Infernal: Bite The Bullet (4 page)

I adjusted the mask across my eyes as she led me
through a svelte curtain that had been artfully camouflaged against the silken
walls. She retreated behind it, leaving me alone in the body of Infernal.

While my eyes adjusted to the low lighting, the
church-like hush of the space enveloped me like a robe. Set into backlit
niches, an array of religious paraphernalia adorned unapologetically black
walls: an erotically posed statue of the naked Magdalene here, a bleeding
Christ nailed to the cross there, and grotesque Medieval paintings that looked
straight from the Book of Revelation. The juxtaposition of ancient and modern
was über -chic, in a Gothic-fabulous way, and in keeping with the dark
religious theme. Even the bar looked to have been fashioned from reclaimed
confessionals.

In place of pews, high-backed booths, lushly
upholstered in velvet and leather, orientated themselves towards an ‘altar’
that was actually a stage, complete with a spotlight and more black curtains. If
anything was being worshipped here, it was surely wealth: the place oozed
money, and I struggled to reconcile it with the gritty rawness of Vinyl
Scratch. I definitely couldn’t picture Daniel hanging out in a place like this,
unless it had been as a dancer. The supermodel on the door had mentioned
performers. Could that be the link?

Both men and women populated the booths, I saw to
my relief. Some sat single, others as couples or threesomes, all wearing dark
clothing and ornate masks. I was thankful I’d opted for a little black dress.
Any splash of colour in this black on black colour scheme would’ve been beyond
conspicuous. The waiters and waitresses wore in the same style as the woman at
the front of house: slim fitted black suits with priestly dog collars. Their
matte black masks reminded me of the Phantom of The Opera.
Masquerade … Hide
your face so the world will never find you …
I hummed internally. People
thought this was seductive? It struck me more as creepy.

A handsome, dark haired man swished by me with a
tray of cocktails, and offered me a bright blue concoction. I was tempted, it
looked good, and under any other circumstances, that drink would have been
mine, but here? I refused with a smile and head shake. The place was lush, but
I wasn’t ruling out drug money, and there could be anything in those drinks. I
took a seat in an empty booth by the stage, and it seemed I was just in time
for a show.

The music started first, and I recognised the
re-mixed bell-toll piano keys and gravelled intro to Beastrider’s latest hit:
Infernal
.
How appropriate, I thought. The curtains swept back and the spotlight pivoted
to reveal the sculpted musculature of a tawny back and shoulders. Suspended
from a set of chains with metal rings he hung, arms extended, neck flexed, in
the manner of a man crucified. More shocking by far was what was on his back. Emblazoned
across the performer’s powerful shoulder blades was an intricate circular
tattoo of a winged serpent devouring its own tail. There were symbols inked
inside the circle too, and though I was too far away to make them out, I had a very
good idea what they were, because I’d seen that exact tattoo before, a hundred
times and more, on the skin of my own flesh and blood.

Heart hammering, I slipped out my phone and
snapped a shot of the dancer’s back, but just as I did, the beat kicked in and
he dropped to the floor.

I frowned at the motion-blurred image and went to
take another, holding the phone still, waiting for a break in the dancer’s
routine. Still with his back to the audience, he teased the crowd with sinuous
grinds. I managed a cleaner shot and grinned, peering at the picture.

A tap on my shoulder spun me in my seat, and I
looked up into the face of a politely smiling man. His golden mask highlighted
dark eyes and rose in horns from his forehead. A scar on his right cheek tugged
one side of his mouth higher than the other.

“If you want to take pictures, it will cost you
more than you can afford, young lady.” His accented voice gave me the shivers,
the tone deadly serious, despite the smile. “Amateur photography is not
permitted.”

Flustered, I stumbled into an apology, my cheeks
hot. “I’m so sorry. Raider must have forgotten to mention that. I just wanted a
souvenir to show my girlfriends. I’ll delete it.” I smiled, assuming that would
be enough to send him away.

It wasn’t.

“Please do so,” he said, breathing over my
shoulder, waiting to see I deleted the picture from my camera roll. He obviously
didn’t realise I’d taken more than one shot though, and the second he leaned
back, seemingly satisfied, I pocketed the phone.

