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“I know that, Hunter. But this may get ugly.”
“Fuck,” I say. “Why does everything have to be a fight?”
“It doesn’t have to be. You could…come clean. If you are a member of a club, Hunter—and I’m not saying you are—you could tell the dean and make sure she knows nothing illegal is going on there.”
Right. Not happening, and not just because of the NDA I signed. Because it’s none of the dean’s fucking business.
“Bullshit. It’s none of her business what I do in my free time. What I do in my private life. Who the hell started these rumors?”
“I’d tell you if I knew.” She sighs.
“I don’t care. I’m fighting.” I rise and look out the window at the red brick buildings where I once roamed the halls as a student, at the cobblestone pathways and the granite statue of Clark Mellville, the college’s founder. “Mellville is my alma mater. I got all three of my degrees here, and I’ve been a professor here for the last five years. I’m not going quietly. This place means a lot to me, and I should mean a lot to it as well.”
“You do mean a lot to me and to the rest of our department.”
“If you say so.” I turn. “I need a fucking drink.”
…
I text Logan.
Hunter: You up for a drink at Smitty’s?
Logan: Sure. Be there in fifteen.
I’m already halfway through my martini when Logan saunters into the bar, his muscular build, shaved head, and blue eyes drawing attention as they always do.
“Bourbon,” he tells the barkeep as he sits down next to me and eyes my drink. “I see you started without me.”
“Remember when we sat here last year, drinking and commiserating about your situation?” I ask.
“How could I forget?”
“You didn’t deserve any of it, Logan.” I take a drink, letting the alcohol float over my tongue. “And now…” I shake my head.
“What’s going on, Hunt?”
I pour out the story, finishing my martini in the process.
“Man.” Logan takes a sip of his bourbon. “Social media sucks, for sure. How could they have gotten your manuscript?”
“Hell if I know.” I signal the bartender for another. “But they’re not going to get away with it.”
“I don’t know.” Logan shakes his head. “You saw what I went through. It may not be worth the headache.”
“How is it so easy for you to walk away, Logan?” I ask. “Mellville has been a huge part of our lives.”
“For sure,” Logan agrees. “But it now has some shitty memories for me, too. Sometimes it’s not a bad thing to move on to greener pastures. Sometimes we don’t know how much further we have to go—or grow—until we change scenery.”
I’ve known Logan since freshman year of college. We roomed together for two years, until Allison and I moved off campus into an apartment together. Logan and I shared drinks together at Smitty’s every week while we were in school. Now our visits to the bar are few and far between, but we’re always here for each other. Still, Logan doesn’t know about my private life. He doesn’t know about the club.
“Here’s the thing,” I say. “I am a member of a club, Logan.”
Logan’s eyes widen, but then he tries to look nonchalant. “Oh?”
“Yeah. And that’s all I can say about it, other than that nothing illegal goes on there.”
“I know that, Hunt. For God’s sake.”
“The point is… How did someone find out? I mean, the rumor had to start somewhere.”
“You may never know,” Logan says. “But everything you say to me is safe.”
“I know.”
The bartender hands me my second martini. “Ready for another?” he asks Logan.
“I’m good.” He turns to me. “The rumors will eventually die down, but even if they don’t, this doesn’t have to be a fight, Hunt. It can be a message. A message that it’s time to move forward. Away from Mellville.”
I inhale and let it out slowly. “I’ll think about it. I do see your point. But fighting for what’s right is in my nature.”
“Mine too,” he says, “but sometimes, when you look through the trees, you can find a path you didn’t see before. You can find a way to leave something behind and have even more.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Frankie
Embrace Your Dark Side in the City
At first glance, it’s a club like any other. The wooden bar in the back that stocks top-shelf liquor. A large dance floor with strobe lights and a disco ball. Tables line the dancing area, and couples talk intimately. Jazz plays across the sound system, and a few people take to the dance floor.
Only then do you notice their garments.
Some don gorgeous clubwear, but others?
Leather, lace, lingerie…and some wear nothing at all.
No shame or stigma here at a private BDSM club in the city. In this dimly lit fantasyland, individuals, couples, and more enjoy safe, healthy, and consensual sex without judgment. Large rooms provide a safe space for exhibitionists to enjoy their play and give voyeurs a chance to watch. Smaller suites can be reserved for private play.
