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Cyril’s errand for me is…anti-climactic at best. Boring, at worst. I walk into the restaurant, do what he says, and when an old, balding guy greets me politely with a glance at the small package in my hands, he lets out a sigh, and his shoulders fall. “I thought they might’ve forgotten, actually,” he tells me, in a way that makes me want to call him grandpa. Between that and the way he’s dressed so casually andfun, he looks much more like a grandpa than a gangster.
“What is it?” I ask, unsure if I’m allowed to ask.
Butfuck it. I’m still a person. Still me. If they’re going to have me doing shit like this, I want to know what it is that I’m doing.
Until I figure out how to get out of this, anyway.
“It’s a gift for my daughter’s birthday. She turns forty-two tomorrow. I’ve been trying to get her some tea that she loved from Madagascar but couldn’t find a way to get it shipped.” He smiles, beaming at me with nothing short of glee on his face. “So I appreciate you bringing it from Nathan.”
Nathan? As in, Nathan Chancellor? I’m aware that Cyril is his nephew and all. But I’m surprised that he has me delivering birthday presents instead of…well, honestly, I’d expected it to be drugs.
“No problem,” I reply, trying to keep the bewilderment out of my voice. “I’m happy that she’ll get the tea she remembers.” I have no idea what tea from Madagascar might taste like, but I’m assuming my boring ass wouldn’t be able to appreciate it appropriately, either.
The man thanks me again and goes back to his office, leaving me standing there with the host who’s cleaning menus and casting me quick, confused glances as if to ask why in the world I’m still here.
Which is absolutely a fair question. I’m not sure why I am, either, but I quickly turn on my heel and go right back out the door.
And thankfully, no one is waiting for me. There are no messages on my phone, no one standing outside the restaurant to grab me before I can walk away. And more importantly, no Lost Boy leering at me from a street corner ready to pounce.
I take a breath and focus on just letting it out, feeling my chest loosen as my shoulders drop to a more relaxed state. I can do this.
Or at least I can pretend to do this. By which I mean make it through the day and not much else. Bonus points if I do it without drowning myself in a bath of Mountain Dew.
My phone chimes in my pocket, and I fish it out as I walk, eyebrows knit together as I look at the message there.
New Member Orientation at The Den.12 p.m. & 8 p.m.
Oh. Right. I’d put a reminder on my phone about the new club’s orientation meeting a few days ago before everything in my life had gone sideways. Should I go? When I’m, well, not having the best day?
But what would it hurt? It’s not like my life is ending, and not like I have to completely put the brakes on my life right now until I can figure out what it is I’m doing about the Lost Boys.
Because I refuse to get used to them calling meWendy Darlingunder any circumstance. Especially Cyril, who terrifies me and kind of turns me on at the same time. Not that I’m going to let him know on either front what reaction I have to him.
I have more sense than that. Usually.
That thought has me turning on my heel, and I walk the opposite way I’d intended, instead following the map on my phone to get toThe Den. I can’t go to one of their parties without going to the orientation, so I might as well get it out of the way.
Maybe I’ll learn something.
“It doesn’t matter how much someone looks like your type,” the older, short man repeats the words again. “Or who they’re playing with. Consent is our number one rule.” He gesticulates his words with his hands, and my eyes are drawn to his fingers that twist and spin and flick toward people in our small audience of seven.
I hadn’t expected to be the only one here. But I hadn’t expected the, uh, variety of people that would show up. Especially the guy who looks like he might be ninety and who toddled in with a cane before sitting down and gazing up at the presenter with an eager, happy smile.
He doesn’t look like someone who should be into kink, in my humble opinion. But only because he looks sosweet. Like Santa Claus. And probably just as old as Santa Claus, too.
But he doesn’t collapse during the presentation; that’s mostly one guy reading off of a sheet of paper that we all got, while another sits in one of the armchairs and nods along with him. Only occasionally does the second man offer his opinion, and it’s normally just an echo of what’s already been said.
“Use good judgment, folks,” the guy standing adds. “If you want to play with someone, you need toaskfirst. And I know personally, I’d rather you be wearing pants when you ask instead of shackles and safety pins.”
The safety pins part seems a strange way to end that sentence, but I’m certainly not going to question it.
He looks over the sheet of paper in his hands one more time and must decide that the presentation is over because he lays it down on a nearby table and grins. “So I just need your signatures for our book, and then you’ll be in the system,” he tells us enthusiastically as if being finished with this is a weight off his shoulders as well. “Unless anyone has any questions?”
No one does, which doesn’t surprise me. There was very little toquestionin the rules about attending events and parties atThe Den.
I sign my name electronically with a flourish, hating the way it looks almost unreadable. The man beams at me, thanks me, and moves on.
Which makes me done here, I guess. Getting to my feet, I walk slowly toward the door, just in case either of them has anything left to say, but when neither man does, I exit into the lobby area where a large, stone fire pit sits under the open sky that’s walled in on all sides and look at the leather couches around it.
