My stomach is churning wondering how far I will go with all of this, particularly when I'm not even getting a whiff of a true story here. I just don't see how to make the connection from a sex club--which is totally legal, by the way--to a dirty politician.
And trust me... I want to find that Governor Hayes' is dirty. I want to prove it and take him down, because he'll be the first true notch in my bedpost of justice that I take down solely as a result of my own hard work.
I suppose that's truly the thing that keeps me going here as I war with myself over my own moral dilemmas. How far will I go with Cain? Will our hearts start getting involved, especially as the bounds of intimacy are stretched? Without a doubt, since I let him stick a plug up my ass as if he owned me, I definitely feel something of a bond with him. When he rolled out of my bed yesterday afternoon, leaving me a quivering mass of satisfaction on the mattress, he leaned over and gave me a soft kiss. His eyes were warm, sated, and triumphant. He merely said, "You are amazing," and I felt my heart thump in response to that, the one part of my body that still had some strength of its own.
But now even that's weakening.
My phone starts a vibrating buzz on my kitchen table beside my empty coffee cup. It's face up so I can clearly see Brant's number and I grimace even as I reach to answer it. "Hi, Brant."
"We need an update, Preston," he says brusquely, addressing me by my last name as if I'm a recruit in his military platoon. "You've been there three weeks."
Sighing softly, I reach out and circle my finger around the edge of my coffee cup. "The first week was spent developing my cover and making contacts," I remind him.
"Then you've had two weeks to dig something up," he says in exasperation. "We can't fund your vacation there forever."
"I'm not sure there's a story here," I tell him resolutely, ignoring the vacation comment. "I'm just not picking up on anything yet."
"Come on, Preston," he says in a hard voice. "It's a sex club and a politician. Of course there's something there. You just have to spin it right."
I bristle against those words because we're not the fucking National Enquirer. We don't need to fabricate or inflate this shit; there's enough corruption in our government officials without chasing sordid stories like this. Still, I'm careful when I say, "I've gotten in with the head of security at the club. I've planted the seed, and I think I'm close to getting an invite. Once I get my foot in the door, I'll be able to assess the situation better."
"That's good," he practically purrs into the phone, and I wince. I can almost imagine him rubbing himself by the lewd tone. "You do whatever it takes to get the goods, you hear me?"
"I'll do whatever I can that doesn't put me in danger," I tell Brant firmly. "If you're not willing to let me work this with regards to my own safety, then you need someone else here."
"Of course your safety comes first," Brant says quickly and in a soothing voice. "But I don't have to remind you... sometimes it's the tiniest detail you come across that can break a story wide open. Just keep plugging away. This story will make your career."
Ironic that he used the word "plugging".
"I understand," I tell him.
"Plan on calling me at the end of the week with another update. We really need this, so I'm going to push you hard. That clear?"
"Clear," I tell him with a leaden weight settling in my stomach.
"And word of advice," Brant says as an afterthought. "You better be thinking of another angle than your current source."
I had already thought about that because I was feeling all kinds of rotten now that I'm getting to know Cain. The thought of using him in this respect isn't setting well with me. Colton Stokes is on my list for sure. I'm going to hit him up today. And I'm also trying to figure out an angle with Callie Hayes. I've done some research on Governor Hayes' platform and because his campaign is officially launching soon, I think I know the perfect thing that could possibly get me in the door with her.
Part of my research when I moved to Jackson was to learn all I could about my source, Colton Stokes. Thirty-one years old, never married, currently not dating anyone. Drives a brand-new Chevy Suburban. Operations manager of his father's cattle company. Net worth not a hell of a lot since Daddy owns the company, but he does have access to a modest trust fund.
I also happen to know he works out at the gym every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, and I wait patiently sipping on coffee for him to come out. The morning is heating up nicely and there's not a cloud in the blue sky. I'm not working today, and I'm not sure what to do with myself after I take care of this. Maybe I'll drive around, check out the scenery. Ideally, I'd be up for spending some time with Cain, but he told me he's got some work to do before his shift starts at The Wicked Horse tonight.
