“So, how was the fight on Friday?”
Ray “the Predator” Black, Amanda’s private investigator, Redemption fighter, and permanent resident on Amanda’s client couch, peers over his newspaper as I walk into the office. He’s the only person I know who reads an actual physical newspaper. He’s also the only person I know who would beat up a celebrity in a dark alley to avenge me and pretend it wasn’t him. Although he’s now married, he is very protective of me in an overbearing-brother kind of way.
“Fine.” I’m not interested in talking. I am interested in coffee, and lots of it. Ray and I have an unspoken understanding that whoever gets to the office first has to make the coffee, and if he’s shirked his duty today, I’m going to kill him.
“I heard Rampage won his fight and you were on TV,” he says casually, although Ray is not a casual man. Rumor has it that he used to be in the CIA, and from some of the things that happened when he first hooked up with his wife, Sia, I suspect the rumors are true. “I also heard that Rampage beat up Juice Can ’cause he knocked you over, and some dude in Score who was hitting on you,” he continues.
Damn. Gossip at Redemption spreads faster than it did at secondary school. “If you know everything, why are you asking me?” I grab the coffeepot and fill my cup. Everyone thinks that because I’m British, I drink tea, but I’ve been a coffee drinker since I left home at the age of seventeen.
“I like to get my information from the source.”
I add a little cream and sugar and take my first sip. My tension eases a tiny bit as the warm, bittersweet liquid slides over my tongue. This is definitely going to be a three- or four-coffee day. “Your source confirms the information you already have, except you missed the bit about me having the bar situation under control and being irritated that Rampage interfered. Maybe I wanted to go home with the guy. Maybe he was the one and I lost my chance. Maybe I learned something hanging around the gym and could have knocked him flat with one hand tied behind my back. Can I get to work now?”
Ray snorts a laugh. “If Rampage stepped in, then the guy was no good.”
“Maybe I like the no-good guys.”
“Yeah. Picked that up when you walked in here with a busted-up face after a night out with Vetch Retch. Not going to let it happen again. Rampage feels the same.”
My next sip of coffee scalds my tongue, and I try to not choke on the burning liquid. “How do you know how he feels?”
“I know.”
I heave an exasperated sigh. “Well then, why does he care? He’s a big sports star now, a pro fighter. I’m sure he has other things to think about than Penny the legal assistant who drags her ass to Redemption three times a week for a workout so she can enjoy the occasional piece of cake, or three.”
Ray crosses his feet and leans back on the couch. “We got each other’s backs at Redemption. Everyone cares.”
Everyone. Disappointment worms its way into my chest, and I quickly change the subject before I give myself away. “Shoes.” I point to his feet, and he swings his feet down with an irritated groan.
“They’re clean.”
“They’re on your feet, so they’re not clean.” I take another sip of coffee, and the cobwebs start to clear from my head. “Although Amanda tolerates your bad behavior at the office, I have a feeling Sia might have something to say about it. And, if this was my office, your feet would be staying on the floor.”
Ray’s face softens at the mention of his wife, Sia, the owner of the tattoo parlor in the massive warehouse that houses Redemption. “She’s eased up on me since Sam was born,” he says. “As long as I pull my weight.”
“Which you’re doing by lounging on Amanda’s couch and reading the paper?”
“I was reading about the fight.” He turns the paper around and shows me a grainy picture of Rampage in the cage.
“I’d never been to a professional MMA fight before.” I top up my coffee and add more cream. “It was very different from the amateurs and those underground events you like to go to. Very glitzy and very public. You could see every drop of sweat, every grimace… I couldn’t do something like that. I’m a shy, retiring type of person.”
Ray barks a laugh. “You try to make people think that, with those frilly clothes, but there’s a lot more to you than you let on. Cotton candy girls don’t like death metal, Pen. They don’t jump up on stage at a concert and go fucking crazy with the front man. They listen to their friend when he warns them the guy’s no good…”
My lips press together, and I shoot Ray a warning look. He knows better than to go there. I haven’t dated anyone since Vetch, and Ray knows it. Ray also knows what happened in the alley behind Vetch’s hotel shortly after I walked into the office covered in bruises, although he has never talked about it. No one hurts people Ray cares about, and although we’re just friends, he cares about me.
“Cotton candy girls.” I huff as I walk into my office, a cozy room just off the reception area, with big windows overlooking the street. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Shy and retiring,” Ray mutters behind me. “That doesn’t add up.”
Amanda goes straight into a client meeting when she arrives, and I help her associates, Jill and Dana, get her documents ready for her court hearing in the afternoon. When she comes into my office to collect her boxes a few hours later, all dressed up in her new dove-gray suit, I feel a little stab of jealousy. My mom wore a suit every day for her job as a marketing executive. I used to dress up in her clothes and carry a briefcase around the house, dreaming of the day I’d go to work in a suit, too. But it was never meant to be. Now, I’m on the outside looking in, watching someone else live my dream.
