Speak Easy by Melanie Harlow Read Free Book Online Page B

hem. Even more, I adored what I couldn’t see—the way the stockings were rolled to just above my knee and held there by the garters, the decadent feel of satin against my unbound breasts, and the looseness of the step-in compared to the usual body-binding corselette.
    “You look like a million bucks,” Rosie said, a rare compliment from her.
    “Thanks. I owe you.”
    “Can you get me into Club 23?” One penciled brow peaked above her hopeful eyes.
    “Maybe next time,” I told her, although the last thing I wanted to do was make an entrance into a club next to Rosie.
    Back at home, I brushed my teeth and did some final primping in my bedroom mirror, thankful for the privacy while I practiced walking in my new heels. It took me a few tries to get the bow lips right, but I thought I had a reasonable imitation by the time I heard a knock on the front door.
    When he saw me, Joey’s eyebrows shot up. “Damn, Tiny. If I didn’t know it was you, I’d say you were beautiful.” He was wearing a dark brown suit, white shirt open at the collar, no tie or hat. The suit looked a bit worse for wear, but he’d tamed his hair and shaved, revealing clear skin and a strong jaw. My insides performed a funny little flip.
    “You’re a riot. But I’ll thank you to just keep quiet tonight.” I pulled the door shut behind me and walked to his car, a black Ford much like mine.
    “Don’t you want me to get the door for you?”
    I waved him off. “This isn’t a date, Joey. Just get in and drive. Do you know where we’re going?”
    He nodded and slid into the driver’s seat, stealing a glance at my legs before starting the car. I smoothed the dress over my thighs and pressed my knees together.
    Neither of us spoke on the way downtown.
    The block he parked on looked perfectly ordinary, lined with darkened sandwich and coffee shops, a florist, a shoe store, and a photography studio. Steam rose from grates on the cement, and the electric streetlights cast a yellowish glow.
    “Where’s the club?” I asked as we got out of the car.
    “Right over there, I think.” We walked down the street and he pointed to the florist’s door, which had the number 23 painted on it. “See that opening in the sidewalk? That’s a stairwell to the cellar, where the entrance is.”
    We descended the cement steps. At the foot of the staircase was a massive metal door, which Joey knocked on.
    No answer.
    He pounded a little harder.
    Nothing.
    I was about to tell him to forget it, this couldn’t be the place, when we heard a few clicking sounds, like the door was being unlocked from inside. I pushed it open, and we stepped inside a dark, closet-like space with a second door ahead of us.
    “That wasn’t so hard,” I said. But when the big metal door slammed behind us, we were trapped in the blackness. Immediately my heart began thudding, but within seconds, a tiny slot at eye level—well, more Joey’s eye level than mine—opened up.
    A pair of eyes appeared. “Yeah?”
    “Is this Club 23?” Joey asked.
    “Get lost.” The slot closed.
    “Angel sent me,” I said loudly. The slot opened again.
    “Who said that?”
    “Me. Down here .”
    The eyes found me and the voice attached to them laughed.
    “Listen, can we come in or not?” I asked irritably.
    “Sure, you can come in,” the voice said. “If Angel sent you, you’re in.” The door opened, and we were directed down a dark, low-ceilinged hallway with a red-tiled floor and black-painted cement walls toward the club’s main room. The music grew louder as we approached. At the end of the hall were two red velvet curtains, tied back on either side.
    My heart raced as I took in the club’s cozy underground opulence. The front third of the room was dominated by an elevated stage, where a dozen musicians shook the walls with a driving rhythm. The rectangular dance floor in front of it was two tiers lower than where I was standing and packed with dancers. Cocktail tables edged the floor,