“My patrons pay top dollar for discretion.” He
smirked and I smiled politely.

“You’re the owner?”

“You may call me the Friar,” he said, nodding. He
leaned back in, his handsome jaw-line brushing close to my ear. “Friar-Fuck if
you know me intimately.” His words whispered suggestive against my skin, but
what I felt in them was a thinly veiled threat. “Enjoy the show, Miss...
Bailey.”

I exhaled relief when he finally turned and left
me alone.

In spite of his charm, he made my skin crawl, and
wishing I’d kept my coat, I rubbed my bare arms to get rid of the prickly
feeling he’d left me with.

I turned back to the stage, and it was perfectly,
or badly, depending on your view, timed. As I faced the stage the male dancer
faced the audience, and what I saw made my heart stop.

It was him: Konstantyn Lazarenko.

In the flesh.

He was instantly recognisable in spite of the
Zorro-style eye-mask concealing his face and the dog-collar around his throat.

Holy crap.

I couldn’t look away from the sensuous, down and
dirty grind he was taking across the stage. Oiled muscles rippled as he wound
out moves and pumped his hips, putting the sexuality of my dance with him to
shame. We’d been fighting. Now, he was screwing everyone in the audience
without even touching them.

I swallowed as heat flushed under my skin, and
when he moved closer, gyrating to a bass that oozed eroticism, I sank back into
the semi-darkness of the booth, openly watching, confident the shadows would
conceal my shameful gawking.

But then he made eye contact.

I saw it the second he recognised me. Clearly, Infernal’s
attempts at maintaining anonymity didn’t work, because he sure as hell knew who
I was, from just half my face. He glared at me through the eyes of the mask, the
flare of his nostrils and the punch of his hips at odds with the anger that
burned in his gaze.

I couldn’t look away.

I’d been in my share of playground staring
matches, but nothing could have prepared me for how badly I didn’t want to look
away. He was mesmerising and furious, and clearly trying to glare me down, and
all I could see was the colour of his eyes in the stage lights when he ground
close to me. They glittered a molten brown that darkened as he moved.

I should have been relieved when he broke the
gaze, but in the fraction of a second that my eyes were unpinned from his, they
dropped to the bump and grind rhythm of his hips as he danced, an undulating
tempo that rolled his muscled body close to me. Maybe the club dealt in stolen
breaths, because I was struggling to breathe, as red-blooded as any other woman
watching, and trying desperately not to stare at the distinctly un-priest-like
bulge beneath his black silk pants. Either performing aroused him, or he was
just extremely well endowed.

He almost distracted me from the real reason I was
there. Except then I glanced sidelong at the other booths, and what I saw
snapped me out of my daze. A masked woman had straddled her partner’s hips, and
while his hands pushed up her dress, revealing her naked ass, she fisted his
hair and ground herself down into his lap. In another booth, two women openly
French-kissed whilst their joined hands stroked the erection of the man
sandwiched between them. His hands were up their skirts, playing between their
legs. The room was rapidly descending into an orgy, and I was spiralling into a
panic.

I lifted my gaze back to Lazarenko, and saw naked
anger in his eyes as he glared right at me. I didn’t understand. It was a free
bloody country. He was free to dance, and I could club wherever the hell I
wanted. Except this place was not what I wanted, at all. I was way out of my
depth and I needed to leave.

“Hello pretty,” a feminine voice purred behind me.

I looked back to see a slim brunette standing over
me. A mask of silver peacock feathers hid her eyes, but the fine lines around
her red-painted mouth betrayed her age.

“Are you here to play?” she said. Her accent
reminded me of the Queen’s speech at Christmas: pure posh.  “Rafe spotted you
the moment you entered the room. He always has an eye for new blood. There’s a
private party, after the show. He and his friends like to watch. Would you care
to join us?”

Heat flooded my cheeks and I was grateful for the
mask as I blustered a reply. “I, ah, I prefer just to watch myself. The first
time, anyway, you know?”

Her full lips pushed into an exaggerated pout.
“Rafe will be disappointed,” she sighed, “but we’ll look for you, next time.”

