The Blue Room Vol. 7 Read online

  The Blue Room

  The Blue Room

  VOL. 7

  Kailin Gow

  The Blue Room (The Blue Room Vol 7)

  Published by Kailin Gow Books

  Copyright © 2015 Kailin Gow

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, please contact:

  Kailingowbooks(at)aol(dot)com.

  First Edition.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  DEDICATION

  For my readers

  Prologue

  Xander Blue

  What am I thinking? It's the question that goes through my head twenty times a day now, maybe more. Maybe a hundred. Xander Blue, what the hell are you thinking? It's right up there with Xander Blue, what the hell are you doing? Or who? It doesn't matter. All my questions mean the same thing in the end. What the hell am I doing obsessing like this over Staci Atussi?

  It started as, if not a con, then at least a necessary lie by omission. I had to infiltrate the Blue Room. I had to get in close: see the workings from the inside out, invert the whole bloody place. And I needed a cover: a girl to interest me, a girl who might even be used as bait to lure this mysterious killer that had been offing our girls out of his little sickly hidey-hole in the ground. A girl that this killer might be interested in, too. A girl that didn't know enough about the ways of the world and the ways of men to know that I'm a faker, a fraud. That, although I've visited gentlemen’s clubs more than once in my life – in days I'm ashamed to say are not as long ago as they might have been – I'm not a Blues client. I know those kind of men. I've worked with them. I've sat across from them at conference tables and stared into their beady little eyes. Men like the clients of the Blue Room believe the world is owed to them. Because they're rich, because they're powerful, because they know how to swing their metaphorical dick around the room, they believe that the physical dick is no less worthy of adoration.

  They believe women owe them something. Or at least, they'd like to believe it. Deep down, they're terrified. They're terrified that the world doesn't work the way they've been telling themselves it works for their whole sick and demented lives. Women don't owe them sex just for existing while rich. So they decide to make the world in the image of how they want it. They figure – well, fuck it – let's make the world one in which women owe me sex. By paying through the nose for it. Men like this, sure they could get it for free, but they like paying. It helps them remember who's boss. It helps them remember who's in control at all times.

  Men like that like control.

  And one man like that liked it a little too much, if the dead bodies the Blue Room had been racking up were anything to go by.

  My clues are few. I know that he's probably a patron. And...that's where we're stuck. Because of the twenty-six lettered patrons of the Blue Room, pretty much anybody else could be a suspect. Take away me – you trust me, don't you, after all? – and you've got twenty-five suspects. Take away Terrence too, probably. He's a good-for-nothing scoundrel, but he's got a good heart in that spry young body of his and more brains, too, than he'd like to admit.

  I can't be too nice about him. He's fucking the woman I'm obsessed with, after all. But other than that minor issue...

  I'd always liked him before that, I mean. And I like him well enough after. I tell myself: Staci's just a working girl; that's just the fantasy you two share – she can sleep with whomever she likes wherever she likes, for money or for free. It's none of my business. I'm not her boyfriend. I'm not even a real patron. Why should she be faithful to me? It's enough that she's charming – and so warm! – that she's vibrant and vivacious and more alive than any woman I've ever met.

  Then again, I do know my share of dead women. So that probably skews our sample, somewhat. I know far too many dead women.

  I've loved most of them, too.

  But Staci? I don't know how to feel about her. When I'm with her my mind goes blank; I'm in a strange kind of ecstasy. And it's not just the sex, either. Don't get me wrong, I love being inside her. I love making her scream and moan and I love the face and the noises she makes right when she's about to come. I love what she can do to my body: all with the natural force of her desire. I love how well she knows me.

  But I love so much more about her than that. I love talking to her. I love being with her. I love listening to the way her voice gets so light and her smile so sparkling when she talks about her family: the people who matter to her. I love listening to her talk about books, films, life. She's not someone who just wants a john to fund her gems; I'm sure of that much. She has more depth than I do. So many layers. And I want to peel them off almost as much as I want to peel off all her clothes.

  Which is to say: one hell of a lot.

  I don't even understand how I feel about her. I'm not saying I love her.

  I mean – I can't love her, can I? Me – Alexander Blue – who loved once and swore never to love again – falling for the very girl I'm supposed to help destroy?

  She's not only a Blue Girl. She's Staci Atussi, after all. And I know more about her than she even knows about herself. She's the illegitimate grandchild of my godmother: the woman who saved my business once upon a time; the woman who saved my life. Her existence threatens everything the Tannenbaums hold dear. They're so clannish, so insular, they make the Blues look gregarious and eccentric.

  And nobody ever called Clarence Blue gregarious.

  I'm supposed to get rid of her. I don't even want to start thinking about how. Run her out of town. Make sure she never stumbles on the truth: despite the fact she's coming so much closer to it than she realizes. The Blues and Tannenbaums are thick as thieves, after all. Not to mention the fact that we probably are thieves, when you think about how much money mysteriously ends up in our coffers. But we're the capitalist kind of thief. The legal kind. The kind nobody will ever prosecute, and you'll likely end up in the river for trying. Anyway...I digress.

