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The SUV flashes back: Long, short, long. That’s the code Best said they’d use. Those are the guys who’ll do the heavy lifting.
“Okay,” I say to Charles. “Back to the front door.”
This time, the coast is clear. I wonder if the couple went inside, or if their car service picked them up. Who knows how far they’d have to walk to find a cab?
I pat my jacket pocket one last time. “Find some place to wait nearby,” I tell Charles. “I’ll call you when I’m ready. We may need to leave in a hurry.”
“Of course,” he says, like I just told him I’m going to the Metropolitan Museum, or I’m having dinner at Per Se, or I need him to stop at the dry cleaners.
I slip out of the back seat on the curb side. As I approach the door, I can make out a tiny brass plaque, a carefully shined oval with block letters picked out in black: KYNK. When I press my hand on the metal plate and push, the door whispers open. I step into a room that could double for the front desk at a boutique hotel.
If boutique hotels hired linebackers to wear tuxedos and ear wires like the pair of gorillas on either side of the door.
“Good evening,” says the woman behind the desk. She’s wearing a navy suit and a silk blouse, looking like a flight attendant. Four pins glint from her lapel—a replica of the brass oval from the front door along with three flags: Germany, Japan, and what I think is the United Arab Emirates.
Nice to know she’s fluent in so many languages, but I answer in plain old English. “I believe my friend, Gage Rider, put me on the list for tonight?”
“Your name, sir?”
“Jack Strong.”
She taps the screen in front of her, scrolling down to the second half of the alphabet. “Yes, Mr. Strong.” Her neatly manicured nail marks me as present. “Have you played with us before?”
“No.”
“Welcome to Kynk. We invite you to step into our greenroom.” She gestures toward a discreet mahogany door to her right. “Inside, you’ll find lockers for your convenience. We ask our guests to undress to whatever level makes them feel most comfortable. Tonight, because it’s our Masquerade, all club members are required to wear a mask. If you haven’t brought one, you’ll find a selection for your use.”
She smiles like she’s inviting me to test drive a car at the dealership. “We do require all of our guests to leave behind any devices that capture audio or video, including cell phones.” I automatically pat my phone in its pocket. The lack of any recording works in my favor for what I have planned tonight.
“A door at the far end of the greenroom will take you to the club proper by way of a metal detector, which is installed for the safety of all our guests. Newcomers typically take some time to walk around the club. You’ll find individual playrooms as well as more public areas. If there’s any particular equipment you require but cannot locate, feel free to ask any Kynk staff. We’re all identified with pins.” She brushes the brass logo on her own lapel.
“We expect all our guests to determine their own safewords for scenes. Our security staff is present to protect you and all other guests. Please don’t hesitate to ask for any assistance you may require.”
I’m pretty sure Kynk security won’t be on board for what I have planned tonight. But I thank her, and I make my way to the greenroom.
I don’t know what I expected—maybe something like a locker room at an upscale gym. Instead, I find more dark wood and subdued lighting. A couple of guys stand to one side dressed in tuxes, deep in a conversation about convertible debentures and debt-equity swaps. Another guy sits bare-ass on a bench, his head between his hands, muttering something that sounds like a prayer my mother taught me.
The promised masks hang on the wall to my left. They look a little creepy, like someone skinned a bunch of hunting trophies. Most are black, but a few are scarlet. A handful are finished with fake jewels.
I can be a pirate. A panther. A lion, or tiger, or bear. Some of the masks have horns; others sport metal spikes.
I grab one from the top row—a plain Lone Ranger mask, cut long at the bottom to cover my cheeks and nose. The less attention I call to myself, the better.
Beyond the masks, the lockers are full height, deep enough to sport velvet-covered hangers, with a shelf at eye height. Before I choose one, I look around for the toilets. A row of discreet doors lines the wall to my right.
I make my way to a cubicle, closing and locking the heavy wooden door. If I were at the club purely for entertainment purposes, I’d probably strip down to my silk boxers. But tonight I’m more shy than usual. Tonight, I’m wearing pants out on the floor.
I slip the syringes from my jacket to my right front pocket, taking the opportunity to double-check their red plastic caps. When I’m sure they’re safe and secure, I unzip and piss. I don’t expect anyone to be paying any attention to Jack Strong and his Kynk debut, but there’s no reason to spark unnecessary scrutiny about what I’m doing in the crapper.
Back in the main room, I choose a locker in the middle of the row. I hang my shirt and jacket, leaving my phone on the shelf. On second thought, I add my money clip. I won’t be paying for anything in the club, and the last thing I want is questions about the initials engraved on the silver surface.
I hope I can reclaim my shit at the end of tonight. There’s a very real chance things will get out of hand. Maybe Rider will get my crap to the Lost and Found. I suspect more than one locker gets forgotten at Kynk.
The combination lock asks for four digits. I key in 0621. June 21. The night I met Alix.
For just a moment, something tightens in my gut. Tonight, at dinner, there were at least three times that I came close to telling her what I’m doing here. It was torture, standing next to her in the elevator when Charles dropped us at the penthouse.
The look in her eyes when I left her behind felt like a vat of lemon juice on a cut to the bone. Despite everything we’ve shared together, everything we’ve done, there’s still a doubt that lingers in her eyes. She’s not sure I’m staying. She still thinks she’s broken, that I’ll walk away from damaged goods.
