Seven Nights of Sin - Lacey Alexander [20]
“Pretty damn fun,” he said, eyes sparkling once more, a bit lecherously this time.
Her stomach churned with a blurred mix of repulsion and excitement imagining what sort of fun he might have experienced there. Indeed, it seemed that Damon Andros had the same effect on her that all of Las Vegas did.
“Will I now be…uh, required to go places like that?” she asked.
He lowered his chin. “Required, no? But it’s the kind of place where people in entertainment congregate, so…if you get an invitation, you’d be smart to accept.”
“Ah,” she said, still stuck in old Brenna world. Then she swallowed nervously. It was one thing to put on a leather skirt and see-through blouse. But when it came to walking the walk and talking the talk, could she really do it? She’d never even thought about having to go to places where she might be uneasy. Even this bar tonight—would she be comfortable going to a place called Fetish by herself, without Damon as an escort?
“What’s wrong?” he asked, clearly reading her face.
She thought of faking it, claiming nothing was amiss, painting herself as cool, confident Brenna again. But she’d spent the whole day with Damon now, and she truly liked him—so she couldn’t help being honest. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but…I’m not sure I could handle that.”
Damon replied by propping his elbow on the table, planting his chin in his fist, and pinning her in place with his eyes. “Oh, I bet you can handle a lot more than you think, babe.”
Four
Fetish was a dark but not dumpy building on the edge of town. They’d taken a taxi and now exited into a crowded parking lot lit with dim streetlights. Red gothic neon announced the bar’s name above the door, beneath which hung a sign with black plastic lettering that said, simply: BLUSH.
Despite the bold new Brenna she’d been trying to become, her stomach swam with nerves. She’d been to plenty of clubs in her day, but never one like this. While she could see that Damon had not steered her wrong—many of the people coming and going could have been at any bar, judging from their appearance—at least half the patrons sported a goth look that made her glad for her leather skirt. Now if only the terror in her eyes didn’t give her away.
As Damon paid their cover charge to a big bald guy at the door with a spider tattooed on his neck, the man squinted at him and said, “Hey, aren’t you…that guy?”
Damon just smiled slightly and replied, “Nope, I’m not him,” and placed a hand at the small of Brenna’s back to usher her inside.
The interior of Fetish was even darker—she could barely see the people who packed the place even as she and Damon squeezed through, and deafening music blocked any chance of easy conversation. And that’s when it hit her—this was her life now, her job. Going to clubs. Listening to loud music. And to her surprise, she suddenly felt rather adrift, not sure where to go or what to do.
That’s when Damon’s palm closed warm over her shoulder. “Listen,” he said in her ear.
And again, she was reminded why they were there. The music. Blush. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is this them playing now?”
He nodded.
The sound was fast, hard, funky, and—when she forgot the fact that it was blaring—undeniably appealing.
“Initial impression?” Again, he leaned near so she could hear him, and the warmth of his breath buffeted her neck.
“They’re good,” she replied. “They have a quality that’s somehow both modern and…a little ‘new wave’ retro.”
His nod, along with the look in his eyes, made her think he liked her answer.
“Let’s go get a drink,” he said.
As they wove their way through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of the band on a small stage off to the right.
“Don’t look at them yet,” he instructed, yelling over the music. He’d explained to her last night that in the indie world, sound was everything. “We’re not going for Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson, people that become pop stars largely because of how they look,” he’d said. “If they have that kind of appeal, great. But we’re more concerned with what they can do.” He’d