  Staci fucking Atussi.

  That's what I'm thinking about. That's what I'm always thinking about. Every day, every minute, every hour, every second, Staci's on my mind. Her long blonde hair with the threads of gold in it, and threads the color of autumn leaves, and threads of a rich dark chestnut brown. Staci is on my mind as she looks when I'm wrapping her legs around my waist and her head is thrown back: in the ecstasy only I can give her – or at least, I like to think that only I can give her – the ecstasy of true sexual passion with someone you can't do anything but think about, with somebody who drives you absolutely wild.

  We spent the night together only recently. I fucked her in front of my fireplace, on my bearskin rug. I loved the feeling of her skin against my skin. I loved her. For a little while, at least. When I could pretend that I wasn't Xander Blue, spy, factotum for the Tannenbaums. I was just me: Alex – for that was what they called me as a boy – just me, Mr. X., a man in Staci's arms who felt terribly close to falling for her.

  Those words I said: they were partly an act. My darling, my sweetheart, my ravishing one... Words I knew I was supposed to say as a patron putting on the Boyfriend Experience act. But words I found myself really, truly meaning: more and more each time. Words that gave me a little lump in my throat every time I said them – because they were part of me. Because Staci was part of me now.

  But this morning, when she called me...

  There was something strange about her then. There was something about her v
oice. It was in many ways the same as usual: light, calm, carefree. But I could hear some odd note in her words: something that troubled me. Like...she was afraid. Of me, perhaps? That couldn't be. She didn't know anything about my association with the Tannenbaums...or did she?

  I go over the conversation over and over in my mind. Staci wanted to meet me for lunch – I tell myself – that's all. She wanted to meet for lunch and sex because she missed me and liked my body and liked the way I tasted and the way I smelled and the way I fucked her hard for hours. That's all. And yet...

  I can never tell Staci the truth. After everything the Tannenbaum family has put her family through, Staci would never speak to me knowing that I was in league with the worst enemy she didn't even know she had. She'd never be able to look me in the face again. She'd hate me. And I would never be her Mr. X. any longer. Our shared fantasy would be over.

  And the thought of that terrifies me. It galvanizes me. More than the thought of never having sex with her again – the thought of never being able to see her smile strikes a bloody fear in my heart. And that terrifies me, too. Because it means that whatever I'm feeling for Staci: it's more than fantasy. More than lust. More than desire or even affection. It's a feeling far stranger and far more terrible.

  I think I might be in love.

  I have to tell her, I think – no matter what the cost. I have to explain. She has to know...

  As I walk through the halls of the Blue Room on my way to meet Staci, I am distracted from my reverie by a sudden sound, echoing through my hallway. A sound that's high-pitched: a woman's cry. A cry of ecstasy? Could it be, I wonder. After all, we are in the Blue Room. If ecstasy is what you're looking for, we probably have it in spades.

  No.

  I hear the sound again. That's not ecstasy. That's not how you scream when you're about to come with the man you love.

  That's a scream of terror.

  Of the deepest, darkest fear.

  Or of pain.

  Chapter 1

  Xander Blue

  The cry stops my heart. I listen in terror. Is that Staci – could it be Staci? The scream is coming from a woman's voice, to be sure – a scream of horror, of pain. My mind goes blank. For a second all I can think about is Staci: her face, contorted in agony, her beautiful golden skin marred by violence. The image of her lingers in my mind: burning itself into my brain.

  “Staci?” My lips move involuntarily as I call to her. “Staci?”

  But then she screams again.

  I feel a sudden sign of relief – against myself. Staci's safe, I think. At least Staci's safe. My heart slows beating. I know I shouldn't. Someone else is out there: someone else is being hurt.

  The Blue Room just gets better and better, doesn't it? I think. Every time you think you've seen the worst of it: the worst of the degradation and the shame, the worst of the violence, the murders, the blackmails, the beatings, the body counts, you just keep finding something worse. How could the place, Clarence’s place get to this level? It used to be the classiest gentlemen’s club around, but now there is a cancer in here that we have to find and remove before it gets worse. Despite what the Tennenbaums have done for me, despite being a godson of the Great Dame Tennenbaum, I am still of Blue blood. I have some pride in any place bearing the Blue signature name.

  I have to find out what's going on. I have to save this girl.

  I follow the sound of the screams down the hallway. I pass Staci's door – my body tingles just from passing by it, as my muscles clench and my nerves revisit the sensation of being with her, of being near her. I almost want to stop here, to barge into her room and take her into my arms, to explain everything and confess all my confused feelings to her, whisper them into her ears, take her against the wall, against the windows, on the bed, on the floor...my mind grows hot with lascivious thoughts.

  But not right now. Right now somebody's in danger, and I have to help her.

  Curse the Blue Room, I think as I follow the noise. Curse the Blue Room and the lowlifes who run this place, and the lowlifes who give them the money to keep on going. Curse every single last one of them. Myself included.

  I follow the sound of the screams and the whimpering to Hotel Room 308. A mahogany door: heavy enough that the fact that any sound is traveling through it at all is a marvel. But clearly whoever's hurting this girl is doing it hard enough that she's screaming at the top of her lungs.

