lies, so it's no biggie. I may be a pathological liar at this rate.

"Oh?" Jimmy, who may be biracial or multiracial if I consider his bronze skin tone and beautiful trimmed curly hair, shrinks back from the counter. "My bad, I'm sorry." He sounds sincere.

"Nah, don't be. It's not your fault." I draw the glass back against my nose and pull in the potent scent of lemon and juniper berry, which I never like, pretending that I'm dying to sip an addicted slut to a fine, pointed cock, while in reality, I could've chosen something sweet and tastier than this.

"So, what brings you here?" I don't notice when he's moved, but he's now holding a white mini-towel and a glass, doing his usual bidding since it's just the two of us at the counter.

Why aren't there enough people here? I wonder, for even the few tables around have quite a few drinkers whose voices and laughter are mostly low, reduced to intimate whispers. It's more of a business set-up, or maybe because it's Thursday and some rich people don't have time to sweat with work in the morning.

"Um, uh, I'm waiting for madam Francesca," I reply. Someone kill me, please. I hate announcing that woman's name. "I kinda blew up my interview with her back in Las Vegas so I'm hoping for the second chance or something." I sigh again, making my face look crestfallen and dejected.

"Vegas? You're from there?" Jimmy's eyes light up, and I think they're kind of blue or green.

And shit! Giving out information isn't a good move. Less talking would be better but there's something about bartenders and their ability to draw people's inner secrets out.

Careful, Arabella, you're not Pollyanna. Trust no one.

I sit upright, propping my one knee over the opposite one. I place my glass down and reply, "I'm from many places. I can say I've worked longer in Las Vegas than in any other city, though. I just... tend to follow the tides of pleasure, I'd say. Tried Macau and Hong Kong but the Chinese bastards made me miss home and so I came back."

Just don't ask about Macau and Hong Kong, please. Don't fucking ask anything more! I pray inwardly.

"Wow!" He's impressed, a grin so big on his face. "I can tell you love big cities with flash and glamour, huh?" His lean yet firm bicep muscles are taut as he dips the towel inside the glass, rubbing it gently and expertly against the inner walls.

"I love any place with big money," I reply as naturally as possible, and he laughs so brightly until my fellow fake blonde returns and slides her empty tray while cussing something under her breath.

I glance at my shiny bracelet-like watch, and it's almost eight. No progress here!

What do I do? I can't continue chatting with Jimmy while I'm not even sure if Adrian is here, or if he's gonna be here at all. It's so foolish of me to think I could bust him. What the fuck was I thinking?

Flushed with anger, I take the gin and tonic and drag a single, thick gulp just to quell my nerves. I wait for Jimmy to finish serving the blonde a round of sweet cocktails accented with fruits and umbrella straws until he's mine again.

"Is she even here? Francesca I mean. I need to her and maybe she'll consider me again?" I ask Jimmy, the desperation in my voice not forged this time as I'm truly running out of luck here.

"What kind of job are you looking for?" he asks curiously.

My throat moves as I swallow thickly. Can't he just help me with no questions asked? It's like he wants to keep chatting with me, his eyes subtly trained on my moist lips lustfully, and down the fair skin of my chest right where the tail of the pendant of my necklace has plunged toward my cleavage.

Coquettishly, I use the tip of my finger to part the neat, blonde bangs of my bob wig, letting him ogle me for as long as he can until he accepts that I'm telling him no shit about my privacy.

Getting no desirable response from me, he quickly replies, "She was sitting right on your stool before you walked in, but she's a busy woman so she must be with one of her guests upstairs if you know what I mean." He winks, and another customer saunters by and steals his attention.

Jimmy goes on to serve him, and I grab a twenty-dollar bill and place it on the counter. As I drop off the barstool, my breath so hushed that I may choke, I down the rest of my drink and set the glass on top of the bill a bit heavily. Without thinking twice, I fix my dress, then my wig, before I rush toward the stairs.

And that's when I smell that perfume the whole of me recognizes. I freeze in my steps, just a foot away from the stool I was seated on. I want to move but I can't; my brain is too busy to register. I remain frozen, waiting for the scent of Aventus Creed to pass, not trying so much as turning around to confirm that it's Adrian.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally throw my glance at that stairway heading up. A stout body in casual jeans and a leather jacket walks by confidently, and I know it's Adrian Castle from just the way he moves, not a single shred of his attention given to anyone who isn't on his agenda for being here.

A sudden lump settles in my throat and I swallow it tightly. My heart gives me that flip, but I don't let it or Adrian's magnificent aura distract me as it usually does. I follow him, and again, he doesn't give any regard to the pair of ladies wearing vulgar dresses who bumps into him before he reaches the staircase.

I watch the ladies pass, and they giggle while gazing over their shoulders for what's left of Adrian's rearview until he's taking a corner of the staircase and gets swallowed by partial darkness. Who can blame them? This man knows how to steal attention even when he doesn't need to. He's that devilishly hot.

The next lounge is the real Sheer and Latex. The minute I walk in, I come across a sophisticated waitress in a half-buttoned white blouse tucked into a latex miniskirt. Her jet-black hair is tied into a neat bun, and a soft lacy eye mask adorns her oval face. She smiles at me, and although awkwardly, I smile back while watching Adrian strutting toward another dimly lit passage through which music flies out.

High heels echo away as the waitress disappears. I wait near some red velvet sofa, debating whether to follow Adrian or not. And yet, before I even know it, I'm walking through the light-deprived hall, stalking him. I only stop when I find another domain of debauchery where men and women, fully dressed ad naked, are having public foreplay and kinky sex, with some kind of round purgatory cage in which subs are tied up and whipped.

What in the world! My eyes widen.

It's like a cuckold party, but everyone has a playmate, some more than one, confined in their own decadence while using most kinky spices I know to pleasure themselves. It's a big gothic playroom infested with moaning, groaning, and all sorts of erotic sounds I've learned as an adult. But as much as I want to stall and gawk until the new dawn, I still don't think I'm here for it

I have a task to do, and what this whole scene does is add salt to my wound. All I can imagine is Adrian and Francesca having a scene behind that door he's walked into, and it makes my blood boil and my heart bleed at the stab of jealousy. He can't fuck or play with another woman after robbing us of the chance to be happy together. No, I won't let him.

I grip my purse tightly, fully aware that there's a baby Glock inside it. And that dark part of me—an independent evil entity residing inside of me and only rising above me when my existence depends sorely on it, as it did two years ago on one gruesome encounter—stirs within me like a demon in shackles, claiming authority over the rest of me.

So I grab the door handle and twist the knob tightly. When it doesn't open, I press my knuckles harshly against it and pummel three knocks. I hear my heart pounding powerfully against my ribcage as I wait, and when it doesn't open, I knock again, violently, until it creaks and a barrage of blonde hair appears before me, almond-shaped gray eyes crinkled to a deep frown, and it's none other than Francesca.

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A/N: Damn, Ara, what has gotten into you? Haha. Sometimes I write this story, and I know there's darkness in it, but I wonder if any of it makes sense to anyone who reads. So, tell me, do you feel the flow or it's just something new and confusing?