Woman in the Water (Arrington Mystery Book 3) Page 18

  I laugh. “Me either. But I was actually talking about the costume.”

  “Oh right, I forgot,” she stammers, still blushing. “Costumes aren’t your thing.”

  “Believe me, if I could find some way around this, I would.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think what I put together for you is rather dashing.”

  Amy hands me a black garment bag. I look at it for a moment as if I expect it to bite me. With a sigh, I take it from her, then head back to my bedroom to dress. Hanging the bag on the closet door, I quickly strip out of my work clothes, tossing them all onto the bed. After that, I unzip the garment bag and hold my breath. With nothing else for it though, I pull the costume out and get dressed.

  I get dressed then look at myself in the mirror. It’s all I can do to not cover my face with my own hands. Amy’s got me in a dark green doublet brocaded with silver with slashes along the sleeves, showing a deep, rich red fabric beneath. My breeches are a shade of green darker than the doublet and are uncomfortably tight, while my white hose goes up to the knee, just beneath the hem of the breeches. Tooled leather shoes and a sash the same deep shade of red beneath my sleeves around my waist completes the outfit.

  “God, I look like an idiot,” I say to my reflection.

  I walk out of my room and back into the main room to find Amy still exploring and looking at the pieces of my life with Veronica. She turns when she hears me and claps her hands over her mouth, her eyes twinkling with the smile she’s hiding, though, unable to contain her excitement entirely, she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet.

  “You look fabulous,” she pulls her hands away from her mouth and squeals.

  “I look like I should be working at a Renaissance Faire.”

  “Well, the theme is the Tudor Dynasty, so at least you’re in the right time period.” She beams at me, taking me in from head to toe. “You look like a younger, better looking, healthier, Henry the Eighth.”

  “I was hoping more for an Edmond Dantes look.”

  “You’re a couple of hundred years too soon for that. But maybe they’ll have a Count of Monte Cristo night if you decide to go back. And if they do, you know I’ll hook you up,” she says, drawing a smile from me.

  She walks over and fusses with the costume, pulling on the doublet, smoothing out the breeches, and brushing off pieces of lint. The enthusiasm for this is radiating off her like heat from a bonfire, and I can’t help but grin. It’s infectious. She steps back and gives me a nod but then holds up a finger.

  “And now for the piece de resistance,” she exclaims.

  She goes to her bag and pulls out a colombina style mask. Half of it is green, half is red, and it’s got silver scrollwork around both eyes. She steps over to me and puts the mask over my head, settling it down around my face, then steps back and scrutinizes it before flashing me two thumbs up.

  “You look amazing,” she grins. “Totally BDSM chic.”

  “Great. That’s just the look I was going for.”

  “And that dark, broody attitude only adds to the character.”

  I roll my eyes but laugh. Amy steps back and pulls out her phone, snapping a few quick pictures before I realize what she’s doing. She looks at me with a wide, mischievous grin on her face.

  “Brody would be crushed if I didn’t get a few pictures of this,” she explains.

  “Brody is the last person I want to see this. I’ll never live it down.”

  She laughs and drops her phone into her pocket. “That’s the point. I know you’re working, but you should try to have a little fun tonight. You never know, you might discover a side of yourself you never knew existed before.”

  “You’re totally fired.”

  “No, I’m not,” she chirps.

  Amy grabs her bag and heads for the door; her laughter echoing around the room. It seems like it’s been forever since I’ve heard laughter in here.

  “You’re fired. I’ll have your things sent to you,” I call after her.

  “No, I’m not. And no, you won’t.”

  I smile as the door closes behind her, then turn and look at my reflection in the large windows. I turn this way and that, looking at myself in profile from both sides, coming to one inevitable conclusion.

  “I look absolutely ridiculous.”

