Kat
This nightclub is a reckless choice. I realize the moment I arrive that I'm on
dangerous territory. I'm not normally this crazy. I'd describe myself as a
typical girl, with a job that pays just enough for the rent, bus fares,
sufficient thrifted clothes for work, and little else. Yet there's a ticking time
bomb inside of me waiting to go off because on Saturday nights, I come
alive with the craving for a little adventure, something to spice up an
otherwise dull life.
The skimpy dress I'm wearing was borrowed from my friend Brigitte,
although she isn't here with me. She's in bed with a migraine. If I had any
sense, I would have taken her advice and stayed at home. But the dazzling
lights and party atmosphere are pure bait for a small town girl like me. I
paid a month's paycheck on the entrance ticket. But this is why I came to
the French Riviera, to the glamorous city of Nice. A fresh start means
widening my horizons and doing things I thought about at school but never
had the courage to explore. What brings me here tonight is curiosity, and I
confess, boredom. I've never been to a nightclub like this before, and you
only live once, so why not be daring?
The buzz is incredible, like electricity. I feel the air swirl around me. It's
hot, sticky, and vibrating with music. The floor thumps along too. When the
lights flash, I'm blinded by the glare. There are people dancing so close together, they're a moving crowd of limbs and bobbing heads. The bar is
swaying with people too. The cocktail glasses clink on trays as empty ones
are returned dry to be replaced by fresh ones. There's drunken laughter
everywhere.
Slowly, I navigate a path to the back of the club, where the music is less
intrusive and the lights are calmer. Here I take refuge under a wall light,
lean my shoulders on the cool brickwork, and allow my skirt to rise a little
higher up my already exposed thighs. The sequins glitter as I rock my hips
from side to side in time to the beat.
On the other side of the room, opposite me, is a curved sofa in an equally
curvaceous recess, and in the middle of it lounge a trio of men. They're
dressed snazzily in silky shirts and pants. Gold chains hang from their necks
and wrists, and with their ringed fingers, they hold cigarettes loose and
uncaring. I notice that the middle one, the one with the darkest looks,
knocks the ash off the end, but never draws on it.
He has the look of knowing what he wants and being sure of getting it. The
way he snaps his fingers at the passing bar attender, orders another drink
without having to wade through the crowd, then has one of his friends
collect it, tells me everything. Nobody bothers him; it's as if he's
surrounded by an invisible force field. There's energy on that side of the
room. It's magnetic, pulling at me—do I want to feel it too?
A young man around my age approaches me, his hair damp with
perspiration. He's fresh off the dance floor and swaying slightly.
"I haven't seen you here before," he says, propping himself up next to me. I
note the beer on his breath.
I don't tell him I've been saving up to come out tonight, that I have so little
spare cash that this one night of indulgence will be my last for a while. If I
can't find a man to buy me drinks, I'll be broke in an hour. Brigitte warned
me to stick with the clubs in the cheaper districts, the ones we've visited
together, but I want my night of glamour. I bought fake Chanel perfume
especially for the occasion. I sniff—the guy really reeks.
"I'm not your type," I say, with as much indifference as I can muster.
"Whereas that guy over there, he might be. He keeps looking at me." I cross my ankles, then uncross them with a flourish of legs and shimmering skirt. I
aim my attention directly at him and not the sweat bomb exploding next to
me.
The young man turns to follow my gaze. He straightens. "If that's your
type, good luck." He gives a shrug and walks away from me.
The comment sharpens my focus and I stare back at the mystery man. I
really think I have nothing to lose tonight. It's now or never, and I'm tired
of never.
I use the lipstick in my purse and cover my lips with gloss. No mirror is
necessary; I know the shape of my mouth. I lick my lips. The man raises a
glass and nods. Is this an invite? I tilt my head to one side and smile, then
when he crooks a finger at me, I sashay over to him, my eyes fixed on his
beckoning hand. My hips do the work, and the little bounce in my step
jiggles my breasts. I could be walking into a serious danger zone but unless
I take a risk, the only men who will talk to me are going to be as unsavory
as the kind I shrugged off.
"Hi, doll," he says. "What's your name?"
"Katrina," I say.
He takes my hand, and with a glance to the left, he signals for his neighbor
to move over and create space for me. I wriggle down into the red velvet
seat and cross my legs. He lets go of my hand.
