Chapter 3. Author's note: Feeling particularly generous? Well, clickety-clack that vote button and make this humble writer happy! Thanks!

As Nightingale fought to keep a gape from appearing on her face as she stared at Michael, Bobby leaned over and murmured in her ear.

"It seems as though you were wrong about him wanting to visit us," he said. Nightingale felt a small shudder ripple through her as she felt Bobby's hot breath tickle her neck. "But you obviously did a good job of piquing his interest. Go get him, Nightingale."

"Does he already know the price?" asked Nightingale, adjusting her corset a little as she looked over at Michael. He was smiling a bit, but it was an innocent smile - very happy and bright and a tad goofy.

"I went over that with him. He's already given me the down payment. I made it nice and hefty, too," said Bobby. Nightingale rolled her eyes at Bobby's tone. He clearly thought himself extremely clever.

"I'm worth it," said Nightingale, pasting a smug smile on her face for Bobby, who laughed and slapped her ass. "After all, all these fine gentlemen won't get to see me dance or sing if Mr. Castleman's going to keep me all to himself."

Two men heard her words and moaned in agreement. One reached out and tried to touch her, but Bobby slapped his hands away.

"Sorry, Mr. Delaney. She's spoken for tonight. You want to touch her, you have to pay," warned Bobby. "And more than the gentleman at the back has."

Mr. Delaney must have begun to argue with Bobby, because their voices rose, but Nightingale ignored them. She wound her way between the tables, taking a more circuitous route than was necessary to showcase her fabulous strut. She saw many men gaping, their mouths hanging open, practically drooling with lust.

Her lip curled in disgust involuntarily and she had to labour to smooth her expression into one of haughty flirtatiousness. Keeping her eyes fixed on Michael as she approached him, she found herself both pleased to see him - something that shocked her, as she'd never been happy to see anyone but fellow Inamoratas before - and dismayed. She'd liked Michael, and thought of him as someone better than the scumbags who frequented the bordello.

Apparently, he wasn't. And it made Nightingale disquieted.

"Hello," she nevertheless purred as she found herself standing before him at his table. He looked up and goggled at her. She had to smile a little bit at his gormless expression. At least he wouldn't be particularly difficult to seduce.

"Nightingale," he said, his voice weak and breathy. "You...I mean, you're...you're...well-"

Nightingale laughed, but it was a genuine laugh of amusement, not the affected one she used for clients.

"Gorgeous?" she guessed as she quickly assessed his expression, trying to settle on his type. Was he the kind of man who wanted her to sit on his lap (most of her clients wanted this) or was he the kind who wanted her to sit next to him? Like a real woman?

She settled for this and sat down next to him. However, she draped her legs over his lap and shot him a seductive glare. She was rewarded with another gape, his dark eyes wide.

"You know, I didn't think you'd want to see me again," said Nightingale, leaning forward and murmuring directly in his ear.

He flinched back and Nightingale wondered if she'd misjudged him. Maybe he wanted her to behave exactly as a real woman. That was rare. Most of her clients liked her to behave in as shameless a manner as possible.

"I wanted to talk to you," said Michael.

"Oh? You're paying a lot of money to just talk to me, Mr. Castleman," said Nightingale, leaning back.

"Please, call me Michael," he said earnestly.

Nightingale was astonished to feel a genuine smile blossoming on her face. "Okay, Michael," she said, watching as he looked happy at her reaction. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Oh, all sorts of things!" he said enthusiastically, his eyes lighting up. Nightingale smiled again. "In the lab a few days ago I mistook you for a real woman. That was interesting."

Nightingale's smile began to fade as she realized that he didn't see her as a "real" woman. It disappointed her. With a slightly colder tone, she said, "Oh? And how was it interesting?"

He shifted, moving closer to her. "It got me thinking. How similar are you to a real, natural-born woman?" he asked, his eyes alight with curiosity.

Nightingale wanted to scream at him that she was exactly the same as a natural-born woman, and didn't understand how the manner of her birth made her an inferior creature, but refrained. She decided to phrase it a little better.