  I feel in my pocket for the Blue Tower Master Key: one of the perks of being the chairman of Blues Enterprises: Working Girl Edition.

  I hear a man's voice. “Shut up!” he's saying. His voice is low, deep, even savage. I can hear just from the sound of him that he's a no-account piece of shit. He sounds like he's really enjoying this: causing whatever pain he's inflicting on that poor girl. “Shut up, you stupid slut, or I'll shut you up myself, and there's no way you want that, do you?” He growls and the girl whimpers again.

  “Help!” I hear her cry. “Somebody help me?”

  Shit. I think. The last thing I want is to interrupt a session. I'm supposed to keep a low profile, after all. Not make too many waves. Not tip anyone off about my investigation into the Blue Room and their activities. But this is all too much. I can't just let this girl get abused and not stop it.

  So I put my Master Key into the slot and open the door.

  It doesn't give.

  Fuck, I think. Just what I need. The door's bolted from the inside. I'm not in the mood to go full Rambo right now. I don't think Blues Towers will be very happy with me, either. But those screams aren't the kinky kind.

  I kick open the door.

  And then I see her. A beautiful young woman, curvy, supple, with long caramel-colored hair that flows all the way down to her waist in wavy tresses. She's lying on the bed, naked. Completely and utterly naked. Her wrists are fasted spreadeagle-style to the bedpost with handcuffs.

  Standing between her parted legs is a naked man, maybe 40 or 50, with roughly the shoulder-to-shoulder width a young stallion. A stocky man: a brutal-looking man. And he's ready to mount her.

  And he's looking at me with fury in eyes.

  Shit, I think.

  I've just walked into somebody else's BDSM fantasy.

  Fuck this place.

  How could I be so stupid, I wonder? I've heard of Fifty Shades of Grey. I run a fucking brothel, for crying out loud! How could I not realize that those screams were consensual – just one of the many fantasies that people act out here in the Blue Room?

  “Excuse me?” The naked man is looking at me with annoyance. He's not even making a motion to cover his naked loins. Clearly he's one of those dick-swingers I mentioned; happy enough to have the whole world see his member. “What the hell do you want here?”

  I think of an apology I can make – any sort of apology – some sort of excuse – I can pretend to be a staff member here, pretend I'm just some flunky...maybe I can just run.

  And then I see the look in her eyes.

  I know fear. I've seen it in women's eyes before. This isn't the sexy kind of fear: the thrill that comes when the first flush of arousal bathes you in sweat and you're scared and excited too because you don't even know what's coming next.

  No, this is real fear. The girl handcuffed to the bed is whimpering, her face and body bruised, some blood on her, too. And she's looking at me with those big brown eyes like she's saying save me, please. Please save me.

  “Just making sure everything is satisfactory, sir.” I use my most deferential voice, the one I used when waiting tables in college, when waiting the tables filled with assholes like this.

  “Yes, yes, yes, everything's satisfactory, clearly, what the hell do you mean by barging in here at this rather...private moment.”

  His eyes dart left, and so mine do too. There on the floor is an open duffle bag. And what's inside makes me gag. I could see chains, nails, razors. A cat-o'-nine-tails with spikes embedded into it. Candles with burning wax. Matches. Duct tape.

  Massage oi
l and rose petals it ain't.

  This is some sick fuck.

  I keep my face as pleasant as possible. “So sorry to disturb you, sir,” I say in my most genial tone of voice. “I thought I heard someone scream for help.”

  “Nothing wrong here.” The man smiles at me with sharp, wolf-like teeth.

  And then I recognize him.

  I've seen him around before, at a few “play parties.” I don't know his name. To me, he's always been Mr. S. The patron who keeps requesting Staci, only to be turned away in favor of a Mr. X. and an Mr. O.

  Which is to say, Terrence and me.

  Yes, I think. I've heard of you before. He was infamous in the Blue Room for his preference for rough sex, BDSM. For expecting that the women would put up with whatever he wanted without asking them, for overriding their no's. I'd been told that his membership to the Blue Room was about to be canceled months before for beating a girl up in the bedroom without her consent. But here he is again: evidently a client once more. If he ever even left.

  Well, that's what power gets you in this city. I don't know who Mr. S. is or what he does, but I know about him. And I know that he's a very powerful man: one with tight-as-you-can-imagine connections to everyone-you-can-imagine: government officials, chairmen of the boards of several companies. A blue-blood, from the looks of him. From his preppy attire, slung over his armchair, I can discern a type: old-money charm. Or should I say smarm? I know one of the big banks, the kind Blues Enterprises relies upon, counts his as a major chairman.

  The kind of man who gets anything he wants from the Blue Room? Including unwilling women.

  Shit, what kind of a place is this, anyhow? The lows of the Blue Room never cease to amaze me. Maybe I should get used to it by now.

  But who's the girl? I've never seen her before. I'd looked at the profiles of all the Blue Girls when coming on board the company. And the only “new girl” at the time was Staci – Staci...