I’d done a good job with myself, then. I was a convincing forgery.
“Maybe so,” I lied. “But like I said, I’m not nice.”
She eyed me. “All right. Everyone knows the Sparrow’s for people who want to dabble in kink. It’s not for true believers.”
“Why not?” Would Laurel have known?
“It’s the transaction,” the woman said, turning to look at herself again in the mirror, skimming a hand through her hair. “Cheapens it. Makes it a performance. When they’re fucking you, you can’t shake that you know it’s not real. They’re hitting you and calling you a cunt because it’s a novelty they paid for. They don’t actually mean it. And they have to really mean it for it to feel good.” She gave me a small smile. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said, sliding into place beside her.
She narrowed her eyes at my nearness.
“I want to be hurt by someone who means it.” I ignored the hum of warning inside me. I tilted my head, offering the long, exposed line of my neck. “I want someone who can see who I am underneath.” I dropped my eyes to the countertop, allowing headiness to wash over me, leaning in to the effects of the pill. “I thought I could live without it, but it’s hardly living, is it?”
There was a long stretch of silence. Then she asked softly, “What kind of pain do you like?”
We locked eyes. She was close enough to touch. The light from the candles flickered over her face.
“Most kinds,” I said. “Whatever puts me in my place.”
“Submissive.”
“But not for money.”
“No. Because you deserve it.” Her eyes tracked over me, and she lifted her hand to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. That’s when I saw it.
The scar.
A pink, raised mark on the underside of her arm. One horizontal line. One triangle. Four lines connecting them, straight and tall, like pillars.
It was Laurel’s symbol.
This woman knew her.
“Your arm,” I started, then stopped, the urgency closing my throat. “Can I… Do you know—” But I couldn’t ask her outright. I knew that, felt it. It would make her skittish. “Where do I find the real thing?” I asked instead, and the confusion on her face dissolved into understanding.
She reached inside her bra. “If you’re serious—” Out came a lip pencil, and she reached for my hand. I felt the tip drag over my skin. “Show up at 7 Fox Lane. This Tuesday, at midnight. Tell the man at the door you’re a gift from a humble daughter.”
She released my hand, and I stared at the blocky message written in the same red as her lips: 7 FOX LANE. I could feel Laurel drawing closer, just a whisper ahead.
“Listen to me,” she said, her voice so stern it snapped me to attention. The slippery seduction in her voice, in her eyes—the hook that had reeled me, pulled me inch by inch across the bathroom—was gone. Its sudden absence was like a splash of cold water. “This isn’t a game. If you go to Fox Lane, you can’t change your mind. Do you understand?”
I started to nod, to reassure her, but she gripped my arm. Her nails dug into the skin at my wrist. “If there’s even a little part of you that can live without it…don’t come.”
“I meant what I said.”
“Of course you did.” She let go of my arm, leaving the ghost of her nails still biting me, and strode toward the bathroom door.
“Wait,” I called, and she paused, glancing over her shoulder.