The Perfectionist_Sin City Sentries [Book Two]

by Myra Scott

  They weren’t a sophisticated bunch on either side, it had to be said.

  The bachelor was shaking his head and rolling his eyes, trying to walk away, but the frat boys were bowing up, raring for a fight.

  “Gentlemen!” I called out, starting to hurry toward them.

  CRACK.

  Too late.

  The bachelor had spun around and laid out the college kid with a solid punch to the jaw, and I saw a molar tooth go rolling across the carpeted floor. It took about half a second for all hell to break loose.

  The two groups of men descended on each other like they were staging a fight in a movie. As soon as they came together, though, it became clear neither group had any idea what they were doing, and all were very drunk.

  Fists just flew out wildly, some of them hitting the other group, some hitting each other. By the time one man grabbed another and shoved him to the ground, I knew it was time for me to intervene.

  I bolted forward and caught one of the men by the arms from behind.

  “Break it up, come on!” I barked at them, but most of them were too aggravated to even notice that I’d come onto the scene. I felt an elbow hit me in the side, and I gritted my teeth.

  One of my hands reached out to grab a man by the collar, and I dragged him back while my other hand held back the punch he was about to throw. The man he was fighting just took the opportunity to hit the guy in the gut.

  Grunting, I put myself between them, and I soon felt a sharp pain in my stomach from another blow.

  I’d thrown myself into the fray, and I was quickly getting into the thick of it.

  I lost my sense of direction as I tried to push people away from each other. It was like wading through a sea of angry cats. I felt blows coming in on my shoulders and my back—neither party was especially interested in backing down anytime soon, and I was just in the way.

  Getting more aggressive, I started shoving both sides back with both arms bowed, and as I did, I felt a punch catch me on the side of the head. It was just a jab, but I was still dazed, and when I turned to see who was after me, I saw one of the younger faces in the crowd. His punches kept flying in at me, buzzing around my face like angry hornets, and the look on his face was infuriating. He had this sort of sneer, like this uppity kid was zealous to land a few punches on me, and his irritating jabs came in so fast and light that I started to feel claustrophobic among the sea of bodies.

  It was just this persistent, irritating feeling that I couldn’t shake this kid, like he was the embodiment of all the little problems that had been building up over the day and wouldn’t leave me alone. I started shoving my hands forward to push him away, keeping my body from losing its cool, and before I knew what was happening, I watched one of my fists fly forward and catch him on the eye.

  In my defense, it worked.

  The kid stumbled back into the crowd of his friends, holding his face, and it proved enough of a distraction that some of the men paused to see what was going on and who was winning the brawl.

  It wasn’t until then that the security personnel flooded the scene, and at least three security guards took hold of the biggest fighters, shouting orders for everyone to get back and not touch each other.

  I staggered back, and someone started to come for me before he realized who I was. He then took me by the arm and led me away, and it was at that point I realized that it was Bart who was guiding me.

  “Shit, what the fuck happened, Mick?” Bart grunted as we turned and watched the guards break up the rest of the fight. “You brawling to blow off some steam, now?”

  “No,” I hissed, biting back a few other choice words I had as I rubbed my sore head and felt the many blows I’d be feeling in the morning. “I was trying to break it up when I saw the staff wasn’t around to take care of it.

  Bart clenched his jaw, but he was looking at the men, not me. “Police are on their way,” he said. “We’ll have this squared away in a hot minute. You okay?”

  “Just a little banged up,” I grunted.

  “Good,” he said. “But shit, we’ve got to get this staffing situation under control.

  My migraine throbbed harder than any punch I’d been given that night.

  And when I saw Zane standing on the far end of the casino, glaring at both of us and gesturing for us to come his way, it throbbed so hard I thought my head was going to explode.

  Five minutes later, Bart, Gage, Zane and I all stood in one of the private rooms just above the casino floor, usually used for questioning suspicious guests when there was a problem. It didn’t set a great precedent for the way Zane was glowering at all of us, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “I don’t want to hear a rundown of what happened out there,” Zane started. “I’ll expect a full report about that before tomorrow morning, Mick.”

