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Maybe it was the writer in me that made me so difficult to satisfy. I spent most of my days stuck in my head, writing these steamy romance stories with amazing heroines and Prince Charming heroes. No man ever seemed to live up to the characters in my imagination. No man had even come close, really.
“I’m never going to find a guy I truly like, Liza,” I said, huffing out a short breath. “There’s really no point in debating it—especially not here.”
“Fine, fine,” she shrugged, pretending not to care even though I knew for sure she could happily go on arguing for hours if I’d let her. “If you want to hole up in your apartment with your books and your imaginary characters, far be it from me to stop you.”
“Great. Perfect. Glad that’s settled.” My reply was curt. It was a friendly annoyance, though. She knew I loved her, and even though I didn’t love her prying, it was actually nice to have a friend who cared this deeply about me.
She may have been totally misguided about my life and where I wanted it to go, but at least she cared. I needed someone who cared, even if they were going to give me advice that didn’t really align with the things I wanted in life.
“You know I’m only trying to help,” she said, giving me A Look that felt like she might be getting ready for round two.
“I know, I know. And I love you for that. But seriously, keep your nosy ass out of my love life. I’m perfectly content to imagine other peoples’ love lives on paper,” I responded, hoping that answer would be forceful enough to shut down this conversation completely.
“Well, you’re good at that. For someone who wants zero romance in their life, you are great at writing about it.”
I had to smile at that. I loved when anyone complimented my ability to write. It was the thing that I was most proud of. I doubted a lot of my other life skills, especially the ones that involved socializing.
Or wearing dresses. Or damned high heels.
But I never doubted my ability to tell a story. I’d been doing it since I was a young child, and I had become quite good at it.
Our cocktail waitress came back with the mojitos. She handed me the ice-cold glass garnished with mint.
“Thank you.” I smiled at her.
“Of course. Let me know if you ladies need anything else.”
Liza grinned at me, holding her glass up. “Here’s to finally getting you to go out with me! And to research, of course.”
“Right. Cheers.” I clinked my glass against hers and sighed.
I was glad she was happy… but it was going to go be a long night.
Ryker
I walked back and forth slowly as I surveyed the club behind a large, one-way window.
I was on the third floor of the building—a floor that was not accessible by the guests of Crave. Only authorized personnel could be in here, which mostly consisted of the other club owners and those working security. We had a room that was full of small computer screens that were all connected to different security cameras across the club, so at any given time, we could see exactly what was going on. We had someone whose entire job it was just to sit here and stare at the security cameras. They made sure that we had no major incidents.
Running a fairly raunchy sex club was not easy, and we’ve had our fair share of seedy characters try to come through our doors. It was important to me—to all of the owners—that we had a club where people felt safe. So we had many security measures put into place.
It wasn’t just the cameras, though. We had our bouncers keep an eye out and deny anyone they deemed suspicious for any reason, without explanation. We had bartenders and cocktail waitresses who were taught to keep an eye on peoples’ drinks if they ever left them unattended to avoid any unpleasant mishaps.
We had security everywhere.
Among our clientele, our image mattered.
It was everything, really.
We did a damn good job. Crave was well known as one of the safest clubs in town, including the clubs that were not sex-oriented. I really prided myself on that fact. Although some might look down on my business as being taboo, I took great pride in running it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling my attention from the dance floor. It was a text from Tyson, the bouncer.
Got about ten new unlisted people tonight so far.
Part of Tyson’s job was to let me know when we had new people arrive at Crave. See, we took down all names and added them to our member list. We had a bunch of regulars, and we gave our regulars preferential treatment in getting into the club on busy nights.
But it was also important to keep track of people who had never been to Crave and were arriving for the first time. To keep a club like Crave thriving, we needed a steady stream of fresh, good-looking visitors. Part of the appeal of Crave was to meet brand new, anonymous strangers to potentially hook up with. If we only had the same old people turning up all the time, it would ruin the entire vibe of the club.
