Page 99 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Casinos, restaurants, and bars line both sides of the street, their marquees glowing in red, gold, and electric blue, but none of them are as big or as impressive as the two buildings facing each other on opposite corners.

On the left, Sinners rises in a blaze of red neon and gold trim, the letters written in a wicked curling script crowned by a glowing devil’s tail and pointed horns. The building itself looks like a cathedral built for temptation, with arched windows, crimson velvet visible through the windows, and a marquee promising indulgence.

Across the street, Saints answers in white and pale gold, its sign glowing with a halo over the "i" and a pair of illuminated wings spread wide behind the name. It’s just as grand, but colder in its beauty. The front has soaring ivory columns and soft light, like purity polished into a performance.

They stare each other down, devil against angel, Beaumont against Ashford, each daring the other to give in first.

I’d expected someplace sleazy. Hidden behind dark windows and a discreet sign.

Instead, they’ve built monuments to sin.

Chapter twenty-five

Two Days Until Bonding

Laurel

Crowds line the sidewalk outside both clubs. The men wear everything from slacks and open-collared shirts to full suits. The women are another story. Skimpy dresses expose more skin than they cover. Corsets and jewel-studded bras are paired with tiny skirts, sheer stockings, or thongs. Some wear nothing but lingerie under open coats.

I’ve seen enough television and movies to know how strippers dress, but many of these women are customers. They’ve arrived dressed like part of the entertainment, until I can’t tell who came to watch and who came to be watched.

Maybe that’s the real competition between Sinners and Saints. Not which club puts on the better show, but which one can convince more people to step inside and become part of it.

The limousine pulls to the curb outside Sinners, and we spill onto the sidewalk. A truck with peeling paint drives by and my head turns to watch it. It has a bright yellow bumper sticker but passes by too quickly for me to see the detail. I keep staring as the taillights fade.

Abbie stumbles into me, to make room for the last limo to let out its passengers. Everyone keeps talking and jostling until Carrson moves toward the entrance. Then the group falls in behind him without being told.

Two burly men in black suits guard the enormous front doors. They hold back the crowd waiting behind a velvet rope and incline their heads as Carrson approaches.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Ashford.”

Again.

The word burns more than I anticipated.

In my rush to follow him here, I forgot this place already knows Carrson. The Sisters said he used to come with the other Brothers often, that he would take two or three women at a time. That all ended before we met. I know that’s true. I trust every promise he made me upstairs.

Trust doesn’t stop me from imagining how many women inside these walls have seen him undressed. How many remember the sound he makes when he loses control and pleasure takes over.

Carrson passes through the doors, and the shadows inside swallow him. Right before he disappears, my hand lifts toward the back of his shirt, wanting to catch the fabric and drag him out of a place that remembers having him before I did.

I don’t.

I don’t touch him or call his name. He’s too angry with me, so for now, I let him go.

We breeze through the entrance without paying the cover charge, which I suppose is one of the less-sinister benefits of belonging to a secret society.

Before we reach the main room, a woman steps into our path.

She’s older than the rest of us, perhaps in her forties or fifties, and beautiful in a way that makes youth seem like it’s just a stepping stone for something greater. Her dark hair is swept into a severe bun without a single strand out of place. Silver satin drapes over her body and swishes around her ankles when she moves, elegant enough for a ballroom but sensual enough to belong here.

Her eyes are silver too.

Not gray. Silver. So bright they catch the dim light and return it, like a cat. Contact lenses, they must be, unless Sinners employs supernatural creatures along with strippers.

She looks us over. The slight downturn of her mouth makes me feel as though we’ve arrived at an exclusive dinner wearing bathing suits.

“Ladies.”