“Next time.” I smiled knowing there would never,
ever, be a next time.

She grasped my hand and bent her head to kiss my
knuckles, lifting sultry eyes to mine. I caught a waft of expensive, powdery
perfume mingled with chardonnay. “Until then, pretty.”

As the woman melted back into the darkness and I
contemplated the lipstick stain on the back of my hand, I realised the music
had changed. When I searched the stage, I found it empty, the spotlight
extinguished. I caught a glimpse of Konstantyn’s tattooed back as he stalked
towards a stage exit. Snatching money from the waistband of his pants, he
counted the notes as he disappeared through the curtain without a backward look.

Shit!
Scooting out from the booth, I
grabbed up my bag and hurried around to the back of the stage, but another
waiter intercepted my path, bearing a tray of some red and orange concoction in
phallic-shaped glasses. By the time I’d turned down his offerings and slipped
through the curtain, the musty corridor was empty, and I found myself faced
with a firmly shut door marked ‘dressing room’ and ‘staff only’.

I knocked tentatively and waited, shifting my
weight from foot to foot. When there was no response, I rapped again, harder
this time.

I was about to give up and turn away when the door
flew open in my face.

The person standing there, stark naked and
scowling, was not at all who I’d expected. I recognised her though, as the
anorexic girl from the audition.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I muttered, trying to settle on
a safe place to look, “I thought Lazarenko was in here.”

She folded her skinny arms under breasts hardly
bigger than two fried eggs, and chewed on her gum. “Hey Konstantyn,” she called
over her shoulder, “it’s that girl from the audition earlier. The one who
offered to blow you.”

He was in there? With her? Naked? Damn it.

I felt the blood rush from my cheeks, sure as if
she’d slapped me, but any smart-ass comeback I might have formulated died at
the sight of Lazarenko looming over the girl’s shoulder.

“What does she want?” he said.

“Dunno,” the girl replied, turning away with a bored
shrug.

“Please, may I speak with you?” I said softly,
watching the muscles in his powerful neck tighten. “I just have a couple of
questions.”

He stepped out into the corridor, slamming the
door behind him.

He turned on me, spinning so fast I stumbled back.
Unprepared for his anger, I’d hardly time to catch myself before he crowded me
to the wall, his huge body taking up my space. With one arm anchored to the
wall, his brown eyes were lit with green flecks that sparked with danger, and
sex. That, I hadn’t been expecting, and it made his eyes beautiful. Terrifying,
but beautiful.

“You followed me?” His accent fell rough against
my lips. He was so close I could have kissed him. “We have a saying in my
country,” he growled. “She who licks knives will soon cut her tongue.”

I opened my mouth, my retort not yet fully
formulated, when I heard the familiar voice of the Friar. “Bravo Konstantyn,”
he said, applauding as he emerged through a swish of silk curtain, “I have
three clients in a bidding war for a private dance with you...” His voice
trailed off as he realised they were not alone.

Konstantyn stepped back and I tried discreetly to
fill my lungs with air. Private dance my ass. More like selling his ass. What a
bloody hypocrite, after that dressing down he’d given me at the audition. How
dare he?

“Is this client bothering you?” the Friar asked.

“Yes.”

I glared at Konstantyn.

The man in the golden mask turned on me. “Miss
Bailey, I have had to chastise you once already tonight. Do I need to have you
escorted off the premises?”

“Oh, an escort won’t be necessary,” I said,
sweeter than saccharine, and plastering a sardonic smile on my lips. I was so
beyond angry and with my pride in tatters, I didn’t even care if I was blowing
another chance to question Lazarenko. The arrogant son of a bitch deserved a
taste of his own humiliation. “I’m leaving. I just wanted to show my
appreciation to the talent.” I slapped a ten-pound note on Konstantyn’s bare
chest. “Here’s to not being bought,” I said.

The note I’d thrown at Konstantyn turned out to be
my last, forcing me to take the broke way home, the one that sat me with the
drooling drunks and twitching addicts on the late-night public transport. I
could’ve afforded a cab at least half-way if I hadn’t thrown the money at
Lazarenko just to prove a point.