Page 1 of Never Forget

PROLOGUE

NAZ

A thick black curtain brushes against my shoulder as I step through the doorway and into a large dimly lit room. The sounds of the main club fade as the door shuts behind me, the loud pulsing beat muffled and replaced with something slower and heavier. A deep, hypnotic rhythm rolls through the room, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The low, grungy guitar riff and distorted vocals vibrate against my skin like a physical touch. Red light spills across black leather furniture and heavy velvet curtains, a shadow of sin blanketing every carefully cultivated nook, dark corner, and figure inside them.

I pause inside the entrance and survey my surroundings, adjusting the mask that covers the upper half of my face and pulling the collar of my shirt up to hide the tattoos that crawl up my throat. It’s dark enough in here that I’m not too likely to be recognized, and even if I was, the staff and clientele here are heavily background checked and sign ironclad NDAs to ensure privacy for all members. It’s not so much my fame that I don’t want to be recognized… I don’t want to be seen at all. The mask and the shadows are more than just layers of anonymity to protect my privacy, it’s for myself. Right now, I don’t want to be Naz Lester, drummer for one of the most famous rock bands in the world.

I want to be… No one.

Just another curious body standing in the dark.

Still, my pulse kicks up as I step further into the room. Nerves or anticipation. Maybe both.

I don’t know why I keep coming back here. But I’ve felt an inexplicable pull to come back since the first time I entered the red room, wide-eyed and curious.

This is the third time this week alone.

Three nights of slipping away from my friends and bandmates. Three nights of sneaking out of our hotel or making excuses to get time on my own so I don’t have to watch my best friend drug and drink himself numb. Three nights standing at the edge of this room, pretending I’m just a casual observer while something discomforting twists tighter and tighter in my gut. Three nights of watching people give themselves over to fall apart under someone else’s hands.

How do they do that?

My eyes roam over the handful of scenes playing out for anyone to observe and snag on a scene unfolding on the opposite side of the room. Sticking to the shadows, I move closer to get a better look.

A man kneels on a cushion between two leather benches, his pale bare thighs spread, head bowed obediently beneath the crimson glow of an overhead light. He’s wearing nothing but a collar and leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles. His skin is flushed pink, and angry red welts are streaked across his ass and the backs of his thighs. His pretty face is shiny with either sweat or tears. I can’t tell which. Maybe both.

He looks wrecked.

Not hurt. Not afraid. Just… wrecked.

His bright, glassy eyes stare up at the massive figure standing over him, a man dressed like an executioner in black leather and heavy boots. A mask covers his face except for his mouth, and even from across the room I can see the control in the way he holds himself. One gloved hand grips a thin leather crop loosely against his thigh while the other strokes lazily through the kneeling man’s damp blond curls.

“Look at you,” the masked man murmurs, just loud enough for the small crowd around them to hear over the music. “Aren’t you the prettiest little obedient slut?”

The sub shivers hard enough that I feel it in my spine. And there it is…

That’s the part I can’t stop watching. The part I can’t get out of my mind.

Not the pain. Not the humiliation, although I’d be lying if I said those parts don’t intrigue me.

The surrender.

The way the kneeling man looks completely untethered from himself. Like every thought and fear and expectation has been drained from him until there’s nothing left except obedience and bliss. And trust.

I want that.

I want to stop thinking. Just for a little while. I want to have someone else carry the weight for once, to have all the control and responsibility. I want it taken off my shoulders, even for just a few minutes.

The masked man gives another instruction, calm and casual, and the blond sub obeys immediately, shifting positions to present himself more openly while a few men nearby watch with open interest.

The dom laughs softly. “You can touch him, but not one drop of cum touches him, inside or out. I’m the only one who gets to mark my boy.”

The knot in my stomach twists sharply when several men step forward, and I turn away. This is the part that always turns me off and has me running for the hills. I can put myself in that sub’s place right up to when the dom in charge of the scene opens up the play to others.

That’s not for me. The trust involved in turning over control to one person already feels impossible enough, but letting an entire room put their hands on you while you kneel there and take it?

I can’t even fathom being able to give up that much control.

I shake myself loose from the overwhelming feeling that’s creeping up on me and step backwards, ready to head back to the exit. Directly into a wall of solid muscle.