The Blue Room Vol. 2: The Blue Room Series (3 page)

Chapter 4

           
T
he next few days, I find it difficult to
concentrate. I have too much on my mind to focus on anything, least of all the
approaching date with Mr. X. I tell myself that I get one shot at this guy – so
I'd better blow his mind. Among other things, I think, nervously. The truth is,
I don't know how to
do
too many of those other things. Aside from a few
drunken fumbles here and there, my experience with Terrence is all I have. And
while I know I enjoyed it, there's a part of me that still worries about my own
skills. I know the scientific basics of the male anatomy, and I've figured out
a few more tips and tricks from my time with Terrence, but I still don't know
half of what a guy like Mr. X. might expect.

            I
think back to Rita, to the time I spent with her. Anything she said to me that
might help me better prepare for what comes next.

            “
Oh,
you know.
” I remember her smile, the glitter in her eyes as she sailed in
one morning from one of her regular “dates.” “He's a very
special
man.
And he shows me things...”

            I
remember how curious I was, not wanting to seem too naïve, not wanting to ask
too many questions. I remember how I tried to ask what it was like without
coming across like some little inexperienced co-ed.

            “What
kind of things?”

            “I
mean, sex – I always thought it was pretty cool, you know, but with
him
,”
she sighed. “He really blows my mind.”

            I
remember how Roz looked – in those final moments before her death – her back
arched, her hair falling long down her back, her eyes closed in such ecstasy and
passion. Is that how I would look, with Mr. X's head between
my
legs?

            I
could hardly imagine it. I still didn't know what he looked like. I still
didn't know whether or not he was responsible for Roz's death – or Rita's. All
I knew was that, in a matter of days, Mr. X. would take my virginity, and I'd
have to hope that I impressed him enough with my bedroom skills for him to take
me into his confidence.

            I
get assigned to shadow duty on the Blue Room for the rest of the week: my way
of scouting out patrons – and their ladies of the evening. I watch Scarlett,
Brandi, and Julie as they perch seductively on various knees all evening,
flitting from shadowy table to shadowy table until someone or other grabs their
hand and slips a blue, sapphire bracelet on their wrists: the sign, I learn,
that they've been “chosen” for the evening.

            “Psst...”
Ben whispers into my ear. “No staring.”

            “Sorry.”
I look up at him. “Am I that obvious?”

            “Scoping
out the competition,” he says. “Smart.”

            “They're
not my competition,” I say. I don't want that – to have a bracelet on my wrist,
to be claimed as somebody else's.

            “What
are they, then?” Ben's smile is better.

            “I
don't know – people.”

            “They're
not having you work the floor yet,” Ben frowns. “Why is that?”

            My
heart flutters for a moment, and I wonder if I can trust him enough to tell him
the truth. Part of me wants to hold back, to keep everything to myself. But
Ben's sincere charm and kind eyes win me over. “They're saving me for someone,”
I say.

            “Who?”

            I
don't answer.

            “Listen
–,” Ben says. “I know a lot of these guys. I've...
been
with a lot of
these guys. You'd be surprised how many straight men on the register discover
they're really flexible with their bracelet-giving after a few drinks, and a
lot of these men from Hollywood prefer something different, but ...I could help
you.”

            “I
don't think anyone can help me,” I say.

            “You
nervous?”

            “Yeah,”
I say. I turn to him. “Mr. X,” I say.

            “No!”
his mouth drops open.

            “It's
true.”

            “I
thought he was leaving the Blue Room – after Roz...”

            “I
guess he's been tempted back again.”

            “Wow,”
Ben says. His respect is tinged with cynicism. “I guess you're pretty special,
huh.”

            “What
do you know about him?”

            Ben
sighs. “Not a lot. He's definitely straight – as far as I can tell. He goes to
the same people, over and over again. He was with Roz for a while now. Before
Roz there was Rita...”

            My
ears prick up. Finally, finally, I'm getting somewhere.

            “Rita?”

            But
before Ben can say anything else, Terrence Blue appears from the crowd.

            “Hey,
gorgeous.” The way his eyes run up and down on me drives me wild. “What are you
up to?”

            “We
were just – uh...” I flutter for words.

            But
somehow Ben is quicker than I am – as if he too knows the need for discretion.
“I was just telling Staci about the music execs who are in the audience
tonight. Telling her she should make some special friends.”

            I
turn to Ben in surprise. He's a remarkably good liar. And he's willing to lie
to cover up the fact we were talking about Rita. Does he not trust Terrence,
either?