"I've little experience with natural-born woman, Michael," she said. "We so rarely see them here. I think I've only seen one or two in my lifetime-"

Michael interrupted her quickly. "How old are you, Nightingale?"

"Physiologically, I'm twenty-one," she said. "And will remain that age until I die. But I was extracted five years ago. So, by your definitions, I am five years old."

Michael gasped, but motioned for her to continue. Nightingale, trying to hide her amusement at his shock, went on:

"But, based on what I've seen, I am exactly like a real woman. Were it not for my identity anklet, I could pass as one."

"But do you have emotions?" asked Michael. He looked fascinated, as though Nightingale were some interesting experiment he was observing.

Nightingale prevented herself from answering with a resounding, indignant "of course I do, I'm not an animal", but instead replied with a smile and gentle answer:

"Yes, I do. And they're quite as sharp and poignant as yours," she said. She, despite being offended that he would think that she lacked emotions, was touched that he'd asked. Her clients never took her feelings into account. They used her as they wished without regard for the emotional toll it took upon her.

He looked taken aback. "And you're not paid to say that?" he asked.

"I'm not paid anything," she replied flippantly before she could stop herself.

"Of course," he said, looking a little ashamed. Then an expression of sad surprise dawned on his face as he continued in a hesitant tone. "Then...if you have emotions, and you are indistinguishable from a human woman except for your modified aging, then what makes you different from them?"

Nightingale got the idea that it was a rhetorical question and didn't answer, though she agreed wholeheartedly with him. She didn't understand what gave natural-born men the right to enslave her. But in thanks for his considerate nature, she kissed his cheek. It wasn't a seductive gesture, but one of sweet affection.

He looked at her in wonder, his already innocent eyes becoming childish in their purity as he gazed at her. He lifted his hand to his cheek and delicately touched where she'd kissed him.

"Oh, look, Sparkle's about to sing," said Nightingale, attempting to change the subject. Michael looked a little confused and she laughed, pointing to the stage, where Sparkle and Glitter - favourites with the crowd for their matching names - were preparing to sing.

"Sparkle?" asked Michael.

Nightingale nodded and turned to the stage, so that her side was flush with Michael's. She moved her legs and curled them about his. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his cheeks flame with colour. It made her smile.

"Yes, that's her," she said. "And that's Glitter next to her."

"Glitter, Sparkle," he said musingly. "Your..."

"Owner?" suggested Nightingale, seeing that Michael wasn't comfortable with using the word.

"Yes. He doesn't pick human names for his Inamoratas, does he?" asked Michael.

"Rarely. Though his newest acquisition is named Rose, and that's human enough," said Nightingale. "She's the girl approaching us now." She jerked her chin up to where Rose was picking her way through the tables, enduring the wandering hands of the men with a surprisingly tolerant expression as she brought drinks to the clients.

Michael looked up just as Rose got to their table.

"Ah, Rosie," said Nightingale, smiling. "You've got great timing. I think Mr. Castleman could use a drink, don't you?"

"Yes," agreed Rose tentatively in a whisper.

"What do you suggest?" asked Michael.

"Well, considering you've already made a down payment on the pleasure of my company, I'm guessing price is no object," said Nightingale, turning to him with raised eyebrows.

He grinned. "It isn't," he said.

"Then may I recommend this?" she asked, leaning up and taking cocktail glass off of Rose's tray. She waved Rose off and she left, looking unhappy.

"What is it?" asked Michael, examining the drink. It was a clear, golden-coloured liquid in which sat four or five bright red berries.

"We call it a 'Belladonna'," said Nightingale, taking his hand and putting the drink into his grasp.

"Beautiful woman?" he guessed, translating it literally from Italian.

"Sort of. But it's named after the plant of that name. Belladonna is also called deadly nightshade. It's highly poisonous. Sometimes, its berries look just like those," said Nightingale, pointing to the berries in Michael's glass. She laughed as he, about to take a sip, pulled back and looked at them warily. "But don't worry. They're just very red cranberries."

