Page 65 of Lovely Darkness

It’s the dirty kind.

The whispered kind.

The unforgettable kind.

Guests are told this upfront. Hell, that’s why most of them stay at the hotel. We don’t offer prostitutes, not even high-end call girls. But there is an expectation that if you’re a man, and you take a seat inside the Corinthian Club, you’re gonna end up in a hotel room naked before the night is over.

“Well,” McKay says, taking his seat. “This is a surprise.”

“Do you like it?”

He looks around, taking my question seriously. I like that about him. For most people the question is a throwaway. Polite small talk. But McKay doesn’t do small talk. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I could come here. It is open to the public?”

“It’s open to you, if that’s what you mean.”

He grins at me. “I know it’s open to me.”

“No. It’s private. But locals buy in one year at a time.”

He lets out a breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever catch up with you, Adam.”

“What do ya mean by that?”

He looks at me, blue eyes serious, maybe even a little sad. “Four years, ya know? It’s not that long. Not in the big scheme of things. But I missed a lot. It feels like every time I turn around, I find out you’ve accomplished something else. Like maybe I was holding you back.”

I just blink at him. “You’re serious? McKay.” I actually laugh. “That’s not how I see it. Not how I saw it while I was doing all these things, either. I was doing this for you.” He makes a face. “Trust me. Every time I came up with a new idea like this I thought to myself… what would McKay think? Would he be interested in this? Hotels.” I do a noncommittal shake of my head. “Nah. You’re not the kind of man who wants to be a real estate mogul. But the bars inside the hotels?” This makes him smile. But I stop smiling. “I know I’ve apologized, and I’m not gonna do that again because it’s dumb. You already know I’m sorry. But I want you to know that I missed you. And if I have to choose you or everything else in life, it’s you, McKay. It’s you.”

I know what he’s thinking right now. What about Maggie?

And I’ve thought about this. Because at some point, I will have to make a choice and it’s always better to be prepared. I point at McKay. “You. I would choose you.”

He slumps back in his chair a little, relaxing, like I just lifted a load off his back. Then his eyes drift up to meet mine. “It’s you too. Regardless of all the other stuff.” He means sex, but he’s not gonna say sex. “It’s still you, Adam. We’re just partners, man. That’s all there is to it.”

“I like partners. Everyone needs a partner.”

McKay nods. “Life is fucking worthless without one. Even if it’s your dog, ya know? If you’ve got a partner, you’ve got a lot.”

I smile and nod. Then a man comes to take our drink order.

We get whiskeys. Then we watch as the place comes to life around us. I like this part of the night. Most people want to show up late. They don’t wanna be there until the party is raging. But I have a soft spot for quiet beginnings. And McKay is almost introspective when he’s in public, so he slips right in next to me and we watch it all unfold.

We see the businessmen—and women—a little weary from a long day of working out deals or whatnot. They are hotel guests. They linger in the small reception area, unsure where to go or what to do next. But someone greets them. Usually one of my employees, but not always. And they disperse into the growing crowd. They find their place and settle in, get their drinks, look around, and start wondering who they will go home with tonight.

The ‘no approaching women’ rule can make or break a place. Because lots of women aren’t inclined to take that first step. But a place like this has no use for women like that.

It’s often slow going in the early hours, but by the time ten o’clock rolls around, they’re ready to make a move.

McKay and I have been quietly drinking and watching a dark-haired woman sitting at the bar alone for the better part of an hour. There are other women around her. All pretty enough. All far more outgoing than the one we’ve got our eye on. But this one, she’s intriguing. Quiet. Drinking alone, unbothered—which must be nice for her, now that I think about it. Perhaps that’s why some women come here. They know they can sit at the bar and drink, and think, and not have to worry about men unless they want to.

She’s wearing a lovely lavender skirt. It’s sheer, with a slip underneath. And the hem has a flowing, flirty ruffle to it. Her blouse is white and billowy, tucked in and mostly unbuttoned. Her long hair is thick, and wavy, and nearly black. She has it pulled back away from her gorgeous high cheekbones with a glittering jeweled clip on the crown of her head. Her tan skin glows under the amber lights and her plump lips are painted a pale plum. I don’t know what color her eyes are, but they are light enough to see from across the room. Brown, or amber, or maybe even green. She is Creole. I can sense it in her attitude. In her confidence. In the way she sits at the bar, so in control and completely on her own terms.

She is one of those exceptional Southern beauties I gravitate towards.

Like Misha, I think.

And then I get a little sad. Because Misha’s dead now. She betrayed me and that hurt more than I will ever admit to anyone out loud.

I don’t trust many people and I trusted her.