Dangerous (29 page)

I really didn’t know. “She’s only been your doll for…two months now? Maybe she’s a slow learner.”

“No. In that case I would have released her weeks ago.”

“Well, maybe—”

“Don’t guess. Wait until you have a firm theory.”

By now we were descending out of the clouds, and I saw the vast, glittering sprawl of the Los Angeles basin. Ten miles ahead, the downtown skyscrapers were a mass of bright, jeweled pillars reaching into the glowing cloud layer, seeming to prop it up. Grid lines of light stretched so far into the distance they were lost in haze.
There’s no more beautiful city in the world, provided it’s seen by night, and from a distance
, Roman Polanski famously said. But the view lasted only a minute before we were down among the palm trees and grimy, baroque architecture of Hollywood.

Val took the Vermont exit and headed south into Koreatown.

“Tonight is about enjoying ourselves,” Val said. “Once we’re situated, I want you to circulate. Flirt a little. I’m in the mood for some male attention, so see what you can bring me. You’ve seen Millie perform that duty, yes?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” It had been my first glimpse of her, in fact. I found the prospect intriguing, but not without a pang of jealousy.

She drove a mile or so, then turned left on Wilshire and continued a couple blocks before pulling into a graveled public parking lot.

I rose carefully from the car. Sexy as it was, the car’s hard seats and stiff suspension made for an uncomfortable ride.

The night air was cool and damp; it threatened to rain. Val was ghostly pale in the blue mercury-vapor streetlights. She was attired in her usual neo-Victorian way: vest, shirt, and slacks, but everything was white, as were her pointed boots and narrow tie. Her hair was caught up in a bun.

For contrast, I wore all black. Under my light jacket was a fishnet tee, sliced in a few strategic spots by a switchblade Val just
happened
to have in her boot tonight. Beneath that, a black crop top. I also wore a short, ruffly skirt, lace gloves, fishnet stockings (artfully sliced with that same knife) and a pair of old army boots Val had loaned me for the evening. She’d approved of my twin pony-tails, dark eye makeup and black lipstick and nails. I didn’t feel safe bringing a purse, so I kept my keys and wallet in a black nylon waist pouch I had bought two years ago, during my brief interest in bicycling.

It was only a short walk to Club Lacrimosa, whose entrance was tucked away on a cul-de-sac off Wilshire, and so nondescript I’d never have found it by myself. I assumed Val had been here before.

She paid our admission, and I gave my jacket to the coat checker in exchange for a ticket. We climbed a red carpeted stairway and entered the club.

It was much smaller and darker than I expected. Blood red carpet, a dim chandelier hanging from the ceiling, candle light, and a scattering of sofas and chairs gave one the impression of a Parisian salon from the 1700s, but with a darker edge. Things had not yet heated up: the music was still downtempo, and there wasn’t much of a crowd.

But this was just one room of many. I followed Val through a doorway, and we passed into a much larger room with a dance floor and pulsing purple and red lights. The DJ booth was at one end, the bar at the other. The room smelled of sweat, exotic cigarettes, and the slight vanilla tang of smoke machines.

Following a half-pace behind Val, I understood why she had worn all white: she stood out like the White Queen on a chessboard of black pawns. People sensed her restrained energy, and I was proud to live within her zone of control.

Around the periphery of the room were tables and places to sit. Val claimed a space on a big, L-shaped couch beside a table, upon which glowed a couple of votive candles. She produced a twenty dollar bill and spoke into my ear, over the music. “Bring me a Sidecar. You may get something as well.”

I made my way to the bar and ordered Val’s Sidecar, and a Screwdriver for myself. As the bartender worked I surveyed the crowd: mostly goth, with a few more fetish-oriented members. There were couples of every kind: straight, gay, and pairings I had no name for. On the dance floor, a particularly fearsome fellow kept his female companion on a slender leash of silk cord, where she undulated for the crowd’s benefit as much as his own.

I paid the bartender with a generous tip and returned to Val, who glowed in the candlelight from the table, and the many-colored pulse of sweeping spotlights. She accepted her drink with a smile and we sat for a while, simply watching the room.

