Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
I bite my lip. This is feeling a little bit sketchy, I can’t lie.
But something about this staircase is beckoning me in.
This is a place designed to not be found.
And maybe…I don’t want to be found either.
I want to know what’s beyond these mirrored stairs.
Maddox takes a few steps down and then looks up at me, offering his hand. “Shall we?”
I look around the foyer, at the fur-lined couches, the wall lined in muted green wallpaper, and the ever-grinning Chet sitting behind his pink desk.
I could still make a run for it.
I could go home, heat myself up a frozen dinner, and go back to my life of straight lines and right angles. It’s boring, but at least I know what I’m getting.
It’s safe, secure. Comfortable.
But that’s the life I’ve grown to hate. Maddox is offering me something new, something fresh, something even terrifying perhaps, yet exhilarating at the same time.
I place my hand in his. “You lead the way, Maddox.”
We slowly descend the long staircase. We’re about halfway down when Chet closes the door above us, and I hear the lock reengage.
I squeeze Maddox’s hand. “Are we trapped in here?”
He chuckles. “Of course not. You can leave the same way you came. You just have to knock three times on the door and Chet will let you out.”
“What if Chet is away from the door? What if he needs to use the bathroom or something?”
Maddox scratches his chin with his free hand. “I don’t think Chet uses the bathroom.”
“What?”
“I mean, clearly he does. He’s a guy. But he must hold it when he’s on duty. He’s not allowed to leave his post except in the event of an emergency.”
“And what if there’s an emergency?”
Maddox looks into my eyes. “Then I’ll take care of you, Alissa. You’re safe with me, I promise you.”
And I do feel safe with him.
Which makes absolutely no sense at all.
We reach the bottom of the staircase, and another door, this one emerald green, marked with the same playing-card symbols that were on the door in the back alley that led us into the foyer.
Maddox grins as he grabs the doorknob. “You ready?”
I gulp. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Maddox opens the door, gestures to me.
I take a step inside.
And I drop my jaw.
Aces Underground is an expansive wonderland the likes of which I’ve never seen. It’s a huge square-shaped room with a black-and-white tiled floor, like a checkerboard. I’m surrounded by patrons dressed in elegant gowns and tuxedos, drinking flutes of champagne and socializing. Around them, waitstaff walk about, holding trays of drinks. They’re mostly women, but I spy a few men among their numbers as well. They’re scantily clad, the women in lacy black bikinis and the men in tight-fitting dark shorts with no shirt. They’re all in excellent shape. The men all have six packs, and the women are toned with curves in all the right places. The uniforms—if you can call them that—are flecked with white symbols. Each of the waitstaff has something tattooed on either shoulder, though I can’t quite tell what it is from a distance. I’ll have to get a closer look.
The club is divided into four quadrants, each one matching a card suit. Directly across from us is the Spades section, lined with light-blue wallpaper. At its center is a bar manned by two heavy-set people in striped sweaters, surrounded by sleek unlabeled bottles of spirits that catch the cerulean lights bouncing off them. Several small metal tables speckle the section, populated by patrons enjoying their drinks.
Adjacent to the bar is the golden and glamorous Diamonds section, which appears to be reserved for gambling. Several tables lined with yellow felt provide the surfaces for poker, blackjack, and roulette. The clinking sound of chips being stacked and moved about dominates the space, punctuated only by the occasional cheer or groan by a gambler.
Across from Diamonds is the Clubs section, shrouded in murky greens. The section is full of plush emerald armchairs forming intimate clusters, where patrons are smoking and mingling. A table to the side is lined with stylish glass hookahs, matching the section’s colors, along with vases of exquisite tropical flowers. The stale and musty fog of cigarette and marijuana smoke condenses into a cloud hovering over the section, which thankfully doesn’t bleed into where we’re standing. They must have some kind of special filtration system to keep it contained.
Finally, across from Spades is the Hearts section, awash in soft pink lighting. A small stage framed by rosy velvet curtains dominates the space and is populated by a live band and a beautiful female singer—platinum blond hair and light-pink lips—dressed in a gorgeous white gown trimmed with pearls. She’s singing jazz standards into a vintage 1920s microphone and is accompanied by a group of instrumentalists, including a pianist—playing a pink baby grand, of course—a saxophonist, an upright bassist, and a drummer. Right now she’s singing a soulful rendition of “Stormy Weather.” Couples sway in each other’s arms on the dance floor to the singer’s tunes, illumined only by suave floor-length candelabras sporting blush-colored candles.