The basic VIP area is always easy to spot because, well, what’s the point in being a VIP if you can’t let others know they’re excluded? They sit in balconies so they can look down at you Roman Colosseum — style. It’s dark up there, but from Maggie’s vantage point, she can see a lot of men dressed in the more traditional dishdasha, big in the United Arab Emirates, a robe-like, single-piece, long-sleeved, ankle-length garment, which is white, simple, practical, comfortable, and — especially in the desert heat — cooling. A ghutra headdress with a classic black-corded agal. Marc often sported one when he came to this area, once the locals insisted that it was considered respectful and not any sort of appropriation.
Damn. Marc again. The constant stream of Marc-related pangs.
Up ahead she sees two beefy security guards with dark sunglasses standing behind, in a hackneyed move on the club’s part, an actual red velvet rope. Maggie steps up to one of the security guards. The music is still loud — don’t people just want to talk without screaming sometimes? — so she has to shout: “I’m looking for Nadia.”
She expects him to come back at her with some stupid rejoinder like “I don’t know any Nadia” or “Who’s asking?” — a line like that. But instead, the guard nods and says, “We know.”
“You do?”
He nods and unclasps one side of the velvet rope to allow her to pass. “Take the elevator to the Ecstasy Level.”
Maggie gives him flat eyes. “Ecstasy Level?”
The guard shrugs as though to say, “Yeah, what can you do?”
Maggie moves toward the elevator. Ecstasy Level? Why not just call it something more subtle like Orgasm Floor or something? She gets in the elevator. Again no buttons, nothing saying Ecstasy or any of that. The doors close. The elevator heads up. The ride takes seconds, but to Maggie, it feels longer.
Because she’s about to come face-to-face with Nadia.
Her hands flex into fists. She rocks back and forth on her heels, feeling a bit like what a boxer must feel when he’s in his corner and waiting for the bell to ring for the first round. When the elevator door opens, the first thing Maggie sees are the stunning crystal chandeliers, a lot of them. They give off a soft, warm glow over a marble floor and plush seating. There are twenty, maybe thirty people — a celebrity or two Maggie thinks she may recognize — and while there is a perfume in the air that reeks of opulence and luxury, the main difference between the regular section of Etoile Adiona and the VIP section is that most people aren’t allowed into the VIP section. That’s it, really. Same music. Same dance floor. Same beverages. Slightly more attentive staff. Sure, it’s less crowded, but if you don’t want a crowd, why go to a nightclub?
The appeal is entirely about who is allowed in — and who isn’t.
Life is always a high school cafeteria.
This has never been Maggie’s world. The only time she’d go to clubs like this was when Trace would drag her as a wingman (wingwoman?) of sorts. “Stand near me,” Trace would tell her.
“Uh, why?”
“Nothing appeals to a hot woman more than a man who is already with a hot woman.”
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted on behalf of the sisterhood.”
“Maybe both? But it’s true. If I’m normally, let’s say a seven—”
“A seven, Trace? Oh, look at you being all modest.”
“—when they see me with you, it ups me to a nine, maybe a ten, in their eyes.”
“Aren’t you worried they’ll think you’re taken?”
“Even better. Forbidden fruit. It’s a tremendous turn-on for women.”
“It’s not, Trace.”
“It’s not to you,” he says. “But I’m not after a woman like you.”
“More flattery.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Sadly, I do.” Then, watching Trace obviously scope out a nearby woman: “You’re a pig, Trace. You know that, right?”
Trace would spread his arms and smile. “Love me for all my faults.”
She shakes away the memory. A waitress in what looks like tuxedo lingerie hands Maggie a smoky beverage, like something out of an old horror film, covered in glitter. The music is still too loud.
“What is this?” Maggie shouts.
“Our signature drink. Starry, Starry Night.”
“What’s in it?”
“Mango, yuzu, coconut, Dom Perignon — and our secret sauce.”
Sounds gross, Maggie thinks, but she takes a sip. Not bad. “I’m looking for—”
“Nadia is behind the curtain.”
Everyone here is prepared. “Like the Wizard of Oz.”
“Pardon?”
“Which curtain?”
She points. Maggie has had enough. She hands the drink back to the waitress and storms toward the curtain. A man gets in her way, says “Hey, babe,” and starts dancing for her. He’s doing the middle-age Dancing Douchebag move of biting down on his lower lip. Maggie is about to maneuver past him, but she stops a second.
How does she want to come into this?
Would it be smarter not to show Nadia all her cards right away? Slow down and think a sec. Nadia has been playing her. Would it be wiser to let Nadia think she’s still in control, not letting on that Maggie is on to her?
Should Maggie play it coy?
Before she gets to the curtain, it flings open.
Nadia steps out of some back room. The two women lock eyes for the briefest of moments. Nadia moves with the grace of a trained Bolshoi ballerina — her head high, shoulders back, clothes draped perfectly on her petite frame. She knows how to draw the eye and yet it’s all organic. There is an intensity to Nadia, a focus, a fiery intelligence, a magnetism that you can’t quite escape.
Nadia breaks into a run and when she reaches Maggie, she throws her arms around her and pulls her close.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers in Maggie’s ear.
Maggie surprises Nadia by pulling her even closer. Aggressively. Oddly enough, Maggie can feel the new breasts press against her own. She had forgotten about that for a second, that Nadia was a patient, that she’d recently had surgery. She must still be tender to the touch, but Nadia doesn’t wince from Maggie’s grip or back off. Still in an embrace, Maggie push-walks Nadia back toward the curtain. Nadia’s lips remain near her ear. She can hear Nadia’s breath catch. Maggie keeps Nadia’s body pressed against her with one arm. Her other hand now slowly travels down Nadia’s back. Anyone watching from a distance — or heck, even close up — would see something on the sensual side.
When Maggie’s hand reaches her waist, Nadia stiffens, and then her body seems to totally surrender into Maggie.
“Doctor...?”
Maggie’s hand slides to Nadia’s hip bone, then down the side of her leg, and — should Maggie do it? — up her thigh. Nadia’s breath quickens. Maggie is leading them back through the curtain, moving them away from prying eyes. The back room is empty and lined with plush sofas.
Maggie changes up now, pulling up on the fringe of Nadia’s dress so that it’s over her waist.
“Doctor,” Nadia says again.
And that’s when Maggie pushes Nadia back onto the couch. Nadia’s face is flushed. Maggie is about to follow her down, but there’s no need. Nadia’s dress is still up over her waist. As was Maggie’s wont, Nadia’s thighs are exposed.
And unblemished.
Maggie looks back and makes sure no one is coming toward them. No one is. Anyone who saw them vanish back in here probably thinks they want to be alone, private, undisturbed. Good. That’s what Maggie wanted.