  Twenty-Four

  Warehouse 34; Belltown District, Downtown Seattle

  Unsurprisingly, the Velvet Playground is within shouting distance of the Nine. These hedonistic, anything goes sorts of clubs go hand in hand together, so it makes sense they’d be in close proximity to one another. I would imagine there’s quite an overlap in membership between the two clubs.

  I pull into an underground parking lot, the large wrought iron gate rumbling closed behind me. Finding a spot, I pull in and cut the engine. With a sigh, I get out of the car and put on my mask before heading for the private elevator, per the instructions the club had couriered over to me, along with the keycard I need to access the doors.

  Checking my reflection once more and smoothing out my costume, I turn and head for the alcove. I glance around as I go, noticing there is no line of sight from the garage doors to the alcove where the elevator is, ensuring the total privacy of the club’s guests, which is understandable, knowing what’s going on upstairs.

  The other thing I notice is that there are no cameras anywhere to be seen. That doesn’t mean there are none. I’d imagine they’d have to have cameras somewhere, just from a liability standpoint. If something happened on their property, they’d be in deep crap. That leads me to conclude that there are cameras, but they’re discreetly positioned, giving the guests a false sense of security in their anonymity.

  That’s good news for me though. If there is a digital security camera network in this garage, it means Brody can hack into it. I make a mental note to have him do just that. In case I strike out here, it could be helpful.

  I step into the alcove and insert the keycard into the slot beside the elevator doors, which are that same deep purple of their website, each door adorned with a black and purple mask. The doors slide open, and I’m prompted to slide my keycard into the slot beneath a keypad. That done, I’m then instructed to enter my personal security code, which I’d set up earlier.

  When I hit enter, there’s a soft chime, and the doors close, and the car starts to move. A woman’s voice, low and sultry, issues from the speakers overhead.

  “Welcome to the Velvet Playground,” she says. “Where fantasy becomes a reality.” It’s like a ride at a BDSM-themed Disneyland. A moment later, the car stops, and the doors slide open, revealing the Velvet Playground to me for the first time.

  Suffice it to say; it’s not what I was expecting. I had honestly expected to see groups of people rutting on every available surface and every form of deviancy imaginable on display for all to bear witness to. Instead, I step off the elevator and into a main lounge that reminds me a lot of the Nine. It’s virtually identical, except for the fact that the lounge of the Velvet Playground is done in purple and black.

  The walls alternate in wide stripes of purple and black velvet, and all of the furniture is done in the same colors. The room is filled with a soft purple light that rains down from recessed lighting around the room, and slow, soft, sensual sounding music plays from hidden speakers. It’s not so loud it drowns out easy conversation, but loud enough to fill people with an erotic energy.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  I turn and find a young woman standing next to me. She’s wearing what looks like a purple vinyl catsuit that hugs her every curve enticingly and is zipped down low enough to display her ample cleavage. A purple mask adorned with feathers from the corners of the eyes covers the upper half of her face, leaving only her full, sensual lips exposed. Her age is difficult to determine, but I’d say she has to be in her early twenties.

  “I thought this was Tudor night,” I say.

  “It is. For the guests,” she purrs. “I’m here to ensure you have everything yo
u need.”

  I nod. “This is my first time here, so to be honest, I’m not sure exactly what I need.”

  A faint smile curls the corners of her full lips upward. Her eyes travel up and down my body appraisingly, making me uncomfortably aware of just how tight my breeches are. She steps forward and trails a finger down my chest, a seductive gleam in her eye. The woman just oozes sex from every pore, leaving me wondering what her actual job here is.

  “Anything you could possibly ever want is available here,” she says. “Your every fantasy can become your reality. The only rule is that what you do, with whomever you choose to do it with, is consensual.”

  “Is there a form I’d need to have her fill out?”

  She laughs. “Please, feel free to tour the club. You can view any room you wish, but do not disturb those already otherwise engaged,” she says. “You never know, you might discover things about yourself you didn’t know before. You might discover some hidden… kinks. Perhaps even some new fantasies for you to enjoy.”