            “Special
friends?” Terrence's voice is almost a purr. “I thought you were going to be
my
special friend, tonight.”

            “Can
you get me a record deal?” My voice is mocking, but the bitterness is serious.
I still remember how cold he was on the phone with his security, telling them
to clean up Roz as if she were just another mess left behind by a careless
hotel guest.

            “I
can try,” Terrence's grin is unfeigned. “For you, my dear, anything at all.
Come with me.”

            His
hand is against the small of my back as he leads me to an older gentleman
sitting in one of the shadowy booths. Now that I'm close I can make out his
face: wizened, but kind.

            “This
is Stephan Steinem.”

            I
look up in surprise. After all, guests here are normally identified by their
letters, not their real names. But Steinem doesn't look perturbed in the
slightest.

            Then
I see who's sitting next to him. Neve and Danny are at his side, their arms
around each other. Like real lovers, I think. Lovers who actually care about
each other without being paid to be.

            I
guess some people really do come to the Blue Room for the music.

            “A
pleasure,” Steinem stretches out his hand and I shake it.

            “Staci's
a real live wire,” says Terrence. “She's got a killer voice. She performed here
a few nights ago...”

            “I
wish I'd seen it!” Steinem said. “I heard great things.”

            “We'll
be sure to get her onstage again,” Terrence says.

            “Please,”
says Steinem, “let me know when you do.”

            I
feel my heart flutter in spite of myself.

            “Now,
I need to talk shop with Staci for a second.”

            With
that, Terrence leads me into his office. I barely speak. I barely have time to
register anything at all before Terrence is pressing me against the wall,
kissing me wildly.

            “I
have to get some cocktail orders to Ben...” I murmur, but it's too late. His
hand is already up my skirt.

            “They
can wait,” he whispers into my neck.

            “Not
these patrons,” I say. “You know that.”

            His
fingers are already rubbing my clitoris, driving me wild.

            “Careful,”
I whisper, trying to regain control over myself, “or I won't be your prized
virgin any longer.”

            “Do
you have to remind me?” Terrence groans. He runs his finger through my hair.
“This is killing me, Staci. I want you – virginal, experienced, wild, demure –
I don't care. I want all of you. Every part of you. It's killing me.”

            “Unfortunately,
so do paying clients.” I keep my voice cold. Professional.

            “It
shouldn't bother me...” his voice is hoarse. “I don't know why it bothers me,
but it does.”

            This
surprises me.

            “I
thought you'd be used to it by now,” I say. “Don't let it bother you. Keep your
distance.”

            “That's
the thing.” Terrence is so insistent I wonder if he means it. “I can't. I want
you more than I've ever wanted anybody else.”

            “That's
because you can't have me.” My voice is cold, almost angry.

            “I
want you.”

            “For
sex? Or for more?”

            “I
don't know!” He seems genuinely upset. “I just know – when I'm with you, my
mind goes blank.”

            My
mind goes blank, too. But I have two murders to solve.

            “You
don't even know me,” I say. “You just know what we have, physically.”

            “I
want to know you,” he says. “Staci, I can't stop thinking about you.”

            “You
don't know a thing about me. You don't even know my interests, my hobbies...”

            “Then
let me know you!”

            “And
then how am I supposed to fuck the patrons?” The words are cold, clear. True.

            “Stay
as a bartender,” he murmurs. “I'll introduce you to some producers. Like
Stephen. Make you a star. No prostitution. No nothing. Just performing.”

            It's
tempting. So tempting. So tempting I almost give in.

            But
there are two missing girls, and only one date with Mr. X. to find out their
secrets.

            “Maybe
I like this job.”

            He
looks up at me in shock.

            “You...
like
it?
”

            “Maybe
I like the pampering. The world history lessons. The meaningless sex.”

            I
don't mean a word of what I'm saying. Right now, all I want to do is run away
from the Blue Room and never look back. Run away from Terrence Blue, and never
look back.

            “Maybe
I like the idea of fucking the world's handsomest, most powerful men.”

            “But
Roz...” He bites his lip.

            “What
about Roz?”

            “The
fantasy – it got to her.”

            “If
you think it's so bad,” I snap, “what are you doing running this place?”

            He
falls silent.

            “The
Blue Room is my father's legacy,” he says at last. “It's the one thing he
trusts me to run – not my much-preferred brother. It's the one thing he thinks
I'm good for.”

            His
voice has grown bitter.

            “What
do you mean?”