I've suppressed the urge to do a deeper background check on Cain beyond the employment stuff. I know I should so I can avert any surprises, but I feel guilty enough trying to use him to get my foot into the club. He didn't tell me details, only that he worked two other part-time jobs when work was available as he had some debt to pay. However, he did ask if I was coming by The Wicked Horse tonight. I played it vague and told him it was a possibility. His reply was, "Well, I won't be able to spend any time with you while I'm on duty. I just don't want you to be upset by that."
I thought it was cute he needed to explain that to me, but I was more than cool with it. I saw firsthand in my early observations of him how serious he is about his work. In fact, I think I won't bother going because he's honestly the only reason why I'd want to, and I don't want to just stare at him all night with my tongue hanging out.
The door to the gym swings open, catching the glare of the sun. Colton Stokes walks out, putting on a pair of sunglasses. He immediately notices me leaning my ass against the front bumper of his Suburban with my arms crossed, staring at him. As he walks closer, he gives me an unsure smile and says, "Can I help you with something?"
I push my own sunglasses off the bridge of my nose and up to my head to rest there, standing up straight. Holding my hand out, I say, "Sloane Preston."
He takes my hand, not a hint of recognition in his face, and shakes it. It's a bit of a risk to reveal myself to him, real name and all. I suppose there's a small chance he could rat me out to Bridger Payne or Woolf Jennings, but I think not. The fact he wanted to be anonymous in his tip tells me he wants to stay far under the radar.
"Revealed magazine," I say, and his eyebrows shoot up as he drops my hand. "We talked on the phone a few weeks ago. I'm here investigating the story you alerted us to about Governor Hayes."
Colton looks wildly left and right, then steps in closer to me and hisses, "Not about Governor Hayes. I told you about Woolf Jennings and his sex club."
"And then you told me about his daughter dating Woolf Jennings," I remind him. "We're a political magazine, Mr. Stokes. What did you think would happen if you waved that bait in front of us?"
Colton takes his sunglasses off and scrubs an agitated hand through his brown hair. My eyes are immediately drawn to dark bruising to the left temple, curling just under his eye. And as I peer closer, I see bruising on his jawline.
"What happened to you?" I ask, my eyes narrowing on his injuries.
Leaning back in toward me, he mutters, "Let's just say a message got delivered to me from the owners of The Wicked Horse. Woolf and Bridger were not happy with me."
"They know you called me?" I ask, a moment of fear starting to claw at me.
"No," he says loudly before lowering his tone. "No, they have no clue I called a reporter. If they did, they'd probably kill me. They're mad I told Governor Hayes about the club."
"And they beat you up?" I ask incredulously.
With a bark of a laugh, he says, "They wouldn't dirty their hands. Sent one of their goons to deliver the message."
And it hits me all at once... the cuts on Cain's hand the other night.
He beat Colton Stokes up for telling Governor Hayes about the sex club and I'm ass
uming about his daughter's role in it.
And another idea strikes me practically stupid. "Wait a minute... if you told Governor Hayes about the club, and Woolf and Bridger are mad about it, that means Hayes didn't know about it at all, right?"
Colton carelessly shrugs. "I don't know. He acted surprised. Pissed as hell."
"Fuck," I curse loudly as my gaze wanders aimlessly around the parking lot. I'm seeing this story go down the drain. If Governor Hayes' didn't know about the club, he has no culpability. There's no dirt on him.
The only potential thing that could possibly stick would be if the money Jennings gave Hayes was from the club, but again... what's the point in running that if the governor didn't know it?
All my plans to shake Colton Stokes down for more information sort of evaporate, but I still ask to make sure, "Is there any connection that you know of between the governor and the club?"