"I'm Leon. Would you like a drink?" He has a deep voice that cuts through
the hubbub without shouting. The edge of it is sharp, the heart of it is
mellow, and there is a trace of an accent. His French, though, is perfect.
My stomach has formed a knot, tangling all my nerves into the center of it. I
can't quite tell if what I'm feeling is exhilarating or terrifying. Probably
some of both.
"Sure." I take the offered glass, one freshly poured.
"I haven't seen you before, Katrina." He says my name in a way that it rolls
off his tongue like treacle.
"I'm new to Nice." Not a lie. I moved to the big city suburbs a few months
ago, escaping the boredom of my little farming town and the drudgery of
stacking shelves in a supermarket. My current job isn't much better.
However, instead of handling cans and bottles, I'm cuddling cute puppies
and baby rabbits.
"What brings you here?" He leans back.
He has richly colored eyes that twinkle under the lights, high cheekbones,
and a narrow, slightly pointed nose. His chin is dusted with late-night
stubble. His neck is muscular, and when he swallows his liquor, his Adam's
apple pops out for a second. The rest of him is hidden away behind the
white shirt and neat buttons.
"I'm a girl who likes fun," I say, lowering my glass. The trembling is
unavoidable, and increasingly obvious. The reality is my nightclub
experience is limited to bars with glitter balls and plastic seats.
Fun used to be a few beers sitting on the park benches, sometimes a movie
with friends. Then I progressed to dating and taking solace in a man's arms,
and that became the kind of fun I like too. Some were good at it—they at
least knew where to find the clitoris. Some were too quick and finished
before I started. I've only had one steady boyfriend and the bars we
frequented didn't have chic furniture and illuminated glass dance floors like
this place. His bed was lumpy and mine was too small, but we managed to
have 'fun.'
This guy will probably, going by the cut of his clothes, buy me drinks all
night without blinking. He might be interested in going further. It's worth
putting in a bit of an effort. I tilt my head and give him my special look. It's
the only one I have that might work. I practiced in the bathroom mirror.
Leon—I like the name—and his soft accent, which hints at something
foreign, maybe Italian or further afield across the Mediterranean, waits
patiently, and I guess he knows he has the upper hand now.
My abrupt arousal is intense. What drives it is entirely him, especially his
equally intense stare. He's not letting go with his eyes. I blink, and it feels
like in that split second I've missed a lifetime of his attention. He reaches out and runs his palm up my thigh, stopping right where the fabric ends. He
wears one gold band on the little finger.
"My kind of girl," he says. "What kind of fun?"
I inhale, my breath trapped in my narrowing dry throat. I swallow a large
mouthful of drink. "Perhaps you could tell me what you like."
He leaves his hand on my thigh, snaps his fingers with his other hand, and
the two men rise and back off. We're alone on the sofa.
"You want to fuck? I don't pay, I don't sleep with—"
"I'm not one," I say sharply. "I don't want your money." But I do want to
be fucked by him. Every inch of me is drawn to him. Why, I don't know.
Having sex was not something I intended to happen tonight. You only live
once, though.
His eyebrows rise. "What do you want then?"
"I'm just a normal girl… sir." The word slips out unconsciously. "I left my
ex behind. He didn't want to leave and come to Nice. I'm single now.
And… available."
"I'm not a romantic guy," he says, fingering the hem of the skirt, toying
with me mentally too.
"Me neither. Romantic that is." A slight lie. One day… Brigitte knows I
dream of love; she says I'm going to be disappointed. Small town girls
never succeed in the big cities, she said cynically. I'm more optimistic.
"I have a luxury hotel. They don't ask questions. They have thick walls and
short memories. Do you understand what I'm saying, Katrina?" He taps his
finger on my inner thigh. The intensity of his gaze has just gone up a notch
or two.
"Yes," I say, breathless. But no, I haven't a clue. I'm too embarrassed to
admit it, though. What kind of man uses a luxury hotel for sex? A rich one;
it's obvious going by his mannerisms, the way he dismissed his
companions, his whole demeanor shouts money Before we go there, you're going to relax. Take your time. Finish that
drink. No more alcohol after that, only water. Understood?" He settles into
his seat, his arm moving away from me, and he smiles.