  I clear my throat again, feeling like a fish out of water. I like to consider myself an adventurous, open-minded guy, but this is definitely way out of my element and comfort zone. The woman before me gives me a smile.

  “If you need anything— anything at all— just call me. My name is Rachel,” she says. She hands me a small, rectangular box with a red button on it. “Just press that button, and I’ll come running.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  “Enjoy yourself, sir,” she says. “And remember… just keep an open mind.”

  She gives me another smile and saunters off. As if she can feel me watching her, she casts a glance over her shoulder, a smile on her face as she seems to put a bit of an extra swish in her hips.

  I vaguely wonder where she’s hiding the receiver on the other end of the button in my hand since that suit leaves no secrets, but quickly push the thought away. I run a hand through my hair and walk out into the club. The atmosphere is definitely electric and dripping with sensuality. But the lounge itself is like any other social club really. People are sitting around, talking, laughing, and having a good time. The only difference being that everybody is in period attire, their faces covered with masks. Other than that, everything’s normal.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  I turn to find a woman standing next to me, a smile on her lips. I’d guess she’s in her forties yet still has an amazing figure. She’s clothed in a blue silk dress with a high neckline, an empire waist, and form-fitting sleeves that flare out at the wrists. Her mask is blue satin with silver scrollwork, large peacock feathers at the corner of the eyes shimmering in the light.

  “I remember my first time,” she says. “So much to see. So much you want to do, and you just don’t know where to dive in first, do you? If I were you, I’d start in the upper rooms. Get a feel for what you like. I could accompany you. Show you the ropes, so to speak.”

  She flashes me a flirtatious smile, leaving no doubt in my mind what sort of ropes she’s talking about showing me.

  “So you’ve been coming here for a while?” I ask.

  “Years, darling. This is where I come to get away from it all,” she purrs, running the tip of her finger down my arm. “This is where I come to play and let my true nature out of its cage.”

  She’s been coming here for years and knows the clientele well enough to know that I’m new here. That’s a good turn of luck for me.

  “Perhaps you can help me,” I say.

  “Oh, I’d love to.”

  “I’m looking for a man—”

  She abruptly retracts her arm and rolls her eyes at me, her lips puffing out as a pout crosses her face.

  “That just figures,” she says. “But, I suppose they cater to that here as well.”

  She turns and storms off, and it’s only when I’m left standing there watching her retreat that I understand what I said and how she interpreted it. I laugh to myself and rub my jaw, realizing I need to work on my subtlety a bit.

  Turning away, I stroll through the lounge. People are looking at me from behind their masks, some of them intrigued, some uninterested, and others considering. I find a bank of elevators tucked away in the back corner. One door is black with a purple mask affixed to it, and the other purple, with a black mask. I’m assuming these are the doors leading up, so I insert the keycard, and they slide open for me. I step in and hit the button for the third floor.

  The moment I step out, my ears are filled with the sound of sex. Men and women, moaning and groaning, crying out, talking dirty to one another. The hallway is painted purple and faux candles flicker in frosted glass sconces that line the walls. The light is dim, and the atmosphere is charged as I make my way down the corridor.

  I peer through the first door I come to on my right and see a woman standing completely naked on a small stage that’s set to look like a medieval dungeon. Her hands are bound above her head, and she’s wearing a ball gag in her mouth. A man in a black hood stands behind her, holding a flat leather paddle. As I watch, he takes a home run swing, striking her across the backside with his paddle. She lets out a gasping cry from behind the bit of rubber between her teeth.

  It’s then I see that there are about half a dozen men and women sitting in chairs around the stage, their faces rapt with attention. They all look breathless as the man on the stage doles out punishment, and most of them are in various stages of manually pleasuring each other. I don’t see the man I’m looking for though, so I move to the next room.

