The Muse's Undoing

“Up the block. Gibson’s,” I say, making it sound like I’m going to visit a friend. “You gonna be around in the morning?”

He drops my arms and takes a small step away, averting his gaze. “No, I’m off in half an hour, but I have plans. Free this weekend, though.”

“I have Vaughn.”

He nods. “That’s okay. Unless you want him all to yourself, which I completely understand.”

“No!” I say, probably too quickly. I only didn’t think Matthew wouldn’t want my six-year old bouncing off the walls if he’d rather be hanging out with an adult. “Please, by all means. Hang out with us for as long as you can take it.”

He grins. “Yeah. Sure. I look forward to it.”

“Good.” I nod, managing a tight smile. While we’re by no means distant, we’ll likely never be as close as we were when I was recovering from my injury. I’ll now have to make do with a sliver of him when I once had his complete attention. But, of course, while my life withered and died in the years I was away, his went on. I refuse to get sentimental about it. It is what it is. “Next time I’ll come out to your place,” I tell him.

“No—you’re not allowed. I just started a new project, and I don’t want you to see it before it’s done.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued.”

“That’s the idea. Anyway, I’m sure we can find some time next week when we’re both free. Do a boys’ night or whatever.”

“Well. You know where I live.”

He grins. “Doorman joke. Love it.”

“It’s great to see you,” I tell him.

He nods. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Same here.”

He walks me to the door without another word and gives me a pat on the back as I leave the Eastmoor.

Two blocks up, I give my name to another doorman who uses a special key card to call an elevator up to The Penthouse.

“The Penthouse” is a bit of a euphemism. It’s the informal name for a club with no real name.

The elevator doors slide open on a velvet-walled foyer. An ebony-skinned Black woman in a white satin corset, fishnet hose, and thigh high leather boots with stiletto heels greets me. Her eyes glitter like jewels over high cheekbones and a plush, red mouth. She’s giving naughty bride tonight. I like it. With a sly smile, she opens a door to her right. “Good evening, Mr. Elliot,” she says with a full appraisal of me.

“Stella,” I say with a nod.

She takes a glance at my cane—and I catch the flicker of concern. Not quite pity, but it’s enough to remind me I’ve changed since the last time I was here. “Enjoy your night,” she says softly.

I enter The Penthouse.

My old friend Gibson is an interesting man. He’s been married since college graduation to his high school sweetheart, Marianne. They have no children, and he’s never once disparaged her or his marriage—not to me anyway. But then…there’s this.

Possibly the most elite sex club in Manhattan. The dues are exorbitant, the members range from moguls and publishers to politicians and fashion designers. The employees are the highest paid escorts in the city.

Gibson is sinfully wealthy and highly connected. He owns several properties on the Upper East Side and even more on Wall Street.

In college, he majored in finance and aced his coursework. In his free time, however, he and Marianne sought out kinky people and places. Their adventures in town were my favorite bedtime stories. But in the handful of times I’ve come to his club over the last two years, I’ve never seen Marianne here.

Along the velvet-draped back wall, I spot my old friend sitting in an armchair like a king keeping watch over his kingdom. While I know the wall behind him must be lined with windows, no outside light filters in during club hours. It could be ten a.m. or ten p.m.

He stands with a smile when he sees me. Gibson is a white man of eastern European descent. He’s dark-haired, dark-eyed, and fair-skinned. He’s also six-four and built. At six feet, I’m not short, but I’ve always felt puny around Gibson. I get a hearty handshake and a clap on the back. It’s then that I notice his pet.

This is a new development.

A petite redhead wearing an outfit comprised solely of leather straps showcasing all her private areas, kneels next to his armchair with her hands folded on her bare knees. She glances up at me like a mischievous kitten, and I have to drag my attention back to the matter at hand.