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“Yeah, well, don’t quit your day job, Aldridge,” Beckett says, calling out my last name. He’s still looking at me like I have two heads.
As former rock stars and certified players, my buddies take pussy very seriously. Don’t get me wrong, I love pussy. A lot. But pussy is a religion for these three. And the more the better.
Even though a good crowd came out to play, the wait to enter the club is surprisingly quick. After flashing our club rings and scanning our club ID cards, one of the beefy bouncers lets us in. We strut straight ahead to the trio of beautiful hostesses waiting for us behind the welcome desk. They hand us each a white envelope engraved with the letters D and C in silver with instructions not to open them until we’re told. I tuck mine in the pocket of my suit jacket. My buddies mimic me. Surprise, surprise, we’re all adorned in black bespoke suits sans the ties.
The main party room is packed with eager bodies clad in designer clothing. If you’re looking to rub elbows with some of the richest, most powerful and wealthiest men and women in LA, this is it.
Beckett’s blue eyes meet my own. “Since we’re only allowed two drinks tonight, I suggest we get started.” I’m still getting used to his new edgy haircut and his blond tips. Rod, Jace, and I have brown hair with stylish haircuts that don’t get as much attention as Beckett’s.
“I could use a drink,” I say.
“Me too,” Jace chimes in.
“Booze first, then women,” Beckett jokes.
“I’m onboard!” Rod says, adjusting his suit jacket.
“Let’s do this!” I say.
“Glad to see you found your balls,” Rod mocks.
“Fuck off!” I shoot back.
He laughs and pats me on the back. “Let’s go get you laid.”
I shake my head.
The four of us stalk to the long bar that dominates the back of the room. The bartender recognizes us and reaches for a top-shelf whiskey the owner of the club just brought in. With tumblers of whiskey in hand, it’s time to check out our options. As we stride through the crowd, women crane their necks to catch a better view. At this point in the evening, it’s about enjoying the view.
Usually with theme parties, we arrive with our own playmate or we hook up with one after a little flirtation. Either way, the choice is ours. Tonight is very different. We’re randomly paired. This guarantees an instant connection, or you might end up with someone who doesn’t get your dick hard. In a city like Los Angeles, you learn quickly. Beauty isn’t always enough to get your cock to cooperate.
For the next half hour, my buddies and I roam around, checking out beauty after beauty. We strike up a conversation here and there, but keep it brief. Like always, the women are hot, but so far, I’m not enthralled. Eventually, we gather near the bar for our second drink.
“You gentlemen must be adulting hard because it’s been a while since you’ve come out to play,” Larkin Gallagher says, approaching us. As usual, bodyguards flank him—two badass beasts who could crush skulls with one hand. I guess when you’re at Larkin’s level, having permanent shadows is a requirement. He owns Dark Compulsion, the Quintus Hotel, and a long list of businesses. The man has an enviable net worth that makes many dot com billionaires look like they have play money.
“Zeus,” I say, lifting my tumbler in salute.
Larkin tips his head in response.
Privacy is paramount at Dark Compulsion. That’s one of Larkin’s immutable, abiding principles. As such, each club member is assigned a randomly selected name. Larkin’s club name is quite fitting.
“Gentlemen,” Larkin nods, his cognac-colored eyes meeting our gaze.
“I have an excuse for being MIA,” Jace offers. “My thriving business and my son’s needs have kept me too busy lately to show up. I can’t speak for these fools,” he points his thumb at us.
“Asshole,” Beckett coughs out.
“Idiot,” I retort.
“What they said,” Rod chimes in.
We all laugh.
Larkin doesn’t.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man smile since I’ve been a member.
He’s way too intense if you ask me.
