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I stood outside Fray’s imposing shadow and prayed I had the tenacity to make it through the weekend somewhat unscathed and not disgrace myself by screaming back to the safety of the street level. Music boomed from the nightclub as shifters of all sorts mingled around the entrance. Neon signs lit a small area around the doors that somehow made the rest of the street darker. Two red kangaroo shifters dressed in black manned the door, their red hair streaked in their uniform color, carding the drunk and underage.
I swallowed hard. My feet refused to move outside the nightclub I allotted my freedom to for the weekend in exchange for a hefty paycheck. A paycheck that would leave my remaining family in no doubt that we could afford the basic groceries without putting things back. And life-critical bills, like rent. Without counting every dollar for school uniforms, for instant coffee.
My one vice I refused to give up.
Until it came to starvation.
We’d come close. I’d spotted Fray’s ad on an online dating group that more than stretched the fringes of shifter life. The club shared those limits—a little online research opened my eyes to a much broader world than the narrow one I shared with Byron until his passing—and I knew my expectations were limited. That I would change after this experience.
Maybe that was a good thing after becoming a single mom, unplanned. I knew who the club catered to, and who ran it. From the line that wrapped around the nearest corner and halfway along the block beyond, Rafe Astor must be a wealthy,popular man. I’d heard stories about him, even in my limited shifter circle. A predator, in so many ways. That he played with shifter women, but never took them home or claimed one as his. Though, rumor had it, he’d come close once.
My research left me in no doubt of why. Rafe Astor was stunning. Dark-haired and golden-eyed, he emulated the perfect love child of Henry Cavill and Ricky Martin. Every girl from nineties music fans to current-day fantasy film addicts, plus more than a few boys, would swoon in his wake.
Not that I would encounter him. Fray’s enormous building spanned several floors, not including the lower level. That was where I would be. Because I’d be paid more if I let them hurt me rather than fuck me. Everyone had their own kink. Maybe I could discover mine there too.
My cheeks flamed at the illicitness of it all.
“Screw it.” I said the words aloud and shoved my black, five-inch heels, the same I’d worn to Byron’s funeral, into the grit that lined the parking lot. Clutching my jacket tight, I approached the club, my license gripped in a sweaty palm.
Entry was all too easy. A doorman ticked me off on his phone and waved me inside. At the front desk, a girl who had let scales transform her arms into a golden hue pointed to a seat opposite her. Exposed and embarrassed, I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Willow Bonnier.” A tall man sporting a head of gray hair streaked with glossy silver strands that glowed beneath the club’s black lights stood in front of me, hand extended. “Killian Du Pont, manager and your employer for this evening. This weekend.” He checked his paper again. “Two nights, huh?”
“Wouldn’t that be Rafe Astor?” I took his hand in a warm grip and spoke without thinking. “My employer, I mean.” Swallowing hard, I dropped my hand and my gaze.
“He’s going to adore you.” A knuckle brushed beneath mychin, lifting my gaze to meet his.
Steeling myself, I stared into a dark caramel gaze. “Kangaroo? A gray,” I added, then wished I hadn’t, speaking out of turn.
The one thing Byron drilled into me, time after time. Being under this man’s attention—Killian—became one of the most intense experiences of my life.
It lasted all of eight seconds. I counted every single one.
He’d matched a black shirt and silver waistcoat to his hair. The highlights in the material shone under the club’s glow, and I took in his bulk with a small gulp I doubted went unnoticed.
“Astute, aren’t you? Most of the girls who come in here don’t bother to think. Or won’t.” His soft voice carried to me alone, leaving our conversation private.
“I’m sure they have their reasons,” I murmured. “Ah—where do I go to get—” I cleared my throat, unsure how to proceed.
I am so out of my depth right now.
“You’ll be perfect. If you head past Lux at the bar”—he pointed to a dark-haired girl dressed in tight jeans and a fluff of feathers wrapped around her chest who waved back—“she’s an emu, and best damn bartender I’ve ever hired.” A note of admiration entered his voice.
I smiled at the obvious affection between them.
“A sub, but I swear she’s in denial. Go past the big ’roo at the corner of the stage, see him? There’s a corridor. That leads to the locker room. Your partner for the night is listed on the board. Grab the key for the room allotted to you both, and do whatever you need. The stairwell that leads to the lower playrooms will be on your right when you leave the hallway. You have … thirteen minutes.” He checked his watch. “Questions?”
“I don’t know where to start?”
Killian smiled megawatts that removed the rest of the world. “Start by being you. Listen to instructions and … experience. Security has cameras. For your safety. If they see a threat, help will come. You’re safe, Miss Bonnier.”
“Mrs. Bonnier,” I said firmly. “Widowed.”
“Indeed.” Killian raised a brow. “A pleasure to have you, Mrs. Bonnier.”
“Thanks.” I took the key he pressed into my hand. I blinked at it, and by the time I looked up, he had already turned his attention to someone else.