Two very white college boys wandered into the club, conspicuous as doves among crows. One had the foresight to wear a black tee shirt and looked as if he might have been here before. But the other had not, judging by his entirely ridiculous Lakers jersey and sweatpants. It was amusing to watch the two deal with the sniper-stares of the regulars. The boys made straight for the bar, and when Mr. Laker #24 bumped into a solitary dancer, he returned her glare with a goofy laugh. Val predicted they’d get themselves ejected within the hour.

We two also received more than a little attention. As insular and reserved as this crowd was, they had no qualms about people-watching. I paid close attention to the males, making a cursory evaluation of each in preparation for my later fishing expedition.

By the time we’d finished our drinks the music had turned tribal, angry. The dancers were starting to warm up. Val stood.

“Let’s dance,” she said in a commanding tone, and I followed her to the dance floor, innocent of what would happen next.

Val didn’t dance; she erupted.

I beheld her transformation from a safe distance, with a fair amount of shock and awe. I had known that beneath her calm, snow-covered mountain of self control stirred a heart of seething magma. For the first time, I beheld the hot core of her with my own eyes.

Val, too, was blinded by her own pyrotechnics. She paid me no heed during this purgation, I might just as well have been on another planet. Her cleansing fire was frightening but also beautiful, even sacred, and the other dancers sensed this too, showing deference with a respectful distance.

A plump, skirted girl with black-rimmed eyes and a stiffly-boned corset studied me in a way that acknowledged me as the companion of that fierce creature. I couldn’t tell if it was a look of admiration or pity, but I felt a swell of pride.

Val danced for half an hour before regaining her senses. She became aware of me again and motioned me to follow with a smile.

After finding another place to sit, she handed me a white handkerchief. I used it to wipe the sweat from her brow as she sat with her head back, eyes closed.

I ordered another drink for Val, when the bar girl made her rounds. Then came a striking, if somewhat stocky, fellow in a sleeveless NIN tee and torn black jeans. He sat beside Val and said, above the pulsing music, “You’re a good dancer.”

“Yes,” she replied unhelpfully; a verbal caltrop to test his mettle. It was quickly found wanting, and after another failed overture he withdrew. He’d been doomed from the start anyway. Not Val’s type at all.

But the encounter had whetted her appetite. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the dance floor.
Go. Mingle. Bring me food.
I rose and found a place to dance, then began my hunt.

There wasn’t really any chance for small talk on the dance floor. Unlike the denizens of the more conventional clubs I’d been to, goths were solitary folk, keeping bubbles of personal space as they swayed like pale anemones in a dark sea. The more athletic dancers kept to the edge of the floor, too energetic and self-absorbed to make good prey.

So I simply danced and waited for an opening.

A few guys watched me, and a couple of girls. Some of them complimented me on my hair or makeup, but nothing came of it.

Then someone bumped into me from behind, an elbow catching me painfully in the ribs, just below my shoulder blade. I whirled around, glaring. It was Laker #24.

“Ha ha, sorry babe!” he guffawed. He was fairly drunk.

A nearby male goth with piercings had seen our collision and was instantly in the offender’s face about it. Two male friends backed him up; they made an imposing trio.

“I said I’m sorry, jeez!” blurted the oaf, intimidated by this overwhelming force. He raised his hands as if at gunpoint, then backed away under the combined Death Stares of everyone nearby.

My defender turned his attention to me. His angular powdered face had rascally eyes, high cheekbones, a wide, sensual mouth. He was sinewy like a punk rocker, and could probably hold his own in a fight. I found his cocky, confident air attractive and a little scary. On my own I’d consider him too risky, but Val’s presence, and my desire to feed her hunger, made me bold.

He said, “That asshole’s totally in the wrong club. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I reached back to rub the place I’d been jabbed. It smarted, but Val had inflicted far worse.

The crisis averted, his two friends resumed their dancing. But he remained, looking me up and down. “Hey, those are
great
boots.”

“Thanks,” I said, and had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked over the music.

“You’re the first man who’s ever noticed my shoes,” I admitted. “And they’re not even mine.”

“Whose are they?”

“My Keep—uh, my girlfriend’s.”

He sniffed something exotic, unexpectedly tasty, and took another nibble, “Do you two share a lot?”