Michael laughed and took a careful sip of the Belladonna. His eyebrows rose and he jerked back, looking astounded.

"It's delicious!" he said fervently.

"I'm glad you like it," said Nightingale. And she really was glad. She and Michael smiled at each other, Nightingale admiring how his dark brown eyes lit up as he grinned. "Now, if you will turn your attention to the stage, Mr. Castleman, Glitter and Sparkle are about to sing."

She turned her face away to watch the pair sing. However, she wasn't sure that Michael did the same as she could feel his eyes on her face. Knowing that he wanted her to behave as a real woman, she remained staring demurely at the stage.

About halfway through the song, which was a fast-paced, upbeat song to which Inamoratas could dance, Michael turned to her and said in her ear, loud enough to be heard over the music,

"Do you sing, Nightingale?"

Nightingale laughed. "Oh, yes. I got my name from my beautiful speaking voice and it translated into an equally lovely singing voice."

"Will you sing for me?" he asked, sounding a little shy.

"Of course," she said. She twisted around so that she was facing him. His expression was delightfully awkward but hopeful. "I'd do anything you asked."

"How kind of you," he laughed.

"I try," replied Nightingale, thrilled that their encounter had become very much like the one they'd had in the lab two days earlier - it was lightly flirtatious. It was the way a man would interact with a woman for whom he had a respectful interest.

Michael smiled at her. The expression was so adorable that Nightingale actually patted his cheek. His eyes widened and his cheeks turned red in embarrassment. But he continued to grin slightly idiotically.

"Would you like a drink, Nightingale?" he asked.

Nightingale was surprised. Her clients rarely offered her anything. So, to be polite:

"I'd love one," she replied, chucking him under the chin and tapping his nose with her finger.

He pushed her away but he was laughing as though he didn't really want her to stop. He waved, attempting to catch Rose's attention. It worked, as Rose appeared at their table in a moment with a tray. She looked between Michael and Nightingale, clearly studying Nightingale's methods.

"Another Belladonna for you, sir?" she asked Michael politely.

"No, thank you, I've already got one," he said. Rose looked shocked at his good manners. "But I'd like to get Nightingale something. What would you recommend, Rose?"

Rose smiled brightly at Michael, clearly taken aback with pleasure at his manners. Nightingale wanted to remind Rose that Michael was a rare breed of client, but couldn't rightly do that with him sitting right beside her.

"Are you enjoying your Belladonna, sir?" asked Rose.

"Both of them. The one I'm drinking and the one sitting beside me," said Michael, with an air of boasting. Nightingale laughed, flattered.

"Then how about one for Nightingale, too?" suggested Rose. Nightingale gave her a nod at her cleverness. The Belladonna was the most expensive drink offered by the Club, and it was smart of Rose to attempt to sell as many as possible to Michael. He seemed to be willing to piss away his cash at the slightest hint.

"Great. A Belladonna for this bella donna," said Michael. Nightingale felt him put his arm around her waist. She smiled at Rose.

"Thanks," she said to Rose as she handed her the drink. Rose nodded and smiled at the pair of them before leaving.

"Well, bottoms up," said Michael, clinking his glass with Nightingale's. She smiled and raised her eyebrows as she downed her entire Belladonna in one swallow. Then she fought back laughter as he tried to do the same and began to cough at the strength of the alcohol.

"Nicely done," she mocked amicably as he gagged. Upon tilting the glass forward and delicately placing one of the cranberries in her mouth, she saw Michael staring at her, open-mouthed. She smiled somewhat ruefully as she realized he found that seductive.

Suddenly, however, his expression fell and he leaned forward. "Is there somewhere we can talk? In private?" he asked.

Nightingale wondered whether he actually wanted to have a conversation, but she didn't ask. "Yes," she said, smiling with one eyebrow arched. "There is. Follow me."

The pair of them stood and Nightingale, in a fit of giddy foolishness, grabbed Michael by his tie, forgetting that he didn't want overt displays of flirtation. "This way," she said as she tossed it over her shoulder. Luckily, he laughed and followed her, allowing himself to be dragged along like a dog on a leash.

