“Not that big. How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” she said. “Old enough to know the difference between fantasy and real life.”
“Doesn’t make jealousy sting any less.”
“It’s just a silly crush. I’ll survive.” She looked beyond me towards the playrooms. “I walked past earlier. Coffee run. Tell me it’s none of my business if you want.”
“We were just working things out, Explicit style. Things escalated quickly.” I got down from the stool and grabbed myself a vodka Coke. “I could do with a drink, I don’t know about you.”
She joined me and grabbed herself an alcopop. Popped a neon blue straw in the top. “Is that why you came back from Italy? Towork things outwith Mr Morgan?”
“I came back for the club. I belong here. At least, I thought I did.” I resumed my seat and winced at the sting. “I’ve been gone a long time, I don’t have many friends here.”
“You’ll make friends,” she said. “They’re a good crowd.”
“And what about you? Are you part of thecrowd?”
She slurped on her straw. “I’m just a barmaid, I’m always working.”
“Every single night? Are you not a member?”
She shook her head. “I was shy when I joined, and now I’m just part of the furniture. I never get noticed.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Would you want to be?”
“Maybe sometimes.” Her smile was nervous, tentative. Something brewing under the surface. “I came here for research, though, primarily. I want to be a writer.”
“A writer?” A shiver crawled up my spine.
“Erotica. BDSM erotica.” Her eyes met mine, held firm. “I love reading. It’s all I do when I’m not at work or writing. I’ve read so many books, EL James, Sylvia Day, all the big names... Vincent Blackthorne... he’s my favourite...”
My breath hitched, and she was watching me, eyes like a hawk. “Then I guess you must have questions...”
“I don’t want to pry.” Her words were hollow, she edged around the bar, took a seat to my left. “But I heard, about Italy... I wasn’t going to ask, but is it true? That you met Vincent? That you lived with him?”
I downed my drink, fought the urge to grab another. “I didn’t livewithhim. I lived on his property. He has two houses, I lived in the guest house.”
Her eyes glazed. Starstruck. A look I was familiar with.
“I love Vincent Blackthorne’s books. I have all of them...Venice in Chains...Master Mine...To kneel and obey... and his Magpie series...Pretty Bird, Caged and BeautifulandBroken Wings...”
“He’s very good.”
“Mr Morgan would fire me if he knew I’d asked.” She smiled, anyway. “What’s Vincent like? In real life? His author blurb says he’s authentic, that he has a dungeon in the Veneto mountains. Sometimes he talks about it on Facebook.”
My stomach churned.He’s twisted, and manipulative, and vile, and a liar.He’s a liar. A dirty, filthy, twisted liar.“Vincent is a serious man, brooding. A creative type. Troubled. Smart.”
That glazed look again. “Did you get to read his books? As he was writing them?”
You could say that.I nodded. “Perk of the location.”
“Wow.” Her eyes twinkled. “His next comes out next month, have you read it already?”
“Some of it.” Vodka was calling, vodka and my hotel room. Fuck this place, fuck all of it. Fuck Vincent, fuck Andy. Thoughts of Andy’s mouth on mine came back unbidden. The memory tangled with flashes of Venice, making me heady and queasy all in one.
Topaz was still talking. “...I can’t wait to hear what happens to Magpie. Does Master Blake get with her? For real this time? Please tell me he does.” She shook her head. “No, wait. No spoilers. Don’t tell me.”
No, he doesn’t. He fucking doesn’t. He fucks her up and betrays her, and she runs, far away. On a fucking plane with her middle finger high in the fucking air.“It was a work in progress. I didn’t read the whole manuscript.”