Chapter One
As Bridget Rodgers stared at the old meat-packing warehouse, she kept seeing flashes of the movie Hostel in her head. According to her friend, the invite-only, highly gossiped about Leather and Lace club was the place to be. But from the cemented-over windows and graffiti-sprayed exterior walls, in what were probably gang symbols, plus the dim flickering light from the nearby lamppost, Bridget figured most patrons of this club ended up on missing persons posters or on the evening news.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Shell. We’re probably going to become some perverted rich man’s victim by midnight.” Bridget straightened the thick leather belt around the waist of her dress. The belt was purple, of course, and her sweater dress a deep red. Her signature look was a bit gaudy, but at least it would help the police identify her body later.
Shell passed her a droll look. “You don’t even want to know what I had to do to get an invite to this club.” She waved the business card–sized paper in front of Bridget’s face. “We’re going to have fun doing something different. Boo on the local watering holes.”
For all the hoopla surrounding Leather and Lace, one would think it would be in a better location than Foggy Bottom. With the creepy, unsightly look to it and the fog rolling in every night, it seemed doubtful the place catered to the rich and powerful in DC.
The club had become sort of an urban legend, and the name probably had something to do with it. Leather and Lace. Seriously? Who thought that was a good idea? Supposedly, it was a sex club. A means of hooking up people with “mutual interests,” like Match.com for the sexually wild or something, but Bridget didn’t really believe it. And if it was, oh well. In reality, all clubs and bars catered to sex in one way or another. It was why half the single people went out on the weekend.
It was why she used to go out on the weekend.
“Come on, get the sourpuss look off your face,” Shell said. “You need something fun and new. You need to de-stress.”
“Getting drunk—”
“And hopefully getting laid,” Shell added with a wicked grin.
Bridget’s laugh sent puffs of small white clouds into the air. “That’s so not going to fix my problems.”
“True, but they will definitely take your mind off them.”
She did need some good old-fashioned stress relief, though. As much as she loved her job and really wanted to go cry in the corner at the thought of finding something else, it wasn’t covering her bills—namely the student loans—that were taking a huge chunk out of her monthly income. She’d come to loathe when her phone rang, and it was an eight hundred number.
Sallie Mae was a freaking vulture.
She sighed as she glanced back at the building. That was a gang sign. “So how did you score an invite to this place?”
“It’s really not that exciting,” Shell said, frowning at the card she held.
“All right,” Bridget said, squaring her shoulders as she turned to her friend. The shorter girl was shivering in her skintight black mini and Bridget smiled. Sometimes having extra padding had its benefits. Early October air was chilly, but her knees weren’t knocking. “If this place is lame or if anyone tries to pry out my eyeball, we’re leaving pronto.”
Shell nodded solemnly. “Deal.”
Their heels echoed off the cracked pavement as they hurried toward what appeared to be the front entrance. Once they got within seeing distance of the tiny square window in the door, it swung open, revealing a pro wrestler–sized man in a black T-shirt.
“Card,” he barked.
Shell stepped forward, holding the card out. The bouncer took it, scanned it over quickly, and then asked for IDs, which he scanned and handed back. When he held the door wider, it appeared they’d passed the popularity and age test.
Then again, both of them were pushing twenty-seven and could no longer be confused with underage drinkers anymore. Sigh. Growing old sucked sometimes.
The entrance to the club was a narrow hallway with track lighting. The walls were black. The ceiling was black. The door up ahead was black. Bridget’s soul was dying a little at the lack of color and splash.
When they arrived at the second door, it too opened, showing another big dude in…a black T-shirt. Bridget was starting to detect a theme here. Shell gave a little squeal as she slid past the second bouncer, giving him a long look, which was returned threefold.
Bridget’s first glance around the main floor of the club was impressive. Whoever had designed this place had done well. Nothing inside gave an indication that this used to be a warehouse.
Lighting was dim, but not the shady kind of lighting that everyone looked good in at three a.m. A girl sometimes just couldn’t catch a break. Several large tables surrounded a raised dance floor that would be treacherous as hell getting up and down from while drunk, but it was packed with bodies. Large, long couches lined walls painted in blood red. A spiral staircase led to the second floor but there, bouncers were blocking the top landing.
From what Bridget could see, there looked to be private alcoves up there. She bet there were a whole lot of shenanigans going on in those shadowy cubbyholes.
Behind the staircase was a sprawling bar run by eight bartenders. Never in her life had she seen so many bartenders actually working at once. Four men. Four women. All of them dressed in black, mixing drinks and chatting with the patrons.
The place was busy but not overly packed like most of the clubs in the city. And instead of stale cigarette smoke, beer, and body odor, there was a clove-like scent in the air.
This place was definitely not bad.
Shell spun toward her, clutching her black clutch in her hand. “Tonight is going to be a night you never forget. Mark my words.”
Bridget smiled.
…