It's All Red

Red Light

August’s Pov

I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t

At six o’clock the next morning, I was standing in front of the black door of The Gilded Hour with my hands in my pockets and a headache that felt like a nail behind my left eye.

The manager was a precise, silver-haired man named Tony who had been running the club since before my wife died. He let me in without a word and led me to a small office behind the bar, where a pot of coffee was already steaming.

“Mr. Holloway,” he said, sitting down. “I assumed you’d come.”

“You recognized me.”

“Mr. Vesper is a pseudonym. Not a disguise.” He allowed himself a faint smile. “You’ve been a member for Five years, sir. I know your face.”

“Then you know I’d never ask for a favor I didn’t need.”

“I do.”

I set my hands on the desk. “Who booked last night’s session?”

If the question startled him, Tony didn’t look it. “A man named Carter. Through an assistant, though the payment was made in advance, in full, from a corporate account. The terms were drafted by the client herself. Ms. Quinn.” He paused. “She requested the longest standing member available, someone discreet. We offered her three names. She chose yours.”

That stopped me. “She chose me.”

“On the basis of your file. Which includes the, ah, note you left at the time of your last booking.” He opened a drawer, withdrew a folder, and slid it across the desk. “Do not assign me anyone who treats this as a game. She said that was why.”

I stared at the page. I had written those words myself, two years ago, after a woman had laughed at me in the middle of a session and told her friends about it afterward. I thought I’d forgotten. Apparently, I didn’t.

She hadn’t chosen me because I was available. She’d chosen me because I’d asked not to be used. I closed the folder. “And Carter?”

“Carter paid, and Carter did not come in. He was in the lounge for the duration.” Tony’s expression was unreadable. “The cameras in the guest rooms are disabled at the point of entry, per club policy. There is a physical switch. It was thrown at eight forty last night, and it was thrown again at eleven twelve.”

“Something recorded in between.”

“Nothing from our equipment.” He folded his hands. “But I took the liberty of sending a technician into the room after you both left. He found this behind the sconce on the east wall.”

He placed a small black disc on the desk. It was no bigger than a coin.

My blood went cold.

“A wireless camera,” I said.

“Live transmitting. Not recorded locally.” Tony’s voice was very level. “I will say, Mr. Holloway, that in ten years of operating this establishment, I have never once had a client violate a member’s privacy. Not once. I would very much like to know who authorized this.”

“So would I.” I picked up the camera and turned it over in my palm. It felt like a small, malicious eye. “Mr. Tony, I need you to do something for me. Do not report this. Not to Ms. Quinn, not to Mr. Carter, not to anyone. Not yet.”

He hesitated. “You are asking me to keep a violation of a client’s privacy from the client.”

“I’m asking you to give me forty eight hours.” I stood. “If what I think is happening is happening, telling her now will destroy her. And it will warn the person who did it.”

Tony studied me for a long, quiet moment.

“Forty eight hours,” he agreed. “After which, I will have no choice.”

“Understood.”

I pocketed the camera and walked out into a gray, ordinary morning, with the sound of my own pulse loud in my ears.

Carter. It had to be Grant’s alias. Grant had booked the session. Grant had picked me, not knowing it was me, from a short list of available men, and he had installed a camera in a room where a woman who trusted him had been promised absolute privacy.

I didn’t know why. But I was going to find out. And I was going to find out before Marisol Quinn married my son.

My phone rang at nine fifteen, while I was sitting in my car outside a coffee shop with a cup I hadn’t touched.

The screen said Grant.

I stared at it. It had been two years, two months, and eleven days since my son had called me. I had counted, because I was a fool.

I answered on the fifth ring.

“Dad.” His voice was bright and warm and perfectly pitched. “It’s been a while.”

“Grant.”

“I know. I know. I’ve been a terrible son.” He laughed lightly, a laugh I recognized from boardrooms, the laugh he used to soften a bargain. “But I’ve been thinking about you lately. A lot, actually. Life’s changing, and I’d like you to be part of it.”

“Is that so.”

“I’m engaged, Dad. You’ve probably seen the announcement.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Her name is Marisol. She’s... she’s wonderful. I’d love for you to meet her. Sunday dinner, at the house. Just family.”

I closed my eyes.

On the passenger seat sat a tiny black camera and a cream colored envelope I’d been carrying since the night before, the one thing I hadn’t been able to bring myself to throw away. Inside it was a copy of her terms.

“Sunday,” I said slowly.

“Seven o’clock. Please say yes.” His voice dropped, almost vulnerable. It was a very good performance. “It would mean a great deal to me. To both of us.”

To both of us. He said it like a man laying down a card.

“Dad?” He paused. “And mom would want this.”

How dare he bring his mom into this? I clenched my fist so hard I was certain I might bleed. But this was Grant, I would be giving him exactly what he wanted if I reacted. “I’m sure she would.” I replied in the same sarcastic tone. “I’m sure she would be so proud of you too, Grant.”

“Thanks, Dad. So, you’re coming?”

I thought about the woman in the plum dress, her fingers laced through mine in the dark. I thought about the way she’d said Grant says he loves me, but I’ve never felt... and trailed off, because she’d already known.

I opened my eyes. “I’ll be there,” I said

.

“Fantastic. Seven. Don’t be late.” Grant hung up, and the line went quiet.

I sat in the car for a long time, the camera warm in my fist, and thought with the precision of a man who has finally decided to fight.

Sunday.

Sunday it was.