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We return to her Los Angeles mansion on Alpine Drive, and I stand in the doorway seeking release.My hands are balled to my sides.Since starting with her, I’m bound tighter than a boa constrictor around prey.
You can see she’s done very well for herself.
Her house is all marble and has expensive finishes.It’s colorful.Too colorful for me.Her art is like a unicorn and rainbow babies, and I’m sure it’s like a gazillion dollars.Again, it’s not my style, not that I have one.
A luxurious lap pool extends to a yard surrounded by high trees.My accommodation is a studio nearest to the pool along the west wing.But with all glass hallways, I have a clear line of sight into the house.
It’s private and gated, and after a few changes to her onsite security team and system, I’m content with the protocols we have in place.
“You can go,” she says, dismissing me quickly and fetches herself a pitcher of lime and water.
“I’ll be back at eight a.m.to drop you off,” I announce, my voice tinged with irritation.
“Fine,” she fires back, equally annoyed.
“Fine,” I echo, barely audible, and my eyes drift to her midriff for a fleeting moment before I turn away.
I storm into the pool room, my fists aching for something to hit.There it is—the punching bag I set up this week.I don’t bother gloving up.I slam my fist into it hard.Then again.The impact resonates through my arms but does nothing to douse the inferno within me.I pause, out of breath but not out of anger.I need some kind of release, and soon.
Making my way to the shower, I let the hot water wash over me in an attempt to cleanse my body, if not my emotions.
I towel off then change, my stomach grumbling.I find the con carne the chef left in the refrigerator.It’s delicious, the flavors rich and layered, but even as I eat, I can’t shake the tension that’s gripping me.
It’s then, I remember, the name Dante Blade.
Dante is the man behind the exclusive Vanilla Club chain.Special Forces veteran and entrepreneur, he’d given me an honorary membership after a visit to one of his clubs.
I’d been to the one in New York, but there was sure to be one on the West Coast.
The idea lights a spark in my mind.Dante’s clubs are renowned for offering a sort of sanctuary, an escape from reality, and I realize this might be exactly the release I’m searching for.
This tension between us—it’s a distraction, a danger.I can’t protect her if I’m not at my best, mentally and emotionally.Tonight, I decide, is about blowing off steam and finding a way to cleanse this internal chaos.
I pull out my laptop, do a quick Google search, and locate a new club in West Hollywood.
The description reads private rooms specializing in BDSM and a main stage for live action and demonstrations.Perfect.
In under twenty minutes, I’m there.A huge arched doorway with security is the only giveaway to its location.
The security looks me up and down, and without anything to give him, I just give him my name.
“Kingsley Williams.”
The guard speaks into his intercom.After a pause, he nods and swings the door open.
I step inside the dark room.
Let the fun begin.
10
Victoria
The tension with Kingsley has me pacing the floor, too wired to even think about sleep.This back-and-forth we’ve been having is draining, and I can’t take it anymore.Enough is enough.We need to talk this out.
With a sense of resolve, I head down the long foyer that leads to the pool wing where his suite is.I knock loud and clear, fully expecting to hear his voice.But there’s nothing.Just silence on the other side of the door.
I decide to push the door open, and half expect him to be sleeping, but nope, as I walk around the room, I discover he’s not home.And damn, his place is like a museum—everything’s immaculate—folded clothes, shoes lined up like soldiers, and toiletries all in a row, neatly spaced.The faint steam in the air hints at a recent shower.There’s a laptop open on a table, the only sign that someone’s been around.I twist it my way, and there it is in bold.
