Page 104 of Gone Before Goodbye
The guard shrugs as though to say, “Yeah, what can you do?”
Maggie moves toward the elevator. Ecstasy Level? Why not just call it something more subtle like Orgasm Floor or something? She gets in the elevator. Again no buttons, nothing saying Ecstasy or any of that. The doors close. The elevator heads up. The ride takes seconds, but to Maggie, it feels longer.
Because she’s about to come face-to-face with Nadia.
Her hands flex into fists. She rocks back and forth on her heels, feeling a bit like what a boxer must feel when he’s in his corner and waiting for the bell to ring for the first round. When the elevator dooropens, the first thing Maggie sees are the stunning crystal chandeliers, a lot of them. They give off a soft, warm glow over a marble floor and plush seating. There are twenty, maybe thirty people—a celebrity or two Maggie thinks she may recognize—and while there is a perfume in the air that reeks of opulence and luxury, the main difference between the regular section of Etoile Adiona and the VIP section is that most people aren’t allowed into the VIP section. That’s it, really. Same music. Same dance floor. Same beverages. Slightly more attentive staff. Sure, it’s less crowded, but if you don’t want a crowd, why go to a nightclub?
The appeal is entirely about who is allowed in—and who isn’t.
Life is always a high school cafeteria.
This has never been Maggie’s world. The only time she’d go to clubs like this was when Trace would drag her as a wingman (wingwoman?) of sorts. “Stand near me,” Trace would tell her.
“Uh, why?”
“Nothing appeals to a hot woman more than a man who is already with a hot woman.”
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted on behalf of the sisterhood.”
“Maybe both? But it’s true. If I’m normally, let’s say a seven—”
“A seven, Trace? Oh, look at you being all modest.”
“—when they see me with you, it ups me to a nine, maybe a ten, in their eyes.”
“Aren’t you worried they’ll think you’re taken?”
“Even better. Forbidden fruit. It’s a tremendous turn-on for women.”
“It’s not, Trace.”
“It’s notto you,” he says. “But I’m not after a woman like you.”
“More flattery.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Sadly, I do.” Then, watching Trace obviously scope out a nearby woman: “You’re a pig, Trace. You know that, right?”
Trace would spread his arms and smile. “Love me for all my faults.”
She shakes away the memory. A waitress in what looks like tuxedo lingerie hands Maggie a smoky beverage, like something out of an old horror film, covered in glitter. The music is still too loud.
“What is this?” Maggie shouts.
“Our signature drink. Starry, Starry Night.”
“What’s in it?”
“Mango, yuzu, coconut, Dom Perignon—and our secret sauce.”
Sounds gross, Maggie thinks, but she takes a sip. Not bad. “I’m looking for—”
“Nadia is behind the curtain.”
Everyone here is prepared. “Like the Wizard of Oz.”
“Pardon?”