"Just that his daughter goes there and is sexually involved with one of the owners, Woolf Jennings. She was involved in an orgy there. And now the governor knows it too. So, I guess in a way... he's condoning that lifestyle."
"I did a preliminary search on The Wicked Horse. The deed to the place is registered solely in Bridger Payne's name and has been since the place was constructed. Are you sure Woolf Jennings is an owner?"
"Positive," Colton says as he puts his sunglasses back on. "And it sits on Jennings' land."
That's true. I confirmed that already and just because Bridger Payne's name is on the deed to the actual building, it does not mean he's the sole owner of the business. Hell, there could be several owners for all I know, but that's not spelled out on any typical paperwork that I would have public access to--like deeds. Regardless, I am just not sure what to do about this... and that means a call to Brant for an update.
Just fucking perfect.
"Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Preston, I need to get going." He pushes by me and reaches for his truck door, but then levels a stare at me. "And I'd appreciate you not mentioning me to anyone."
"I protect my sources," I tell him straight up. I might not like him, but I will protect his identity. I sort of feel obligated now; I'd hate to see what Cain would do to him if he found out. And this also confirms for me as well... Cain clearly is involved with the sex club aspect of the business, but I'd suspected as much.
Stepping back from his vehicle, I pull my phone from my purse and watch as Colton gets in and drives away. When he's out of sight, I walk toward my own car, dialing Brant's cell.
He answers on the second ring. "Speak to me, Preston."
"I just did a follow-up interview with our source here. He says the governor had no clue about the sex club, so I don't think there's a connection there."
"Fuck," Brant mutters.
While I hated everything about using Cain to get the story, I'm all of a sudden feeling saddened that once the story is killed, I'll be leaving out of here probably as early as tomorrow. That means no more Cain and while I've only known him a few days, I'm already mourning the loss of the tenuous connection we made. It's there and it's something real... of that I'm sure. But sadly, it will probably die right along with the story once I move back across the country.
"We'll have to come at this from a different angle," Brant says brusquely. "Exploit the daughter in the sex club angle."
"What?" I ask, astonished over his suggestion.
"The daughter being in the sex club and the fact she'll be his campaign manager is enough. We'll run the story on the moral high road. Play up the depravity angle."
"But there's nothing wrong with her being a member of that club," I blurt out.
"Not to you or me," he says with a chuckle. "But to the millions of conservatives out there, they won't want an elected official with that grime attached to him."
"So we're going to kill a man's career because of something his daughter did that he had no knowledge of... and that isn't even illegal?"
"We're not killing anyone's career, Preston," he admonishes me. "We're merely reporting the truth. Besides... you don't know for sure the governor's not involved, right?"
"No, but--"
"And you're being paid to get the scoop on what's really going on there," he says, rolling right over me. "So roll your sleeves up, get in there, and figure out what you have to work with. At the least, you have an opinion piece on the morality aspect, and if you're really lucky, you dig up something concrete about Hayes."
"Brant... I'm just not feeling--"
"Do it," he orders into the phone with an icy voice. "Or look for another job. It's quite simple."
He hangs up on me. I sit in the parking lot of Colton Stokes' gym for half an hour after, trying to determine what I could do with my life if I quit my job. I had no answers other than the fact I could continue to dig and see what popped up. Try to shine some more clarity on what is important to me within this career.
As of now, I'm feeling a bit disillusioned.
Chapter 11
Cain
I lean up against the wall to the left of the entrance doors inside The Wicked Horse and carefully survey my domain. My guys are all at their posts, alert and watching the crowd. The bartenders are handling the customers with ease and there have been no major disturbances unless you count Billy Stooks barfing in the men's bathroom because he always goes into tip-over when he switches from beer to liquor. We packed him up in a cab and sent him home.
I've done three walk-throughs of The Silo tonight, not because security is really needed there, but because I can't stop thinking about Sloane and her fantasy.