If Brigitte was here, she would have dragged me out by my arm. I can't
resist this man with his chiseled features and elegant pose. He's working
some kind of magic.
"Yes." I sip gently. "Sir," I add because it feels important to him.
"Good girl. I like that. I like that a lot, Katrina." He unbuttons his shirt a
notch and reveals the pattern of a tattoo running across his collarbones.
"What do you like?"
I hesitate, wondering if he's talking about my drink. Then I realize what he
really means. "I'm okay with most things… you know… the usual stuff." I
nearly wince at my charmless reply.
He reaches out and runs his knuckles along my cheekbone. "There's
nothing you can say that will surprise me. I've been coming here for some
time, and I choose my companions carefully. You wouldn't get a lot of sleep
with me. You're not tired, are you?"
I shake my head. "I have plenty of energy."
He nudges me again. "Katrina, don't tempt me. You might not be up to the
challenge."
It's too late. I'm terribly aroused and buzzing.
"Good." He points at the glass. "A little more, Katrina. You're doing well.
We've got plenty of time."
"How do you know I'm nervous? I might just be excited." I swallow the
dregs.
"Excited. Yes. But I'm also seeing nerves. And you should be nervous.
You're going to spend the night with a man you don't know. I like welltrained, obedient girls, prepared to do anything, and I mean anything I tell
them." He slides his hand into his pocket and retrieves his wallet. He
removes a wad of bills and leaves them on the table.
"I can do that," I say, almost too hastily. "Tip you in a special way."
"Tsk." He shakes his head. "You're new to this city, to my world, and
you've no clue what I'm going to do to you. The door is over there, Katrina.
No shame in saying goodbye and walking out."
"I want to walk out with you," I say firmly. I'm high on nothing but my
own libido and this sexy man's beguiling voice and oddly emotionless
expression.
He studies me; the silence stretches. "I do this tonight, then you'll not hear
from me again. I'm not into relationships, even casual ones. I don't need to
be followed around by one with puppy dog eyes, whining for attention."
"That's not me," I say. I've no idea what I am. I suppose I going to find out
—if I dare follow him out of the door.
He rises to his feet and holds out his hand. I grasp it.
"No, that's not you. You're seeking something different," he says, almost
seductively. The color must have returned to my cheeks because his smile is
delightfully calming.
He walks me to the entrance, and the crowd parts in front of him. "This is
my club, did you know?"
"No," I say, surprised.
"I own a few, here in Nice, and Marseilles. This one, I rarely visit. I have
better ones." He turns, right by the door, and looks at me.
Hotels, nightclubs… what next? "This is the best club I've ever been in.
Really stylish… and beautiful."
The henchmen—I realize they are not Leon's friends—make a path through
the crowds to the side door. A few women look at me wistfully, others with
pure envy. My knees wobble but I refuse to chicken out. Something is
propelling me along, taking me with him, and not the other way around.
He halts outside in the night breeze and draws me closer. "You might regret
flirting with me. If you get into my car, come with me tonight, I call the
shots," he says quietly
For a second, I'm frozen to the sidewalk. The car he's referring to is a black
limo. This time I'm not surprised. The driver waits by the rear passenger
door. Nothing can happen in a car without the driver knowing. I'll be fine.
If I back out now, I'll never know what awaits me, the opportunities in life
that I have feared to take. Whoever this man Leon is, I'm sure we can have
a good time, and sometimes that's what matters most. I mean, I've never
found sex challenging; I've done it plenty of times. I'm good at it according
to my last boyfriend. Since I arrived in Nice, I've been waiting for
something momentous to happen and perhaps this is it.
My nerves might win over if don't move now. I slip into the car seat and
smooth out my skirt.
"Which hotel?" I should text Brigitte the address.
"The Castelans Palace Hotel."
"I don't know it. But I'm still learning my way around Nice."
Leon settles next to me. "What makes you think I'm taking you somewhere
in this city?" He grins. "The best hotels are in Monaco. In Monte Carlo."
"Monte Carlo!" I gasp. Kat, what are you doing?
He moves closer to me, his eyes bearing down. "You should have stayed on
the other side of the club, kept your eyes off me. I want you, and I'm going
to have you."
The car door is shut and the streetlights are gone. It's just us in a dimly lit vehicle with blacked-out windows.