  My jaw clenched as I mentally added another load of work to the already teetering tower of it.

  “As for you, Bart,” he went on, “that was a complete failure of the security staff. I saw that fight breaking out from my office, and there wasn’t a single guard in the vicinity. No wonder Mick jumped in the way he did—that’s not an excuse, though,” Zane added, pointing a finger at me.

  I kept quiet. I always did. Every little annoyance was just another fly buzzing around my head, and I could ignore flies.

  But the more they started biting, the harder it got.

  “The staff is spread thin, you know that,” Bart protested. Bart was a big bear from Texas, it was awfully hard to get him to back down on anything. “That new nightclub is draining the staff, and we’re not hiring enough to keep up with it.

  “We’re hiring the right amount,” Zane said, “but Mick, we need you to get a better handle on all these staffing issues we’re having. We wouldn’t have so many guards quitting on us if we screened them better.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Bart interrupted me.

  “We wouldn’t have this problem if we’d just close off the nightclub for one weekday night to train them all properly, like I’ve been asking,” he insisted.

  “The gamblers would throw a fit,” Gage said, a frown on his face. “The nightclub has been all over the news, we can’t let it slow down while it’s raking in this much money.”

  “Agreed,” Zane said. “Diego’s been reporting the same on his end, but La Torre doesn’t have the same staffing issues that we do. Bart, we’ve had a spike in thefts that we haven’t seen the likes of since we first opened, and I didn’t have you on staff yet. We can’t afford to let that become an ongoing problem. I want to make that very clear. Mick, the list of staffing issues is growing faster than it’s shrinking, and that’s completely unacceptable.”

  “Security is worn-out because you still haven’t gotten me the infrastructure operating system I’ve been requesting all week!” Bart retorted, a little fire in his voice. “You can’t just tell me ‘do better’ when I’ve been waving a solution in your face for—”

  “You want to know what the problem is?” I snapped, not bothering to keep my voice down, and every head in the room turned to me.

  I never raised my voice, ever.

  But my face was cherry-red, and whatever had been throbbing in the back of my head had finally cracked.

  “I can’t keep up with all your incessant requests because you think I’m some kind of slot machine you can just throw emails at and get results immediately!” I railed, my fists clenching. “Do you know how many times an urgent email comes into my inbox? I tried to have one fucking meeting to fire a goddamn HR rep, and I can’t even get through that without being expected to magically put out fires that I was supposed to know about and have solved three days ago! Do you even think for one second when you send three emails in a row that I might be doing something besides waiting hand and foot on each and every one of you to take care of something your oversights can’t manage fo
r one goddamn day?”

  For the second time today, you could have heard a pin drop in the room I stood in. I glared at each and every one of them. Now would have been a good time to storm out furiously, but I didn’t. I wanted them to know what it was like to have something important waiting on them impatiently.

  I never blew up like this. My whole MO was the calm and collected anchor of our group, and Zane’s face couldn’t have been more shocked if I’d pulled a gun on all of them. Finally, Bart broke the silence with a hearty laugh, clapping me on the back.

  “I’m starting to rub off on the guy,” he joked.

  “Someone needs to get laid,” Gage added, playing off Bart’s energy.

  That did it.

  I shook my head and turned on my heel, throwing the door open and slamming it behind me. I had never seriously thought about walking out on the Sentry before, but damned if I didn’t feel like it right that second.

  … and damned if Gage hadn’t hit the nail on the head.

  CHAPTER THREE - ERIC

  “Yes, I know,” I murmured into the phone receiver. I had it wedged between my ear and shoulder, as usual, while I rushed through my morning routine. My beloved but extremely pushy Aunt Kay was prattling off all the reasons I needed to come visit her soon. It read like a laundry list of complaints, which was pretty typical for her, honestly. She meant well, but she was persistent as hell.