Shit... if that girl had a real gang bang, she'd freak the fuck out. The minute she took a slap to the face, a vicious twist to her nipples, or a hand squeezing her throat closed to keep her from screaming in protest, she'd probably pass out from the terror of it. Christ... just the image of that happening to her twists my guts up. Even though that exact scene has turned me on before with countless other women, I know I sure as shit couldn't let her ever do something like that. Like I told her... that scenario is built for women who like the pain and fear.
By the third time I'd walked through The Silo, I realized I did so eyeballing the various members who had come out to play tonight. Evaluating them. Wondering who would be willing to give her the fantasy that she really wants without crossing lines. Yeah... the thought of it... Sloane getting well fucked by four men as we all stand around and watch her blush deepen with every pounding, well hell... I'm getting hard thinking about it. It's definitely one of my fantasies now.
But there's a problem.
As much as I want to... as much as I know it would be the hottest thing ever to put her in a fantasy cabin and have her screaming out all night in pleasure... as much as I want to dirty up all of her innocence and sweet ways, I'm still deep down questioning the sanity of it. Questioning whether it's fair to change her world this way, even if she comes out on the other end completely satisfied and thrilled to her core. She won't be the same.
I'm afraid I won't either.
With my mind in a turmoil, I decide to seek the advice of one of the wisest people I know when it comes to the games of sex and kink.
Pushing off the wall, I head back to Bridger's office. I know he's in there because he left The Silo a little bit ago after putting on an eyebrow-raising show with one of the original members. I have no clue what Bridger's back story is. I know he moved to the area when Woolf returned home from college a little over ten years ago. He's worked out at the Double J as a ranch hand, and he and Woolf are best friends. I was not surprised Woolf and Bridger opened up a sex club, but I was surprised as fuck when I first found out that Woolf liked this lifestyle. I was working at Scandalous in Driggs, and the fucker walked in one night with Bridger while I was getting my cock sucked on center stage. We ended up sharing some beers and the same girl who had been sucking my dick. As they say, the rest is history.
While I don't know much about Bridger, I would say there's some seriously whacked shit in
his past. I've seen some hardcore BDSM stuff before, but nothing compares to the pain he can hand out. He does it sparingly, and there are only a handful of members in this club who can handle what he doles out. No, correction... they actually need what he doles out. Their sexual satisfaction is dependent on it.
Watching Bridger is like watching an art show. He's methodical and deliberate. He can land the end of a whip on a nipple from clear across the room. He can practically carve a pattern in someone's back that's symmetrical and precise. I've seen him whip men and women to where they are screaming in pain, refusing to use their safe word, and when he lets them come, it's the most explosive, freeing moment you can imagine. Bridger rarely fucks on these occasions. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say it's because most of this stuff doesn't really turn him on. While it's morbidly fascinating to watch, I know it sure as hell doesn't turn me on... watching those specific instances that are true BDSM acts. Where pain and sometimes blood are required for a person to get off.
A lot of the people who play at the club like to pretend they're into that shit, but it's just a toned-down version. We carry a huge stock of soft, suede floggers designed with wide, flat lashes that barely put a blush on the skin. They feel pretty good actually, producing just enough of a tiny sting to enhance the experience.
But when Bridger wields a flogger, you can be assured it's one that will hurt. He often uses a leather one with braided lashes that are knotted on the end, but if he wants to dole out maximum pain, he'll use a horsehair one he keeps locked in his office. While it looks soft and fluffy, it actually produces an exquisitely intense sting. I once made the mistake of poking fun at it, and he cracked me on the back of the hand, causing me to yelp. He then laughed his ass off. Thereafter, I held major respect for the person on the receiving end of that device.
Heading straight through the building, I cut across the dance floor, and turn down the hall that leads to his office. I give three short knocks, assuming he's in there, but I can't hear anything because the music is so loud. However, in just a few seconds, the door is open and he's motioning me in.
He looks tired, but I expect those performances take it out of him. When he's flogging, the man is truly working up a sweat with the repetitive swings.
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