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Chapter 1
Tyler
Warm ocean water splashed along my legs as I straddled my board, content for a moment to ride the gentle swells and watch the sunrise over LA in the distance. Gold, indigo purple, and flaming pink streaked across the clouds in a sky that seemed to stretch on forever. The saltwater air cleansed me from the inside out as I took a moment to admire the show God was putting on overhead. A sense of serenity and peace overcame me, washing away my stress with each curling wave.
This—this was why I worked so hard, why I spent most of my life busting my ass to be able to afford to live in Manhattan Beach on the southern California coast. I loved this stretch of land, loved the neighborhood that I’d grown up in adjacent to it, loved my community and my family. There wasn’t anywhere else on earth I wanted to be, and I counted myself lucky to be one of the few people able to say that.
Although a few early morning surfers and beach walkers shared the area, I felt truly alone in the moment. The amber sunlight made the water around me glitter like a million gold coins. Leaning forward, I stretched out my shoulders, conscious of the time slipping away. Mondays were always busy, and I had to head into work early to go over the security upgrades at Club Wicked. Technology was changing by the second, and it was one of my jobs as chief of security to make sure we were always on top of any new inventions that might jeopardize the safety and privacy of Club Wicked’s elite guests.
If you’d asked me five years ago if I’d give up my job as a police officer in order to work a private security gig at a BDSM club, I would’ve said you were fucking crazy. But life has a strange way of working out, so when my childhood friend—now a famous movie star and a member of Club Wicked’s board—asked me to consider a position as one of their heads of security, I took it. I was tired of the murder, the crime, the vileness of humanity that I had to deal with on a daily basis as a police officer. I was also tired of the unpaid overtime, the random hatred that I’d encounter from the public, and the increasing wear and tear on my mind and body.
I’d needed a break from the real world, and Club Wicked had provided all that and more.
The watch on my wrist vibrated, letting me know that the precious hour of time I got to spend surfing was up. I caught the next swell in, riding it as smooth and easy as can be. I’ve always had an affinity to the water. I’ve been surfing with my dad for as long as I can remember. He passed away a few years ago of cancer, but on days like this, I swore I could still hear him whooping with glee in the crash of the waves.
Hauling my board out of the water, I let out a deep sigh as the weight of the world seemed to return to my shoulders. There was always an almost endless list of things to do at work. One would think that doing private security wouldn’t be so high pressure, but they didn’t know Club Wicked. When I say Wicked is a BDSM club, I don’t mean one of those dark, seedy, cement room places with a few pieces of BDSM gear placed in the corners. No, Club Wicked was…something else. Once I’d heard someone refer to it as the Taj Mahal of BDSM clubs, and I didn’t disagree.
The Mediterranean style mega mansion had been built deep in the hills north of Hollywood in the 1930s by the founders of the club. Located on thirty acres, it was surrounded by private homes and just about as secure as any place in the world can be these days. Keeping the property and the people inside both safe and protected from the prying eyes of the media wasn’t easy, but it was essential. Most of the members of the club valued their privacy more than anything, and we did our best to make sure it was never violated. Movie stars, politicians, business moguls, mega preachers, crime lords and trust fund babies—we had them all and more. The member list offered a veritable treasure trove of blackmail material for the enterprising criminal.
The sand crunched under my feet as I stretched out, my almost forty-year-old body needing a little more care than it had twenty years ago.
After a quick dry off, I grabbed my red and gold surfboard and began the familiar trek to the public showers near the parking lot, wishing once again there’d be someone waiting for me at home other than my cats. Not that my cats weren’t good company. Tia was a love bug and just about the best damn cat alive, and Mia was always ready for a cuddle—but it would be nice to have a bed filled with a warm, sleeping, willing woman. One that would smile at me and welcome me with open arms, not caring that I was salty from the sea.
