Page 1 of Art of Sin
1hedonism
When I waslittle and imagined what I wanted to be when I grew up, it wasn’t this. And no, I’m not a stripper or an escort, though I certainly use my attributes to sell lies. I just do it from behind a desk, not in seedy hotels or clubs.
At least not for a long time.
Tonight is breaking a slew of unwritten rules. Rules that are mine by right, having clawed my way to a senior account executive position at a heavy-hitting PR agency in Los Angeles. I’m the fucking wizard behind the curtain, not the wide-eyed girl in the trenches. I did my time, my dirty work, and have the soul stains to prove it.
This entire night feels like a step down memory lane. And not the good kind. The leering, rowdy crowd of men with glassy eyes. The shiny stage on which a half-naked, barely legal woman currently gyrates to display her naked, hairless crotch. It all reminds me of things I’d rather forget.
For the thousandth time, I rue the fact Maggie isn’t answering her phone and Trent is at his parents’ twenty-year anniversary dinner. Sadly, there’s no one else I can trust with this situation.
And it’s a fucking disaster of a situation. Pushing through the last line of staggering idiots, I rush down a short hallway.
“Sorry, no entry.”
I turn a scathing glare on the meathead whose ten-pound arm stands between me and my objective.
I hold up a badge. “Get out of the way.”
His eyes widen. “Sorry, Officer, but I can’t let you back without a warrant.”
It’s really not his fault. I know that. He’s just doing his job. In his position, I’d do the same. I’d also ask to inspect my badge, which is a pretty good fake but nevertheless just that. Tucking the artifact from bygone days in my back pocket, I take a long step forward until I can see the whites of his eyes. He smells overwhelmingly of cigarettes and cheap cologne.
Cursing myself for blowing my bigger bills on the doormen outside, I ask tightly, “What’s your name?”
“Fred.”
“Okay, Fred. I’m not here on official business. I’m here because in that room”—I punch a finger at the door—“is someone very, very important to me.”
His fleshy throat bobs. “Miss, I can’t—”
“Fred!” I snap. “I’m not messing around here. Either you let me in that room, or I call a close personal friend who happens to be a judge and come back here with a warrant and uniforms to wreck this party. Given that I saw a few well-known CEOs and public officials out there, I’m guessing that’s not ideal.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes rolling behind me, probably searching for a way out of this.
“No one here but you and me, Fred.” And the security cameras above us, but since he’s losing whatever cool he was born with, I surmise they’re just for show.
My continued use of his name is getting to him. A bead of sweat rolls down his hairline. His resolve and arm are starting to waver. There was a time I loved this feeling, the power of it, but not anymore. Nowadays I prefer a different rush. One that doesn’t make me feel like a thug.
Poor Fred. He’s trembling a little.
“You’re not going to, uh, make a scene?” he asks, his voice carrying a high note of desperation.
I take a step back and smile sweetly. My abrupt transition from femme fatale to sunshine and rainbows makes him jerk. Possibly in surprise but more likely in fear.
“Of course not,” I say pleasantly. “I don’t want attention any more than you—or this club—do. I really appreciate this, Fred.” I hand him a business card with a bogus name and number. “Give me a call if you ever need anything.”
He snatches the card, shoving it in his pocket and dropping his arm. With a final, pleading glance, he says, “Don’t get me fired, please,” and opens the black door.
The smile falls from my face as I walk inside. Two feet from the entrance, I stop, my brain struggling to catch up with my sight.
Hedonism is a strange word, I’ve always thought. Maybe it’s the -ism. So many -isms are negative. Criticism. Nepotism. Embolism. Barbarism. Chauvinism. Narcissism…
Sure, my negativism is predominant at the moment, but whatever. Who can blame me when I’m staring at what amounts to a scene from a medieval dungeon.
I’m not a prude. I wouldn’t even say I’m strictly vanilla. But this shit… My eyes get stuck on a woman chained spread-eagle to a wall. Her breasts are bound in some freaky contraption, the globes red and distended. A man in a leather vest and mask, naked from the waist down, is currently rutting in front of her. She’s moaning loudly and almost continuously, the cry punctuated by shrieks every time another man whacks her tits with a flogger.
Everything else is tame by comparison. Fucking, sucking, slapping. When someone moves and I see a woman being taken from both front and back, it all adds up and I suddenly feel the need to soak my eyeballs in bleach.