Aha. Now to set the hook.

“At the moment, we’re sharing a girl named Grace.”

“Oh, you’re a
kinky
girl.”

“You have no idea,” I said with a grin.

§

His name was Tobias, and he had just arrived with his two companions a few minutes earlier. When I offered to introduce him to my unusual friend, I used body language and tone of voice to suggest the offer was meant only for him. But it wasn’t an issue. He said a word to his mates and they waved him off, being far too busy dancing to care.

He was immediately taken with Val. She, in her turn, seemed to find him worthy of at least a little effort. I knew Val’s taste in men ran toward the slightly feminine, based on the fashion photos at Milton’s and things she’d said. She liked them slender, clean-shaven, very tidy, a little tragic. Tobias met all these criteria, and she seemed to enjoy his act of the streetwise, capable rogue.

“So you two are dating?” he asked Val, sitting on her right, opposite me.

“No, she’s just mine,” she said dismissively. I glanced down and felt a pang in my chest. She’d just said that for effect, I was sure, but it still stung.

Her remark had the desired effect on him. His eyes brightened as he began to comprehend our relationship, and he wanted to know everything about it: how long we’d been together, how often we did this, what the rules were. The whole affair was powerfully arousing to him. Val used that to her advantage.

As they talked, I found myself feeling adrift and a little jealous. It was awkward to see her being courted, watch her respond, to know her attentions were focused on a total stranger. Now I understood exactly how Millie had felt at that Christmas party.

And yet.

I couldn’t deny that I was also a little turned on. Not by him really, but by the strange geometry of this isosceles triangle, and my feelings toward my Keeper, the sharpest of the three corners. My heart sang when she put her arm around my shoulders and left it there possessively while Tobias told her an amusing story. Val’s touch reassured me I was still hers, still a part of the equation. I rested against her and admired the sumi-e brush strokes of candlelight tracing her proud features.

She commented on his wealth of piercings, and then showed him my koi tattoo. One of her slender, strong hands urged my head down, and the other held my hair out of the way.

“Her gift to me,” Val said, and he was impressed.

She raised my head, turned my face toward the two of them. “Isn’t she lovely? I think she’d take my brand, if I asked.”

Her calculated boast had the desired result: a sudden, whirling chaos within as I confronted that possibility, filled with mingled terror and yearning. It was too big for me to process. More frightening was my suspicion that, if put to it, I might whisper
yes
.

That inner struggle must have shown on my face, because Val smiled, and Tobias looked like a boy in a candy store.

When we three danced, Val was almost as unruly as before. Tobias did a passable job of keeping up, but he lacked the sort of fire which blazed within my Keeper. I found that strangely reassuring.

When the music slowed, we found a couch in a dark corner and formed a three-way cuddle, with Val in the middle. They kissed and fondled as I held Val, filled with doubts and desire. These were uncharted waters for me. But I felt Val’s rising heat, and clung to the belief that she was only using him to stoke her own fires, that later she’d cast him aside and drive us home to spend herself on me.

I stroked her hair, nuzzled the back of her neck, and lost track of time.

But then Val got up, impulsively, and led us to the back of the big room, into a dim hallway marked RESTROOMS. Without the slightest hesitation she pushed open the door to the men’s room and we followed her inside.

It was empty. The walls were painted black and the urinals, those ridiculous fixtures, formed a worshipful line of gaping, upturned mouths. One of the mirrors over the sinks was cracked. Beneath the industrial-strength air freshener I detected the stink of urine. Not a tidy place, but I’d seen worse. As the door shut the room quieted, permitting only the music’s lower octaves to pound through the wall.

This situation was so bizarre I could only stand beside Val in docile wonder. Tobias was a little more composed, even eager. Under the cool fluorescent light Val’s pale, wicked face shone the color of skim milk. She gripped my shoulders and pressed me hard against the wall before kissing me like thunder, a prolonged assault that left me breathless and gasping. She was musky from her earlier exertions. Then she pulled away.

“Do you like my doll, Tobias?” she demanded, looking back over her shoulder. She moved aside, but kept one hand firmly about my upper arm. It was like posing for a mugshot.