“Oh yes, every few minutes. But here’s my card. If you can’t find one, just give me a call.” He smiled, half his grin void of teeth.

I took the card. “Thanks.”

I was slow to exit, a group of girls approaching the club, and I waited for them to pass before stepping out. I followed them closely, an attempt to hide, a barrage of Spanish bouncing between them as they pulled open the doors and shouted a chorus of welcomes to the doorman.

They were my shield, camouflaging my entrance, and my eyes darted around the dim interior quickly, worried that I would turn around and bump into Brett’s chest.

I had nothing and everything to worry about. The group of men wasn’t there.

I paid the doorman, and hugged the shadows, checking the room once, twice, three times. I visited the restrooms, put my ear to the men’s room door, wandered behind the bandstand and out to the patio. The cabby was right, the place wasn’t busy, nothing like the moshpit of the Jamaican club.

“Looking for someone?” The man’s voice made me jump, my nerves fried, and I spun around, gripping my elbow with a wince when it connected solidly with the edge of a table.

“No, not really.” I tried to smile, shook out the arm.

“You just look lost.” He stepped back, giving me space, and I relaxed a bit. Took in his dark polo and khakis.

“You work here?”

He shrugged. “You could call it that. I own the club. My name’s Mitchell.” He extended a hand.

“Riley.” I smiled. “Is there more to it? It seems bigger from the outside.”

He glanced left, in the direction of a door marked Private. “There’s an upstairs, but it’s closed to a private party.”

Closed to a private party. I rubbed my elbow, my arm tingling from the hit. “You know what kind of party it is?” I should give up. Take a seat in the corner and wait for them to leave, or get out of here.

He grinned. “I could get you in if you are interested.”

Am I interested? No. Probably not. Chances are he’ll open the door and it’ll be a flashback to my experience at Brett’s home office, staring blankly at a group of men with no logical purpose for my presence. “No. I was just curious.”

“Why don’t you come up to VIP? It has a view of the upstairs, plus one of the city.”

VIP? I hadn’t seen a VIP in my cruise of the club. Then again, I hadn’t seen the stairway upstairs but Brett and his cronies had gone somewhere. “Are there other people in VIP?”

He laughed. “Where do you think everyone is? There’s a reason it’s a ghost town down here.”

I watched him laugh, the easy tilt of his head, the relaxed sag of his shoulders, the nod he gave to a waitress when she passed.

He was nice. Helpful. A little flirtatious, but that was fine. Trustworthy. Connected. And he could give me a glimpse of the upstairs party.

I smiled. “Sounds good.”

The five fingers of Him burned into my arm, the twist of his body to look at Brett causing a rug-burn effect, but I stayed in place, my back to him. I couldn’t turn, couldn’t look into Brett’s eyes because if I did... God, if I saw his face my barely controlled emotions would flood. I would sob his name, throw my arms out and fly into his chest. I would grip his shirt, smell his cologne and never let go - they’d have to cut out our chests and separate the beating of our hearts.

“No problem. Just a little negotiation over price. The slave stepped out of place.” He jerked with his hand on my arm and I stumbled around, into my keeper, my eyes glued to the floor, the wet brim of tears threatening to fall as I did everything to stop myself from looking up.

Brett’s shoes. Black dress shoes, the laces tight and neat. If I pulled up his dress pants, I’d see dark silk socks.

He watched me, a playful gleam in his eyes as he pulled his shoes, then his socks off, stretching the black fabric between his hands and standing. Walking to the foot of the bed, he grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the edge, winking at me before he pinned them together and secured them with the silk. “What are you going to do?” I breathed, testing the bind, his weight settling on the bed as he moved against me and propped my bound legs against his shoulder.

“Just wait,” he ordered, his hands busy unbuckling his belt.

“The negotiation is over.” Brett’s voice was quiet yet carried, and I counted the shoes around him. Three other pairs, all pointed this way. I wondered about the men attached to them, if they were ones I’d met before. Wondered how much of his life that I had misunderstood had revolved around this.

“Actually,” the fat man beside me spoke, stepped forward a bit. “It’s not. But you’re welcome to enter the deal. I might be persuaded to sell my option.”

In the silence that followed, I pictured Brett’s face, the way his jaw clenched when he held back anger, the way his eyes blazed with authority. When his words finally came, I heard the pent-up bite in their tones.

“Do you know who I am?”

It was an odd response and I stopped counting shoes and remembering and holding back tears, stopped everything to listen. My keeper spoke. “I’d guess, from the room’s sudden silence, that you’re Buyer 43.”

He was right, the room was quiet. The hum of masculinity, the laughs and murmurs and feminine chimes - all had stopped. There was nothing more interesting in this space than us. Buyer 43. I tried to remember what had been said.