Page 63 of Tattletale

But never in my years of going in and out of seedy clubs have I seen something like this.

The Dollhouse. Gabriel’s private club.

I’m currently in the bathroom, washing my hands for the second time under the warm water because the lavender-honey, automatically dispensed soap smells so damn good. Actually, the entire bathroom smells like a sweet meadow. I didn’t actually use the toilet; I’m only here, stalling until Gabriel arrives, but from the looks of it, each stall has a bidet.

I take a deep breath, trying to focus my thoughts and remember the instructions Vienne gave me. Gabriel likes a classy, intelligent woman. If you’re a stripper and your tits are out, he’ll watch, but he won’t touch. A little hypocritical for a man who owns probably the fanciest fully nude club I’ve everseen in my life. Regardless, it’s why I’m here tonight in a high-necked romper, my breasts fully tucked away.

My crimson stilettos match my silky, red romper. I hate the color red. Maybe because I’ve seen too much blood, cut too many jugulars, and stitched up too many wounds. I see red, and I can almost taste the metallic. It’s not appealing to me. But apparently it is to Gabriel.

Tonight’s mission is easy enough. I’m just supposed to capture his attention. From what Vienne told me, if I’m successful, Gabriel won’t ask for my number, nor will he give me his. Likely, he’ll give me a phone in which he can contact me on. A phone that’s being tracked. He likes to stay in control.

To me, the showmanship is obnoxious. I can’t imagine any woman likes to be waiting at the edge of her seat for a call, unable to initiate a conversation when she pleases. But it’s not like I’m actually trying to date Gabriel. I just need to get him a little turned on and loose-lipped. I’ve done this so many times before. The stakes are higher, but the mission is the same: stalk, seduce, then slay.

When my palms are clear of suds, I grab a hand towel from the warmer. Yes, a hand towel warmer, to keep your hands cozy after the luxurious lavender bath they just took. For fuck’s sake—I could get married in this bathroom and call it a luxury affair.

My stomach flips at the thought of marriage. I push it as far away from my mind as possible, still not ready to open that can of worms. The more I think about Lance, the more I have to dwell on what I almost had and then lost. I wish I could call him, but that would entail forgiving him and putting my pride aside—two acts that are not my strength.

Grabbing my sleek, black clutch, I pull out the new iPhone Vesper obtained for me. I couldn’t use my old one, and I’d need to keep rotating phones. Gabriel could easily tap my devices. Iwas told I needed to stay away from PALADIN headquarters as well as a precaution. Easy enough request.

Me

I’m here, waiting.

Vesper

He’s already there. Slipped in through the back.

I roll my eyes and grumble.

Me

Worst ops ever. You were supposed to alert me when it was time.

The text bubble indicating that Vesper is typing populates for a while. She must be typing out a paragraph.

Vesper

It’s time.

I laugh to myself, knowing she deleted whatever lecture she felt compelled to write.

Okay, showtime.

After exiting the bathroom, I make my way to the bar, pretending like I’m interested in a drink. Set smack-dab in the center of the room. It’s a good vantage point to scour the club.

The Dollhouse has an odd setup. I think I understand the notion behind it, and it creeps me out. In long rows on either side of the massive main floor there are large cubes lined up next to each other—maybe ten feet by ten feet each. The dancers have plenty of room to maneuver on their poles, but make no mistake, those are cages.

Each cube is completely see-through on all sides. Each cube also has a stripper pole down the center of the enclosure,but those are the only similarities. They are all decorated differently. Some look like living rooms with suede couches and sophisticated credenzas, others like bathrooms with large claw-foot tubs. Most are themed like bedrooms, though. Every type of bedroom you can imagine—from dark, to romantic, to colorful, to modern.

The cubes are rooms of a house. Perfectly staged with beautiful nude women to inhabit them. They are to be looked at, but not touched. Like dolls that are staged.

What’s really bothering me is I can’t see the doors to the enclosures. How the fuck are the women getting in and out? Are they truly trapped? I don’t see any hinges, and the glass is smooth and flush on each side. There’s a creepy chill that crawls up my spine as I desperately look for confirmation that these women are not actually caged, and at the mercy of the club managers who get to decide when they have their freedom.

I’m so hyper-focused, looking for seams in the glass or hidden door hinges I might’ve missed, that I don’t notice Gabriel until I’m standing a few feet away from him.

His area is roped off, dissuading any guests from getting too close. He’s seated in a tall, emerald-green, velvet chair. His sitting area contains two of the crushed-velvet chairs and a large black cube that’s being used as a table for his appetizers.

Everything is pointed toward a glass cube that looks like goth Barbie’s dream room, filled with chains, whips, and other various BDSM elements. That would be straightforward, but the uncomfortable part is that the bed, sheets, and throw pillows are all hot pink and frilly. There’s a poster of lollipops in a medley of pinks on the further wall—such a weird contradiction.

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