            “You
think I don't want Danny's life? His happiness with Neve? A relationship? Being
a one-woman man? Sometimes, when I look into those intoxicating blue eyes of
yours, I think – hey, maybe that could be me too. But my father knows me better
than that. He knows I'm a coke fiend, a cad, a bad boy who's never going to go
good. That's why he trusts me with this place – and no place else. Because it's
all I'm good for.”

            I've
never seen him look so...vulnerable.

            “There's
more in you,” I say. My voice is softer now. I let him kiss me. I let him hold
me. I let him hold me so tight I think I'm going to break. “There's got to be.”

            “You
can walk away from this,” he whispers. “If you want.”

            I
kiss him back, and for the first time tonight, I feel like I mean what I say to
him.

            “I'm
not going anywhere,” I say.

Chapter 5

           
B
efore I know it, the weekend of my mysterious
Mr. X. is at hand. I am counting down the days, the minutes, the seconds until
it happened – my nerves coiled up as tight as boxsprings. Three days away – and
then it would be the day, I think, as I get dress – the day it all happens. The
day I lose my virginity. The day I find out the truth about what happened to
Rita. About what happened to Roz. All the mysteries life had put in my path:
solved, solved at last. All I ever wanted was some answers. That's all I want
now. All I wanted is the truth. All I wanted is to stop thinking about Terrence
Blue.

            Ever
since the last time I'd seen him, at the Blue Room, I haven't been able to stop
thinking about the look in his eyes. It makes me wonder if Terrence is more
than just some sleazy cad, some pimp who existed only to loan out beautiful women
to the whims of men richer even than he. There is something else there –
something soft, sensitive, vulnerable. I remember how he looked when I kissed
him, how the tears stood in his eyes, how he let me run my fingers through his thick
tousled hair and stroke his chiseled cheeks. How he let me love him, even for a
moment. How that thing we shared, those kisses, that single heart-beating
moment, was almost like love.

            But
I can't think about that now. How can I think about it? Knowing that Terrence
might want me – not merely as a fuck-buddy or a toy or a plaything, but as a
person, a woman, a
girlfriend
? How am I supposed to go through with all
that I'm supposed to do – knowing that? How am I supposed to sleep with someone
else, be so intimate with someone else, play the fantasy of love with someone
else – when Terrence and I share more than just a physical connection?

            I
tell myself it's nothing. I remember what my mother always used to say about
men, what they really wanted, what they really meant. Love was a distraction.
It was a distraction that cost her her career, her dreams, everything she
really and truly wanted out of life. It wasn't something to prize or cherish.
It was something to guard against.

            And
besides, I think to myself, why would I want someone like Terrence Blue anyway?
Someone who rolled around in sleaze and sex the way a pig rolls in the mud. If
I
did
want a relationship, if I
did
want to fall in love…

            Without
meaning to, I let my thoughts drift back to the gym, and to my encounter with
the man there. It strikes me all at once that I forgot to ask his name.
Whatever he is, he isn't a Mr. A, a Mr. B., a Mr. X. He was so nice – so
handsome, so calm, so normal. Mr. Nice and Normal, I think to myself, with a
little laugh. No, too insulting. Nice and Handsome. That's what I'll call him,
to myself at least. Mr. Nice and Handsome.

            Unfortunately,
there's another Mr. on the agenda. To my surprise, Mrs. Walters summons me to
her office the Thursday before my date with Mr. X.

            “You've
been requested for a dinner date,” she said. “For tonight.”

            My
mouth falls open.

            “But...”
I have so many questions. What about Mr. X? What about my much-prized
virginity?

            “Our
patron understands the situation,” says Mrs. Walters, sensing my discomfort.
“He expects nothing of you
except
dinner. Mr. S – that's what he's
called – is more curious about your mind than your body.” Her smirk is
palpable. “At least for now.”

            Somehow,
the thought of dinner with Mr. S. makes me feel queasier than sex with Mr. X.
One I was expecting – mentally readying myself for, knowing that it would have
to happen. But dinner with another client. Playing the whore mentally if not
physically – acting alluring, seductive,
acting a part
– that's not
something I feel ready for. That's not something I want. I feel like I'd almost
rather have just plain sex – casual and meaningless – than having to sit across
someone at a dinner table and impress them. Right now, I'm not feeling very
impressive.

            “Remember,”
Mrs. Walters says, “Mr. S. likes the
femme fatale
look. So don't hold
back. I'll send someone down to do your hair and makeup.”

           
Great
,
I think to myself. Why couldn't I have found a client who just wanted the
girl-next-door. Or even the girl-who-just-got-out-of-the-shower-and-is-wearing-sweats?