As they passed Bobby, he gave Nightingale a questioning look. She knew what he was asking her - how long it would be until Michael slept with her. She gave him a pert nod to indicate that it would happen soon, though she wasn't actually sure. As much as she needed Michael to pay Bobby, she didn't want him to become just another of her clients.

Michael didn't say a word as Nightingale led him out of the Club and into the Inamorata's quarters. She could feel unease radiating from him as she tapped her passcode into the door of her room and the doors slid open.

Very gently, she sat him down on the bed. He looked at her in confusion. "Nightingale," he said, looking bewildered. "What are you doing?"

She took a step back and leaned against the vanity across from the bed. "What do you think?" she asked. "Isn't this what you paid Bobby for me to do?"

Michael convulsed as he realized what she was getting at. "Oh! No!" he cried. "It isn't! I mean, I just wanted to talk to you! I only...I thought you were interested in me." He looked down and blushed in shame.

Nightingale laughed. She went an kneeled in front of him. She lifted his face with her hand. "You are the strangest client I've ever had," she said. "And yes, I am interested in you. You're different."

Michael smiled. "You're not just saying that?"

Nightingale, for the first time in her life, was honest with a man. "No, I'm not. I like you, Michael. I really do."

He smiled again and looked awkwardly pleased. She leaned up and kissed him gently. He was still in shock for a moment before he took her face in his hands and kissed her a bit more ardently.

When he drew back, he was grinning from ear to ear as he leaned his forehead against hers. Nightingale didn't share his enthusiasm. She was a little bit too nervous of the bubbly feeling that had started to rise in her chest.

Assuming she knew what he wanted to do next, she pushed him onto his back and began to undo his clothing with expert fingers.

"Nightingale," he said, still sounding uneasy.

Nightingale ignored him. She couldn't tell him that she needed to sleep with him whether she wanted to or not. Because if she didn't, Michael wouldn't pay Bobby, and if Michael didn't do that, Nightingale would be punished. 

"Gale," he said, sitting up.

She froze. It was the little endearment that, though it was used by Bobby, she never allowed it to be used in front of clients. She didn't want them calling her that.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I don't want to take advantage of you," he said earnestly.

Nightingale was simultaneously moved to tears and haughtily scornful. Though Michael's worry for her touched her, she was disgusted by the idea that a client thought he wasn't taking advantage of her. 

"Then you've come to the wrong place," she snapped. It wasn't a comment she would have made to a regular client. But Michael's gentle concern allowed her to be herself more. "Bobby makes a whole fucking business of taking advantage of us."

Michael instantly looked hurt and Nightingale immediately regretted her harsh words. She sighed and put her hand on his knee, rubbing his leg affectionately. It wasn't a sexual gesture, but one of friendship.

"Listen, Michael. You won't be taking advantage of me any more than anyone else has," she said. "And you've been very kind to me. I'm still waiting for you to slap me around a bit like a normal client, but that hasn't happened so far."

Michael looked at her with wide eyes. Nightingale heaved another sigh, trying to keep her tears at bay. It proved very difficult. So she recited from Macbeth. She found it soothing and she often used that method to prevent herself from crying.

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be what thou art promised. Nightingale gritted her teeth.

"Nightingale, this isn't right," said Michael. Upon seeing his troubled expression, she ground her teeth harder and continued with her recitation.

"I can't change it," she said, as her mind gently said: Yet I do fear thy nature. It is too full of the milk of human kindness. Though wouldst be great-

"There must be something you can do," said Michael.

Art not without ambition-

"Nothing," snapped Nightingale.

But without the illness should attend it.

Now it was Michael's turn to heave a sigh. He gently took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth. The soliloquy melted into oblivion as Nightingale found herself instinctively drawing closer to him, instead of away.

Then, gently assuring Michael that he wasn't taking liberties with her - somewhat of a lie, but a necessary one - she turned off most of the lights and guided his arms around her.