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“Dude, I can’t wait for the bachelor party,” Jefferson says, his brown eyes scanning the crowd gathered in Julian’s opulent home. “That’s the only reason why I’m dealing with this lame shit, because I know you will have something wickedly fucked up planned.”
Offering a smirk, I let my friend believe what he wants. Since the day he found out that I work at a BDSM club, he’s imagined my life to be something of a really bad porno. With half-naked, leather-clad Dominatrixes whipping me before breakfast, and sultry little sex kittens dressed in schoolgirl uniforms sucking me off to bed.
Hey, I’m a guy, so I don’t correct him. Some things are just too ingrained in the male DNA. But given that we’ve lived together for the past five months, and the only woman I’ve ever had over is Sadie, you’d think he’d eventually catch on that I’m not living the high life deep in tits and ass.
“Yeah, we’ll plan something for him all right,” I say, then take a swig of my bourbon. It burns good going down. Hits me right in the gut.
Jefferson nods toward the petite blonde entering the room, her arm hooked to my brother’s elbow. “Can’t believe he’s giving up the club life for her.” His eyes go wide as he looks at me. “Not that Bethany’s not hot…she’s—”
I hold up a hand. “I get it.”
He continues, “But giving up that lifestyle for one woman?” Jefferson blows out a heavy breath. “What a waste. Your brother still looking for someone to take over the club? Because I’d be willing to sacrifice my nine-to-five for the greater good.”
I down another healthy swallow to avoid responding. I should stop discussing personal shit around Jefferson. Although Julian made that almost impossible with his impromptu visit to my apartment late last night, demanding that I show face at his party. Not that I have anything to worry about with my roommate, but he’s somewhat…tactless. Loud. Crass. And doesn’t know when to drop a topic that’s grating on me.
Like now, as Julian raises his champagne glass alongside his new fiancé to make a toast, and the crowd goes hush, Jefferson blurts, “Would I have to wear a Dom outfit?”
The echo of his deep voice filling the stark-quiet room clogs my throat. I can feel curious stares drilling into me, and I grip the knot of rope in my pocket. I’m not one for attention, especially in a brightly lit, packed environment decorated in pastels. It makes my skin clammy, my scalp itch, my stomach sick with a roiling nausea. I don’t like this kind of attention.
My brother has never had any of my issues, however. He looks right at Jefferson and says, “If you actually wear that to the bachelor party, you’re paying for your own lap dances, my friend.”
The crowd lightens with peals of laughter and deep chuckles, the tension sliding out of the room as if the whole scene was an orchestrated part of his charming toast. Normally, it very well could’ve been. He’s a people person. That’s why he’s the face of the club, the man in the suit. Sharp. Shrewd. Business savvy, but he’s also charismatic.
Julian sends me a knowing look as he lifts his glass higher, then delves into his practiced speech. The woman to his left, Bethany, watches him in awe and fascination. I’m almost positive she’s clueless to his late-night activities at the club…his past…and she’s probably blissfully happy in her ignorance.
I solute the happy couple and drink, killing the rest of the bourbon in one, hard chug.
I can’t loathe the bastard, though. Envy him. Covet his simple approach to life. Despise his nonchalance… Yes. But hate my brother? No, I can’t hate what I’m a part of. We’re both guilty of loving the same woman, and of hurting her. It took the both of us to break her.
But it only took one of us to clean up the mess.
That’s why I get to carry a grudge, and why he lets me.
Placing my glass on a tray of a passing waiter, I turn to leave, but Jefferson catches my arm. “You’re out?” he asks. “The party just started.”
I glance around at all the faces I don’t know. Acquaintances my brother has made since moving here, friends of the bride-to-be. And some faces I do; members of The Lair, who indulge the lifestyle by night, hide in plain sight during the day. They keep my brother’s secrets because he keeps theirs.
We all have secrets. I just choose not to walk that fine line. I am who I am. My shame is my own. I don’t belong here.
“Give my best to the bridesmaids,” I tell Jefferson, slapping him on the shoulder before I leave and make my way through the crowd toward the backdoor.
Once I’m in the sweet release of open space outside, the claustrophobic tension gripping me loosens its hold, and I dig out my phone and tap the message icon.
One new message. From Sadie.
My heart punches my chest. She made it clear that I wasn’t to contact her. I wasn’t to see her. Not until she could get free of her department. I haven’t laid eyes on her—never mind anything else—since the night she left me alone in my apartment.
Only a week, but it might as well be a fucking
century.
Getting one taste of her only heightened my need, and the days, minutes, seconds away from her have been pure hell. I disobeyed her order today and sent her a text to her new number, all but demanding to see her tonight. I’ll take my punishment, whatever she deems, just as long as it’s delivered directly from my goddess. I’m tired of waiting—the devil himself couldn’t keep me from her for one more day.
So when I read her message: Okay, tonight… a hard thrill quakes me.
Tonight. Pocketing my phone, I escape my brother’s home and head for my truck, my mind spinning with arousing thoughts of Sadie. Her tight and limber body contorted in beautiful, seductive poses. Her features exquisitely strained, her liquid green eyes seeing only me. She was so perfect, just so mine in that moment. Only shared for an instant, but it was ours. And it was the foundation that will see us through her doubt.
Maybe I shouldn't have given in to her, allowed her time away to indulge her warped theories. She leapt right over circumstantial and fingered me as her killer. Any other man would take offense, would probably let that be the damning evidence that a relationship is doomed—but we’re not like most people.