  This room also has a stage. The scene being played out involves a classroom. I again quickly scan the crowd but don’t see the man. I check all four rooms on the floor and see all kinds of different degradations being played out, but not the man who was with Mrs. MacMillan in all those photos.

  I take the elevator to the second floor and step out, finding that it’s painted and decorated exactly like the top floor. In these rooms, however, the scenes playing out are being performed by the Velvet Playground’s clients. And the people on stage, couples as well as groups, same-sex, opposite sex, and mixed sexes, seem oblivious to the crowds standing around watching them rut. Though some are making direct eye contact with the crowd as if being watched is what gets them off.

  The image of Mrs. MacMillan in one of these rooms, performing for a crowd like this suddenly flashes through my mind. I find myself wondering if she was one of those who made eye contact with the crowd or just lost herself in the moment. I shake off the thoughts and do my best to bury it so deep, it never crosses my mind again.

  In the last room I come to, I see a man up on the small stage. He’s big, brawny, and has a full dark beard shot through with gray— and he’s naked, save for his mask, a half red, half blue bauta with red and blue feathers sprouting along the top and sides. The crowd gathered around the stage is watching breathlessly as he services a pair of buxom young women.

  He slaps them, chokes them, pulls their hair, and orders them about like his personal playthings. He seems to have the crowd eating out of his hand, and judging by the look on his face, that’s just how he likes it. The pair of women he’s with grimace with pain, but their faces are alight with an expression of pure ecstasy.

  I’m just about to turn away when his gaze falls on me. He’s looking directly into my eyes, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth up. We stand like that, our gazes locked for a long couple of moments before he throws his head back and lets out a roar that’s reminiscent of a bear, and I take the opportunity to turn away and head for the elevator.

  I take it down to the first floor and head straight for the bar, ordering myself a bourbon. I take my drink to a dark corner and lean against the wall, staring out at the lounge. The man looked at me as if he knew me. Which is impossible, of course. But seeing him there sent a jolt through me. I know for certain he’s the man with Charlotte in those photos. There is zero question in my mind about it. And he very well could be the man who murdered her.

&
nbsp; I take a drink as I wait for him to come down, letting the theories in my mind unfold. The biggest question I have is, why would he murder her? What would be her motive? Did she tumble onto who he was and try to blackmail him? That could definitely set a man like that off. It’s not just that he’s large and imposing, but he moved with a sort of controlled violence with those women. He was aggressive. Commanding. Domineering. I can see how crossing a man like that could most definitely end in savagery of some sort. He just had that sort of a presence about him.

  I may not be experienced in these kinds of crowds, but I know a thing or two about how to read people. Marcy gave me a primer about all sorts of people who’d be attracted to a place like this. A lot really are just your average, everyday people, wanting to indulge in their fantasies for a night. Sometimes they’re looking to unwind and surrender control, especially if they have a stressful job or home life. And as long as there’s consent, which can be given or revoked at any time for any reason, everything works out just fine.

  But of course, there are others who take advantage of these spaces. Even if they obtain nominal consent, these men— and they’re almost all men, she explained— use these BDSM spaces as a thin precept to get what they really want: utter control of women who they can abuse as they see fit, manipulating the all-important rules of consent themselves. And something tells me this man doesn’t take kindly to people who try to rescind consent from him.

  About twenty minutes later, I see him step off the elevator. Dressed again, thankfully. The two buxom women he’d been servicing aren’t with him, but two burly men are. Neither of them seems to have much in the way of a neck, and their costumes look awkwardly tight on their large frames. Both wear masks with horns, which seems appropriate, given they both look like walking bulls.

  Bodyguards, obviously. Though why this guy thinks he needs bodyguards in a place like this is beyond me. I really doubt this guy is as important as he thinks he is, and I highly doubt even if he were that important, somebody would take a shot at him in here. Which makes them more decorative than functional really. His walking slabs of beef are more like a fashion accessory, the insecure man’s equivalent of a chihuahua in a purse.