The Rebound - Stefanie London Page 0,14
curling her fingers around the brass and sealing her hand with my own. Then I bring the knocker down in three sharp knocks—one, two, three. Pause, counting to five. One more knock.
A second later, the door swings open and a woman in all black with lipstick as bright and glittering as a Christmas ornament beckons us inside. “Welcome to The Easy.” She looks at me a little closer. “Seb?”
“Nice to see you, Charlotte.”
She reaches in and gives me a warm hug. “I’m sorry, I almost didn’t recognise you without the long hair.”
“They made me clean up in Sydney,” I joke. “This is Presley. We’re hoping to grab a table and get a quiet drink.”
“Of course. I’ll take you up to the lounge.” She smiles at Presley and then motions for us to follow her up a tight flight of stairs. The Easy is three levels and was the house of a rich politician in the early 1900s. Now it’s a private club where members come to drink, network and meet like minds, all while making my friend Lark very, very rich.
“This place is amazing,” Presley croons as we walk up the stairs. She’s ahead of me, ass wiggling enticingly in her miniskirt with each step. She trails a hand along the flocked wallpaper, which starts in a shade of rich wine-red and moves to an inky navy in a smooth ombré as we ascend. “I’m going to be so disappointed if it’s a cult.”
I laugh. “You haven’t seen any pig’s blood or people wearing cloaks yet, have you?”
“No, thank God.” She turns to look at me over her shoulder, and the sight is enough to make my knees buckle—tousled hair, smudgy eyes and the most wicked curve to her lips. “I’m starting to think I should have let you pick our drinking spot from the beginning.”
Charlotte takes us to a hallway at the top of the stairs. There are two main rooms up here, a boardroom for members to have discreet, private business meetings and one of the three bars in this place. There’s a bar on the first floor, for all members to access, as well as a rooftop terrace with a dance floor and cocktail bar. The level we’re going to is reserved for a limited of number of members per night, so it’s never too crowded. Never too loud.
She pushes the door open and waits for us to step inside ahead of her. Suddenly, Presley shrinks back against me, the curve of her backside nestling against my hips. But it’s not so she can entice me—although my animal brain is already racing.
“I am not dressed for this place.” She swings around, eyes panicked.
The clientele is dressy—women in cocktail attire and men in suits. We’re around the corner from one of the theatres, so there are often people here after a show. A young guy sits at the bar and I know his face but can’t place the name—I’m pretty sure he’s a professional athlete. Tennis, maybe?
“There’s no dress code,” I say, placing my hand on Presley’s shoulders and gently guiding her back around.
“They’re going to think I’m here for ‘entertainment’ or something.”
“It’s not that kind of club, trust me.”
Charlotte guides us to a small table with a curved bench seat behind it, and Presley scoots in quickly as though the table might protect her. I’m not sure why she’s so riled up—I love the leather-and-leopard-and-stockings look. It suits her.
“I’ll send someone over to take your drink order,” Charlotte says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be such a stranger, okay? Come past and say hi before you head back to Sydney. Lark would love to see you.”
As she walks away, I catch Presley surveying the room. It’s similarly opulent to the stairway—art deco stylings, gold trim and plum velvet couches. The cocktail menu is thick and bound with a brass ring that mimics the knocker on the front door.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Presley toys with my grandfather’s ring, pushing it around and around so that the stone winks with each revolution. The familiarity of the gesture strikes me in the chest; I do the same thing when I’m trying to figure out the solution to a problem.
She reaches for the menu. “This place is a little... extra.”
“I thought it might be good to go somewhere we can talk.” I lower myself next to her on the velvet bench seat, my hand brushing against her arm.
She watches me, cool eyes hiding herself away. It pains me that I’m