Chapter 3

MIRANDA

"Motherfucker!" Andrea O'Connor's hysterical scream was my welcome as soon as I stepped into her office.

My friend and partner at THE BOARDROOM, the most popular nightclub in all of Los Angeles, especially among rich men with desires to go back to high school and see beauties of all kinds in indecent school uniforms shaking their asses on stage. Even though this type of sexual fantasy might seem cheesy, men paid a small fortune, mainly for the discretion of keeping their identities secret - since some of them were either prominent men in society, or married. Everything they did, who they did it with, and how, was a closely guarded secret, guaranteed by a contract that heavily favored the contractor if anything went public, provided they didn't break any of the club's rules.

One of those rules was total secrecy about what happened in the VIP area, Detention, the area managed by Lorenzo, Andrea's older brother. He was in charge of running the section where rebellious "students" went when they were "punished."

Detention, so to speak, was a separate part of the nightclub, a section that only a handpicked few even knew existed. That was where the clients' most sordid sexual desires were fulfilled, men who had a sick desire to be dominated by sadistic employees known as "The Teachers." They willingly - in one of the seven private rooms of their choosing - did whatever they wanted with "the students," punishing them for both their own pleasure and vice versa.

All VIP clients went through a bureaucratic process to get access to that area, and even though they paid - in my opinion - an arm and a leg, I knew that no matter the amount of money dropped, they had no regrets. For many, it was a place where they could escape their duties and, above all, their problems in the outside world.

The nightclub that came out of nowhere was now one of the top ten in both luxury and customer service. And even though I wasn't familiar with others - after all, I'd never be able to afford one with the money I make; even my entire salary for two years wouldn't be enough to get into a renowned club like THE BOARDROOM - in my opinion, it passed with flying colors when it came to satisfying the male "audience."

How do I know so much about this club?

Besides being the owner's best friend, a former employee also knows what goes on...

"I don't want to hear it, it has to be French food, not Italian!" The pure rage in her words pulled me from my thoughts.

"What do I-I do with the caterer I hired?" Nessie, Andrea's secretary, sounded slightly nervous over the phone. I closed the door as quietly as possible and watched Andrea pour herself a drink, looking like she was about to have a nervous breakdown. Her red hair was tied in a messy bun, and her clothes were wrinkled as if she had just woken up. The blanket and some pillows from the leather sofa lying on the floor confirmed that Andrea had spent the night here.

Again.

"Fuck it, fix the mistake. I wasn't speaking Greek when I told you the damn food for the wedding had to be French! I want everything to be perfect, worthy of my friend, understood? Miranda deserves a princess wedding, and if it isn't, I swear the people responsible will suffer by my hands..."

"There isn't going to be a wedding," I said, interrupting her frightening promises, which Andrea would undoubtedly carry out with pleasure. This crazy woman meant every word she said.

It was one of the many things I admired about her: she never backed down from a fight, she didn't take anyone's crap, and she fought tooth and nail for the people she loved.

"What do you mean there's no wedding?" she asked, setting the glass down with a delicacy that completely contradicted her dark expression.

If we hadn't been friends for so long, I would definitely be shitting myself out of fear, but I knew the anger burning in her wasn't directed at me, but at whoever had caused the wedding to be canceled.

"Do I keep the caterer or not?" Nessie asked, her voice nothing more than a trembling whisper, terrified of the redhead's temper.

Andrea, being the delicate person she was, simply hung up the phone without even saying yes or no, or even mentioning she would call back later. After giving me a thorough once-over, she pointed to the chair across from her desk.

"Sit your ass in that chair and you better tell me why."

(...)

"Bastard, son of a bitch, piece of shit," Andrea concluded after half an hour of listing every insult she could think of for Ramone. Looking a bit dumbfounded, the redhead ran a hand through her straight hair and looked at me with a wicked gleam that promised pure evil. "Do you want me to send some of my guys to rough up that traitor? I can even take care of the bitch, I just need to know her name..."

"There's no need to rough anyone up," I muttered dryly as I downed my third glass of whiskey.

"What do you mean no? I know you didn't love that idiot, but he cheated on you. He definitely needs to be castrated, and while we're at it, that bitch deserves to get hurt for messing with a taken man!" she fired off, demanding vengeance.

I smiled, feeling a bit touched, but at the same time saddened to say what hurt so much to remember.

"Even if the bitch in question is Amanda?"

Andrea blinked once, twice, three times before her mouth fell open in shock. She didn't say anything for several long seconds, which made me uneasy. After running a hand over her mouth, the redhead opened her desk drawer and slid two plane tickets toward me. I raised an eyebrow, not understanding what she was getting at.

"I was thinking about throwing a surprise bachelorette party for tonight in Las Vegas, just a small thing between the two of us since I wouldn't have time to do anything big because of work. I know tomorrow is your day off, so... I..." she stammered awkwardly.

"And?" I asked, picking up the tickets and noticing they were first class - no surprise there, since my friend liked the finer things in life.

"I had already organized everything, the hotel and all," she said softly, stopping in front of me. "And even though there's no wedding anymore, what do you say we use these tickets and take some time for ourselves? Forget about this problem for a bit and face it later? What do you think?"

"What about the club?" I asked, biting my lip insecurely.

Andrea smiled and stroked my cheek sweetly, like a mother comforting her daughter.

"Lorenzo said he can handle it, so don't worry about it, okay? If we leave right now, we still have time to catch the flight."

I looked at the tickets, and then back at my friend. I don't know if it was the fear of saying no, going home, and facing what was waiting for me, or if it was the alcohol in my system that made me stand up from the chair and say:

"What are we waiting for? Let's celebrate my freedom!"