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I pat Booker on the shoulder as I pass through the entryway, saying the same thing I say every morning. “Let’s bring the heat tonight.”
I look up at the gas-powered chandeliers hanging from the high tin-paneled ceiling, another one of my visions for the place. Each night they come to life, tiny flames licking the air, their reflections dancing against the metal ceiling.
Beautiful.
When people hear the term kink club, their minds drift to somewhere dark and underground, a palace of shame to be hidden from the world.
Not my club.
Hidden from the world, yes. It takes a full year to be vetted to join unless you have an in with me and my family. But dark and dingy and shameful?
Hell no.
I’m proud of my place. I started small, inviting friends and family to join first. Now, socialites from all over the world fly in, some only to experience one night at my club. It’s a place so beautiful, you could bring your mother. Might be awkward as hell for you, but you could bring her. It’s that nice.
My club is spotless. After every use, each room goes through a top to bottom clean and disinfect. And we’re clean in more ways than one. No drugs. No smoking—which used to piss Liam off when he was a regular, before he met Emilia and she made him kick the cigarettes.
This morning, I’m conducting interviews. With every new member we accept, I hire an employee to cater to just that client and make sure each and every one of their needs is met. This team is called my one-on-ones and I need at least a dozen newbies.
I hire two of the twelve I interview. A tall man from Russia with perfect manners and an eloquent woman who’s lived down the road her whole life. It took her two years to summon the courage to interview.
I take my lunch with Booker, the two of us going casual by ordering steaks at the bar, sitting side by side on barstools, him with his book open on the bar top, me with my laptop, looking over the schedule for six months from now.
“Hey, yo!”
“Hey yourself.” I look up from my computer to find Tie grinning at me. He’s a tall, thin man with blue-black hair and a striking smile. His nickname comes from his talent for shibari, the ancient Japanese rope-tying technique. He has a partners class tonight and came in early to prepare.
Tie pauses by the bar, eyeing me like he knows something I don’t.
“What?”
“Cannon, you got company over at the guesthouse?” His mother, an American, raised him in Japan so he could be close to his father. His accent dips between the two worlds.
“This morning, but not anymore,” I say. “Why?”
Tie gives me one of those big, teasing grins he’s known for. “There’s a silver Porsche parked outside the guesthouse. Last time I checked, that’s your house.”
“Damn. You kidding me, Tie?” I close my laptop, stand from my barstool, and slip the computer under my arm. Kat should have left hours ago.
He calls over his shoulder, “Nope. Saw it on my way in.”
Booker’s eyes leave the page, his gaze dragging up to mine as he raises a brow at me. “A woman staying at your place twelve whole hours?” He shakes his head. “That’s some kind of record for you.”
I pat my bouncer’s shoulder as I leave. “Not by my choice, Booker. Thought I kicked her out this morning.”
He goes back to his book. “Well, looks like you have some more kicking out to do.”
“Yeah. It does, doesn’t it?”
Kat with a K is in for another dose of my filter-less truth telling. I step outside. The afternoon is warm and overcast, clouds passing slowly by the sun.
When I reach the guesthouse, her car is already gone.
There’s a note taped to my shiny black front door.
No man writes me off—
Not even the great Cannon Bachman.