  “Eric, it’s been, what? A month? Two months? Since you last came and saw me? Your Uncle Marcus just had that horrible foot surgery last week and he’s been moanin’ and groanin’ about it ever since. Can’t get up and help me clean the house. Can’t get out of that rocking chair to help me do the grocery shopping,” she lamented.

  I was glad she couldn’t see me grinning through the phone. This woman could find things to complain about in paradise, I swear.

  “Aunt Kay, it’s not like he’s being lazy on purpose. Doesn’t he have a cast on his foot still?” I pointed out. There was a beat of silence, and I had to stifle a laugh. Then she scoffed.

  “Well, yes. He’s got that clunky boot thing on his foot. But the hospital gave him crutches! He could still, you know, hobble around if he really wanted to,” she countered.

  I rolled my eyes in amusement as I walked into my brightly-lit bathroom. The blazing Las Vegas sun fell across the room in swathes of hazy yellow light. That was one of the things I loved most about Nevada. The sun seemed extra bright here, extra cheerful. And with my job, I had to soak up as much sunny vitamin D as I could. As much lightheartedness as I could take.

  “Remember when you got your tonsils taken out and you had that bad reaction to the antibiotics?” I reminded her as I peered at my reflection critically.

  “Yes, of course. It was awful,” she said.

  “Okay, and do you remember how much Uncle Marcus helped you around the house while you were in recovery? Don’t you want to do the same for him?” I brought up. She sighed dramatically.

  I had a feeling the real truth of the matter was about to spill out. That was how it tended to work with Aunt Kay. If I pushed and prodded enough, I could get her to tell me anything. It was part of why I usually ended up playing the family diplomat when I was growing up. People confide in me, show me their dark sides, their inner thoughts and dreams, their secrets. It was a gift, most of the time. Sometimes it could be a curse, but in regards to my family I considered it a useful talent.

  “Oh, I know, I know. I just hate seeing your uncle in pain, if you really want to know what’s bothering me. That silly doctor refuses to give him more medicine for the pain, and I know it’s hurtin’ him a lot more than he lets on,” she explained, sounding both exhausted and relieved to have finally said what was really on her mind.

  “Is it the same doctor Mom went to when she sprained her ankle?” I asked. I leaned forward to scrutinize my face in the mirror. I was my harshest critic by far, but in my line of work it was extremely vital that I look the part.

  “Yes, same doctor.”

  “Alright, Auntie. Here’s what I’m going to do,” I began, going into my typical business mode. “I’ll call up Mama and get her to talk to the doctor for you and Uncle Marcus. I bet she can convince Dr. Morgan to take his pain more seriously. And don’t worry, it’s a routine surgery. He’ll feel better before too long.”

  “Why would Dr. Morgan listen to your Mama more than us?” she asked, sounding a little bit offended. I chuckled.

  “Oh, you know why. Mama’s got that way of convincing people. She just puts on the charm and flutters her eyelashes and before you know it, people are changing their minds and doing whatever she says,” I explained, laughing. “That’s why she’s so good at her job.”

  “She’s just a cashier,” Aunt Kay said, a little snobbishly, but I knew she didn’t mean any offense. She just had no filter. She kind of just let whatever thoughts came to mind out of her mouth without thinking about it much. It had gotten her in trouble many times before, but we were family, and I knew her better than that.

  “Yeah, but sometimes people still tip her,” I told my aunt meaningfully. “Not that anyone needs to know that,” I added. “Besides, I went with her to one of her appointments with Dr. Morgan and I think he has a little crush on her. If anyone can persuade him, it’s her.”

  Aunt Kay sighed. “Fine. She can try. But in the meantime, you should take a break from your bartending job and come see me. I’ll even make you dinner. What about that sweet potato casserole you like so much?”

  “That sounds lovely, Auntie,” I lied. I actually hated that casserole. It was my little sister who liked it. But I wasn’t about to bring that up right now. “But for now, I have to go get ready. I’ll talk to you later, though, alright?”

  “Don’t forget to call your mama,” she chided.

  “I won’t. Love you,” I said quickly.

