Page 2 of The Red Room

“Vhat’re you having?” he asks, raising his accented voice above the music.

“Surprise me,” I say and look down the long stretch of bar reaching for the other side of the room. What little confidence I had in my appearance back at my loft is swiftly replaced with sheer diffidence. Designer dresses. Hair to match. Bodies to envy. No, I will stick out like a scuff on their red-bottom shoes in a way no one would want tostick out.

“Here,” the bartender says and presents the drink on a coaster. He waits a moment, and when I don’t respond, he leans in. “Twenty.”

I can barely suppress the scoff from escaping me.Twenty dollars?Who the hell can afford one drink here, let alone a second or third round? “Uhm, what is it?”

He braces his hands on the bar, and the sleeves of his button-down shirt bunch at his elbows. That’s when I see it. On the inside of his wrist is a tattoo. It’s small, but easy to notice the same design as the bouncer outside. A moon. A sharp curve leading to a cloud formation covering the middle of it. Maybe it was some weird initiation all the employees had to do during orientation? But who would make their employees tattoo themselves?Whywould they make their employees tattoo themselves?

He sucks the stagnant club air through his teeth and glares harder. “It’s a White Russian.” White comes outvhite, and although he’s smiling now, something about the grin he gives me is off-putting.

I sift through my clutch, counting off bills in my head. “Oh, really? I’ve never had one before.” That was a lie. My first and only White Russian was at a frat party in college. Needless to say, I wasn’t invited back after I puked on the couch. The floor. And for my grand exit, I managed to blow chunks all over three different pledges. Not my best night.

Twelve.I flip to the next bill.Thirteen. Fourteen … shit.I don’t have enough. I can’t even afford the drink sure to taste like vomit. The blood drains from my face, and while I can’t be positive, I’m guessing my cheeks are bright red. “I—uhm. I—”

“There you are!” someone interrupts from behind, and before I can turn around, Courtney wraps her arms around my neck.

I sigh out something otherworldly. Maybe it’s embarrassment, maybe it’s gratitude. Whatever it is, I don’t need to respond to the bartender’s outstretched hand anymore. Courtney is here now, and if I know her as well as I think, she’ll take care of me. Well, whatever guy she has hanging off her arm like some lost puppy will.

“What’d you get?” she asks and sits at the empty seat to my left. There’s a man behind her, and as she sits, he steps forward, almost closing the distance between him and his prize.

I purse my lips. “White Russian.”

She covers her mouth and recoils. “Uhm. Gross. Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Twenty,” the bartender repeats and crosses his arms.

Courtney rolls her eyes. “Okay, dude. Calm down. I’ll have a shot of Belvedere.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “Do you want a shot?”

I glance down at the White Russian seemingly staring back and shake my head.

Courtney turns to her new accessory. “You want anything?”

The man, mid-forties if I had to guess, displays the water bottle in his hand, and takes a sip. His hair is short on the sides but the top is long enough to notice the gray mixing in with his natural brown. Attractive, sure, but feels less like a suitor and more of a parent-chaperone at a winter formal. What Courtney sees in him is still up for debate, until the bartender asks again for payment, and she turns to him once more.

“You got this right?”

He smirks and tilts his head back playfully. After a moment, he retrieves his wallet and pulls a black card from it. “Put their drinks on my tab,” he says.

The bartender takes his card, obvious irritation in his features, and brings Courtney the shot. He slams it down andsome spills on the bar top, but she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy beaming at Roman.

The bartender folds his arms over his chest like it’s his natural resting position. All it does is make him look like a prick. “Anything else?”

Courtney and Roman shake their heads, and after a quick glance at them, I lean forward.

“What’s the red room?”

His eyes widen for a moment long enough to catch. He composes himself and says, “I ave no clue vhat you’re talking about.” With this, he walks to the center of the bar, leaving our trio alone at the far end.

No clue? Surely he knows what the bouncer warned me about. It has to be some club secret. Maybe some pleasure room they have in the back for discretion. Something worse?

“What was that about?” Court asks, bringing the shot glass to her nose and sniffing it. “What’s the red room?”

I sip from my own drink, immediately regretting it. “Something I heard about.”

Confusion settles on Courtney’s small brows, and she scrunches her face. “Do you know about a red room?” she asks Roman and he shakes his head, just as clueless. A quick shrug of her shoulders and Court slams the vodka, leaving little translucent drips at the bottom. “Let’s dance!”

I sigh and raise the White Russian to my face, dreading the next sip. “I’m going to … finish my drink first.”

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