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Dev has used his family’s hotel chain as a guide for creating his edgy boutique brand called The Provocateur. I believe he met Gianni when he requested to learn how to build a few private spaces into each hotel to accommodate the more tantalizing palates.
Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. And while he’s probably the biggest rake among us, he’s been able to keep his personal life hidden from his professional persona. But as his nickname indicates, he has no problem keeping his dick wet.
“Yeah. G has it rough,” Becket chokes out.
Gianni simply sits back in his chair with his hands folded across his chest as he looks proudly over the club. “If you build it, they will come.”
“All right, Kevin Costner,” I quip.
“Man, I haven’t seenField of Dreamsin years,” Becket adds, reaching for his phone. “Wonder if it’s on Netflix?”
“Field of what?” G asks.
“I liked him inBull Durhambetter,” Max interjects.
Maximillian Wilde is the quiet guy in the group. From what I gather, he saves his talking for the ladies, and it’s of the dirty variety. Max is a gigolo wannabe trapped in nerd’s clothing. He’s a self-made billionaire, creating one of the best cyber security firms in the world. Not that you’d know it to look at him. There’s no pretension with this one.
Max doesn’t dress to impress. He reminds me a lot of my grandfather. He puts a great deal of thought into his purchases, acquiring things that are built to last. I haven’t known him long, but he seems like a straight shooter. I don’t think this guy will settle down until a smoking hot, equally geeky chick falls into his lap.
After a pause, Gianni asks, “What’sBull Durham?”
I snort out a laugh. “It’s another baseball flick Kevin Costner starred in, G.”
“You Americans and your baseball. You’re all late to the party. Calcio is the most popular sport in the world.”
Max, Becket, Dev, and I all look at each other in confusion.
“What the fuck is Calcio?” Becket blurts.
“It’s soccer, you moron.” G scowls.
“I thought they called it Football,” Dev adds.
“The British call it fútbol. The Italians call it Calcio. And we all know who the superior country is,” G scolds with a stern glance.
“America,” Devon and Becket say in unison.
I chuckle as I rub my hands up and down the armrests of the buttery soft, black leather chair and gaze about the club. This place is pure class. Gianni had a vision when he opened the Devil’s Playground, and he executed it flawlessly.
Located in an industrial district just outside of Washington, the opulence of the interior of the building is masked by its obscure manufacturing façade. There are a few other nightclubs and restaurants in the area, but this location blends into the background if you aren’t sure what to look for. And anonymity is essential with clubs of this nature.
The building’s main floor houses multiple bars, group seating, a dance floor, and a stage for entertaining. It’s open to a viewing area along the second floor. This floor offers a place for patrons who want to be able to have an actual conversation. I can’t begin to imagine the many shrewd business deals that have been completed up there.
The opulent club is well-appointed with plush leather furnishings, decadent lighting, and jaw-dropping artwork. But none of the decor compares to the women. The sultry, seductive sirens of the Devil’s Playground are like no other sex club I’ve attended. Girls from different nationalities—tall, short, curvy, thin, blonde, brunette, or redhead. You name it, and you’ll find someone who meets your fancy. While some are strictly here as eye candy, others will gladly entertain in the more private areas of the club. While it’s not uncommon for an attractive server to sit on your knee and flirt a bit, this isn’t the type of place where you get a fifty-dollar lap dance while your friends hoot and holler.
“I have several new hires making their debut tonight,” Gianni says, pointing to the area around the stage. For a minute, I think I recognize one of the girls and lean forward for a closer look, but get distracted when several attractive servers deliver trays of decadent food and drink to our table.
Sitting back, we enjoy our two-finger pours of Macallan and snack on lavish appetizers of caviar, oysters, and black pasta in truffle butter as we anticipate the rest of our evening. The five of us sit in comfortable silence, each undoubtedly appreciating the opportunity to unwind. Strobe lights flicker above the dance floor as patrons grind against one another to the hedonistic, sexy vibe of the music.
Everything about this place is made for sin.
* * *
“Cigar, sir?” a gorgeous, scantily clad redhead offers from a silver tray.
“I don’t mind if I do, thank you.” I reach for a Davidoff and recline back in my seat, watching as Max gives a wink to the server as he declines.
“I’m surprised you’re here keeping me company.”