  “Love you, too, Eric.”

  I hung up with a heavy sigh, rolling my eyes. Between the emotional demands of my family and the psychological demands of my job, I was worn out pretty much all the time. But it was worth it. Sure, I had to keep my real job secret from my family, which was why they all thought I was an ordinary bartender, but it paid well enough. My apartment was big and airy, with vaulted ceilings and lots of windows. I had a fancy gas stove and a bathtub with jets. I had a walk-in closet bigger than most dorm rooms.

  As for my family? They never needed to know what I did for a living. It was just better this way. I got to make my good money in peace, and they got to believe the lie that I was a humble bartender on the strip. It was the kind of job that suited my family’s tastes. I had grown up in Las Vegas, surrounded by hard-working family. We all worked on the strip in some way or fashion, and had done so for years. My mother had been a cashier at the same casino for almost four decades. My father was a police officer assigned to the same area of town. My sister Lydia was a stripper at a club on the strip. My aunts and uncles all held service jobs on the strip, too.

  So, it didn’t bother them in the least when I told them I was a bartender at a tiny bar near Madame Myrina’s Dungeon. In fact, it sounded just fine to them, even though I refused to give them the name of the bar or let them visit me at work. There was no need for them to find out that I wasn’t working as a bartender near the dungeon.

  I was actually working as a professional Dom, well-versed in bondage, discipline, sadism, and masochism, at that very dungeon. That was one secret I could not share with my family.

  I blinked at my reflection in the mirror, sizing myself up. I was tall, broad-shouldered, with lean muscles all over. I worked hard to maintain my powerful physique; it was vital to my job. I had cropped, dark, curly hair and smooth skin of a smoky brown tone. I had perfectly-straight teeth, courtesy of the braces my parents saved up for years to give me, and my eyes were expressive and light green. “The color of peridot,” my mother used to say, which was funny, be
cause that was my birthstone. I had abdominal muscles that could cut glass, and a taut ass that mesmerized my customers.

  I knew without a doubt that I was a good-looking guy. Almost intimidatingly good-looking, actually. It was part of why I ended up in this career. I had known since I was a teenager that my looks were a major asset, something I could bank on to make money and keep my lifestyle afloat. But of course, it took much more than just a pretty face and a killer body to be a fantastic professional Dom. I needed to be able to turn off my polite, gentle demeanor which came so naturally to me. I had to turn into a version of myself nobody in my real life ever got to see. As far as my family knew, I was just an impossibly sweet, patient, soft-hearted guy who would bend over backwards to help a friend or family member in need. And that was the truth. That was who I was in the cheery light of day. But as soon as I walked through the heavy door of Madame Myrina’s dungeon, that light was sealed off, and I left my softness outside.

  When I was at work, I was a different man. That strong, cunning, and sometimes even cruel side of me roared to life. I could put aside my good manners and my constant desire to please. I could channel all my frustrations, my stress, my pent-up energy, and transform into a man’s worst nightmare—which also happened to be his most desperate fantasy.

  It was an awesome job, to be honest, but it took a lot out of me. Still, I had never known any other activity or job that could give me the same intense thrill I got from spanking, binding, blindfolding, whipping, and berating a totally submissive man who was begging for me to give him the punishment he thought he deserved. Of course, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. I could get the occasional rude client or a guy who thought he wanted to be submissive, only to find out that he really had no idea what he was in for. But most of the time, it was great.

  I checked the time on my cell phone screen and swore, “Shit.” If I didn’t get a move on, I was going to be late. I quickly changed into street clothes, packed my towels, soap, and change of clothes into my duffel bag, and headed out. I hopped in my car and drove across town to the strip, where I quickly found parking behind the dungeon. My heart raced with nerves and excitement as I walked into work. I was constantly worried that one of my family members might catch a glimpse of me walking into the dungeon and my whole cover would be blown. But it hadn’t happened yet. Thankfully, the strip was eternally crawling with thick crowds of tourists, so I didn’t have to worry much about standing out.