            I
decide to go to the gym – work off a little more tension. At least, that's what
I tell myself. Get the heart pumping, get the adrenaline shooting through me –
that'll help me calm my nerves enough so that I can play a convincing
femme
fatale
over truffles and caviar with Mr. S.

            But
when I spy Mr. Nice and Handsome on the treadmill next to me, I know – with a
pang of sadness – that a desire for endorphins wasn't the only thing that
prompted me to the gym. I'm glad he's here. Relieved, even.

            He
smiles when he sees me – a smile so genuine it almost breaks my heart.

            This
is the kind of guy I should be dating, I think to myself. Someone honest.
Someone real. Someone who smiles when I walk in not because he knows what's
about to happen – knows that I'm going to fulfill his fantasy – but because he
doesn't know anything at all. He's celebrating the unexpected. He's excited
because I'm excited, because we're real people, laughing, talking, joking,
getting to know one another, and because that reality sustains us.

            “I
thought you'd be wiped out,” he says, mopping the sweat from his brow as he
motions for me to take the treadmill next to him.

            “Me?”
I laugh. “Never. I'm up for everything.”        
More than you know
, I
think.

            I
feel almost ashamed when I talk to him. Every word I'm saying, I think, is a
lie. Every minute I don't tell him I'm a Blue Girl is a moment he's dealing
with a girl who's maybe more a fantasy than the
femme fatale
who will be
sharing a
tiramisu
with Mr. S. in a few short hours.

            “I
like a strong girl,” he laughs. “Although given the rate you're going, I bet
you could probably beat me up.”

            “I'd
never do that!” I laugh back. “You're too nice.”

            “Oh,
am I?' His smile glimmers. “That's a pretty big judgment call you're making
there.”

            “I
have a good intuition about people,” I say.

           
You
have to be, if you're going to be a hooker.

           
“Do
you?” He looks faintly amused.

            “Don't
you?”

            “I
like to think I do,” he says. “Go on, then – what else can you tell about me.
Other than that I'm nice.”

           
And
very handsome
, I think, but don't add out loud.

            “You're
– relaxed,” I say. “You don't seem to let life get you down.”

            “I
try not to,” he says. “After all, if I let life get me down, nothing would ever
get done.” His smile fades, and for a moment I wonder if I'm not wrong, if Mr.
Nice and Handsome hasn't suffered after all.

            “You
seem trustworthy,” I say. “That's rare in this town.”

            “You
don't seem to like LA too much.”

            “I
don't know how I feel about LA,” I say. It's the honest truth. Once it was the
field of dreams – of
my dreams
– and in my more idealistic moments I
wonder if it still could be. Other times, I wonder if I'm trapped in a
nightmare for good. I could be a singing sensation – or just another used-up
junkie prostitute. “It's kind of a love-hate relationship.”

            “I
know what those are like,” Mr. Nice and Handsome sighs.

            I
grin at him.

            “Bad
experiences?”

            “Lots
of experiences,” he says. “Some good. Some bad.”

            “With
girls?” It just slips out. I don't mean to pry, to be too personal – but he
takes it almost as flirtation.

            “Not
at the moment,” he says. “I mean – there
was
someone in my life. I used
to come out to LA for her. But we're not together anymore. So I just find other
ways to fill my time.”

            “Like
working out?”

            “Exactly,”
he smiles. “Gotta keep fit on the market.”

            “Are
you on the market, then?” I mock-raise my eyebrows in disapproval.

            “I
told you,” he laughs. “I'm in finance. Everything is a market.”

            “Not
everything,” I say. I wish it were true.

            “What
about you?” he asks me. “What brings you here so often? Surely it's not
insecurity about your looks?”

            “It
gets out the tension,” I say.

            “Are
you tense?”

            “I've
got...a big work presentation coming up.”

            He
offers me some water; I gulp down a big sip.

            “You'll
do great,” he said. “I'm sure of it. Audition?”

            I
had forgotten I'd told him I'm an actress. “Uh – yeah. Right. Audition.”

            “Just
relax,” he puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let things happen. Let your
natural abilities shine through.”

           
Oh,
if you only knew...

           
“Listen,”
he beams at me. “I wish I could stay – I really do. To be honest, I could talk
to you all day. But I've got a big project to do, and if it falls through,
there's quite a few companies in quite a few countries that will be going down
the drain.”

            “Sounds
important.”

            “Hugely,”
he rolls his eyes. Then he takes my hands and, to my surprise, pretends to bow.

            It
was charming.

            “Until
next time,” he says.

            “Until
next time,” I say.

            It's
only when I've made it back to my room that I realize I've forgotten to work
out at all.