“Are you certain?” I do as she’s instructed, hanging the radio by its clip from the waistband of my jeans, then stringing the cord up under my shirt and snugging the earpiece in place. I hear a moment of chatter between the men—Kane alerting Rev to a certain individual to keep an eye on, Rev acknowledging the transmission.
I adjust the volume. Then, Inez goes to a cabinet near the bank of monitors—there is a stack of shirts. She finds one, hands it to me. “Change into that. You only wear it inside the club. Never outside, ever, under any circumstances. You do not talk about Sin. You do not tell anyone where it is, how to find it, or anything.”
I open the shirt—it has the name of the club, Sin, written in letters which look like dripping blood, bright red on the black of the shirt—on the back, in white block letters, the wordSecurity. I remove my shirt, fold it, put it on the desk near the keyboards, and put on the new shirt. It is cut for a woman, tight around the ribs, cut low in aVto emphasize my chest, with high, short sleeves.
I tuck it into my jeans, and adjust the radio, the cord. Then, I look at Inez. “I have never had a job, before. Thank you.”
She nods. “You are welcome. A reminder which I hope is unneeded— the radios are for official club security communication only, not for personal conversation.”
I nod. “Of course. Kane is working. I would not wish to distract him.”
She smiles at me again. “Very good. You are dismissed for now. If I require you back here, I’ll speak your name so the others know my orders are for you.” She withdraws a keycard, like you are issued at a hotel, and proffers it to me. “This will grant you access to most of the club—the service hall access doors, the elevators here, down to Hel, the men’s quarters down below, and this area. No one is allowed above this level, and your card will not allow access.”
I nod again. “I understand. Thank you, once again.”
She nods, moves to the chair I’ve vacated, and I get the sense that I am dismissed, utterly. Forgotten, even, perhaps. She is a woman of singular focus, I believe.
I take the stairs down to the second level, emerge from a hidden corner of the bar, the door itself disguised as part of the wall. I weave my way across the club through the throng of dancers. My radio and my shirt make a path through the crowd for me—I think otherwise, I might be subsumed by the chaos, the movement, the energy.
The music pounds, a base layer of drums throbbing a frenetic rhythm, with cymbals and synthesizer sounds merging and weaving and rising and falling around the drums. It is a never-ending rhythm, yet every few measures, something shifts—the intricacy of the beats, the combination of layered sounds, the structure of the rhythm. It is an ever-shifting sound, an organic auditory movement. It is hypnotic.
The DJ does not have a booth; rather, he or she—I cannot tell which--performs from a large platform suspended over the main dance floor at the center of the club. A massive array of speakers surrounds the DJ in an almost unbroken circle, except for a small gap facing the rear of the club. The platform is plexiglass, so you can see him or her from beneath as well. The DJ is wrapped in glowing lines of color, limbs outlined. Instead of black, they wear white, and blacklights shine upon them, causing the white garments to glow brightly. They dance, moving constantly, reaching out to adjust something, pinching headphones between ear and shoulder, dancing, moving, adjusting. Occasionally, he or she lifts a fist and pumps it in time with the rhythm. Over his or her face, they wear a white mask in a caricature of an ageless, genderless individual. The mask glows in the blacklights, the mouth turned up in a wild, freakish grin.
I find the VIP section, and Lash sees me. He puts a hand to my waist and leans toward me, speaking into my ear, “Ah, our newest member.” He glances behind us. “They are your friends, they say.”
I nod. “I think so, yes.”
We each take turns inclining our ear to the other’s mouth, so as to be heard over the din.
“Quite interesting friends. A fighter, a robotics genius, an actress, and an artist, each of them rather famous in their own circles, and some of them famous generally, all over the world.”
“Eva is famous?”
He nods. “Oh yes. She is an artist. A painter. I believe her most recent gallery of work saw paintings sell for over a hundred thousand dollars.”
I stare at him. “Truly?”
He nods. “Yes, truly.”
I blink at this news. “I see.”
He grins at me. “I believe for them, they should like best to only be your friend, hmm?”
I nod. “Thank you, Lash.”
I move past him and the ropes, taking a seat near Eva. She’s sipping beer from a bottle and leans close to me. “This place is something else, huh?”
I nod. “I have been in the security booth. I do not understand people, I think.”
She laughs. “Agreed.” She points with the mouth of her bottle. “Like her. Just why?”
I follow her indication—a young woman prances past us. She is topless, entirely. No tape, no sheer top, just bared breasts. On her lower half, she wears a pair of thong underwear, bright pink, leaving her bottom also bared, only a triangle over her privates, and even that triangle does very little to cover anything. Her shoes are ridiculous, bright pink with three-inch platforms and spike heels, and straps that wind up her legs, tying just beneath her knees. She also has a tail. A fox tail, bright red, bushy, with a white tip. It trails after her, and weaves with her movements. And…I believe it…yes. It fastens to her via her…errr, backside. Not to the thong, but fasteninginsideher rear somehow.
I can’t help a shocked laugh. “Why indeed?”
Eva chuckles. “More power to her, if that’s her deal. But I can’t fathom wearing that in public. The butt plug tail especially. That’s pretty wild.”
I laugh. “Well, if she is part fox, she is indeed rather…wild.”
