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The third section was a little different. Instead of bright reds, scarlets and rouge, it was burgundy and maroon. More like blood than anything else. The dried stuff, not the fresh kind.
On this particular stage, there were three guys tied to St. Andrew’s crosses. A woman, dressed up to the nines in leather, was paddling them with a spiked cat o’nine tails. The spikes weren’t dulled, either. She drew blood with every strike.
Here, the audience were seated on, what could only be called, mattresses. They were circular, and reminded me of those sun loungers that were like a shell—the ones that came with a roof? Well, these had roofs too, but they also had curtains. A soft squeal confirmed what was going down within the privacy of the one nearest to me.
“Let me guess,” I directed at Forrest. “He's watching the chicas on the middle stage?”
Forrest’s lips twitched. “Nah, he ain’t that kind of politician.”
“Ya mean he ain’t a hypocrite?” I shoved him in the side when he smirked at me.
“He’s all that and more, I promise. He's one of them." Pointing to the stage with the Domme and her subs, he said, "Sanctimonious prick is over there."
“You sure Frederica's in with him?"
He scowled at me. “You think this is my first fuckin’ sting, Bren? Shit. What the fuck do you take me for? An amateur?”
I had to grin at his umbrage. “Forrest, you’re too good at your job.”
“Remember that when you're handing down bonuses,” he grumbled. “You think I’d have let you waste your time by coming here if we couldn't twist it to our advantage?”
“Shit always goes wrong,” I reasoned, even though I knew he was right.
“Not on my watch.”
Forrest had never let me down, so it wasn’t like I could argue with him. Instead, I straightened my shoulders, swept a hand over my cuffs, and asked, “Which cabana?”
“The largest.”
“Of course,” I said with a grunt.
I wasn’t the type of man who judged other people—only those who were fucking hypocrites, and this place was hypocrite central.
Coullson had been coming here long enough for Forrest and Tinker, another guy on my crew, to get to know this place real well over the past two weeks.
We'd known for a while that anyone from politicians and celebrities to business tycoons, all had memberships here—and it wasn’t for the tunes being played out front—which was why I’d encouraged Conor and Finn to shell out top dollar to buy it.
Blackmail was dirty work, but someone had to do it.
“You sure you want to start the ball rolling today?”
“Yesterday’s Summit was illuminating.” My brothers and I had been called to the parents’ place for a briefing on what went down. I’d stuck around for a coffee with Ma—I was glad I had now. “We need to get shit rolling.” I cast him a look. “Be better if we had our ducks in a row and we can do that once we have key players on our side.”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
That I fucking was.
Heading toward the darker section, I made my way to the largest cabana. There was no missing it, nor was there a way to miss the fact that it had a central view of the stage. It was the same color as the walls, a deep, dark red, but it had gold trim that was illuminated in the low lights.
As I moved around to the front of the cabana, bunching the fabric so I could make a small gap in the curtains, I shook my head at what I found.
Coullson, the Mayor of New York City, the renowned anti-gay Christian, was sucking Frederica’s dick.
I rubbed my chin as I cast a look at Frederica. She was good—didn’t tense up or anything. Her smirk lit up her eyes, but she moaned and groaned like the great actress she was while Forrest took out his phone and started taking snaps like he was on the set of a GQ shoot.
The soft sound didn’t register with the Mayor who was really getting into sucking Frederica’s dick, but the flash? That did.
He tensed, then turned, cock still in his mouth.