“Did the process server show up yet?” Amanda loads files into her briefcase. “We need to serve papers on Club Sin tonight. It took me longer than I thought to draft the claim because the tenant hasn’t breached any terms of the lease, but I promised Gerry Turner we would get his lawsuit started before he leaves for vacation tomorrow. He wants that sex club out of his building as soon as possible.”
“I just got a call that the process server is running late,” I say. “I was planning run some errands after work and it’s on my way home. I don’t mind dropping them off. That way we can be sure they get served tonight.” Amanda’s new client, Gerry, is a real estate magnate who owns almost an entire city block in the South of Market (SoMa) District as well as other properties in the city that he leases out at exorbitant rates. Although he could get Club Sin to vacate the premises with proper notice under its lease or by waiting for the lease term to expire, he doesn’t want to wait because he’s had an offer from a developer who wants to tear down the building and turn the block into a shopping center. The deal is time sensitive and worth a lot of money, and Gerry is getting desperate.
“They don’t open until eight tonight…” Amanda’s voice trails off, but she looks so hopeful that I can’t let her down.
“No problem. I was planning to be down there for a few hours. Plus, I’ve never been to a sex club before, and I’m curious to see what goes on inside a place with a name like Club Sin.”
Ray offers to drive Amanda to court, and I leave our receptionist, Mari, to close the office while I head downtown. I run my errands and browse the racks at Nordstrom, lingering over the suits for so long I’m sure I’ve attracted the attention of the store’s undercover detectives. Just after eight, I head over to SoMa and park a few blocks away from the club.
My phone GPS leads me to a massive brown four-story brick building that goes back half a city block. All the ground-floor tenants have Going Out of Business signs in their windows, but I can’t find a door or a sign for Club Sin. After my second walk up and down the street, I spot a woman dressed in a black corset, skirt, and thigh-high boots. I follow her down the alley to a gray metal door. When she slides a card through a reader on the wall, I kick it into gear and catch her before s
he enters the building.
“Is this Club Sin?”
She startles and frowns. “Why do you want to know?”
I show her the envelope with the company name on it. “I have to give this to Damien Stone.”
“Come on in.” She motions me forward. “I’ll let Master Damien know you’re here.”
Master Damien. A thrill of excitement shoots through me. Although I’ve heard about BDSM clubs, I never thought about actually visiting one. Except for Vetch, I’ve led a pretty conservative life as far as sex and relationships go.
My pulse kicks up a notch, and I follow the woman down the brightly lit stairwell and into a spacious reception area decorated with framed pictures of people suspended from the ceiling, attached to giant wooden crosses, shackled to tables, and hanging from what look to be giant swings. Despite the photos, which are at once terrifying and titillating, the foyer is tastefully decorated in red and gold, with sparkly tiled floors, gilt mirrors, and a large red velvet couch. A crystal chandelier twinkles above the ornate gold reception desk.
My guide introduces me to the receptionist, Kitty, and excuses herself to find Master Damien. I catch the clink of glassware, the murmur of voices, and the distinctive sound of a scream as she exits the reception area through a heavy wooden door.
“It’s early, so it’s still quiet,” Kitty says. “I don’t think Master Damien is busy, so you won’t have to wait long.” She smooths her hand over her electric blue corset, heavily embroidered and trimmed with black lace that barely covers the crescents of her breasts. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Forty. More people enter the club, usually in groups of two or three. Despite the wide variety of clothing—some people are dressed like the woman from the alley, some in leather, and some in normal street clothes—I feel overly conspicuous in my pink miniskirt, white cashmere sweater, and kitten heels.
After an hour, Kitty takes pity on me and sends a text to someone inside. “If he’s in the middle of a scene, you might have a long wait.” She gives me an apologetic smile. “I’ve been a member here for five years, and I’ve never once seen Master Damien allow an interruption. That’s him in most of the photographs.”
I glance up at the pictures where people are being teased and tortured, spanked and whipped, and yet it is not pain on their faces but pleasure. Erotic pleasure. My hand drifts to my thighs, scarred after years of abuse. I get relief from my pain and, in that release, pleasure.
Seized with an almost-desperate longing to go inside, I pull out my purse. “Could I go in and look for him? Or just wait inside? I’ll pay the entrance fee.”
“Members only.” She points to a sign on the wall. “Even if I let you into the lounge, Master Damien won’t be there. We have a separate play area exclusively for members who are concerned about privacy. That’s where Master Damien will be. Except for Master Jack, he’s the most sought-after Dom in the club, which is why he’s always so busy.” She hesitates, shrugs. “He knows you’re here. It’s all about control with the Doms. He’ll come when he thinks the time is right.”
Control? Or does he just not want to be served? Clearly, forcing the issue isn’t going to work. But patience always wins out in the end.
“Could you let him know that I plan to wait here until closing?” I settle back on the couch. “You could also pass on the message that if he doesn’t come out, then we’ll get an order for substituted service. If he’s big into control, he might not like that because it means he might lose control of the proceedings because he might not get notice of court dates or of any further applications we file.”
Kitty gives a nervous laugh. “That’s not the kind of message Master Damien is going to like to hear. If I don’t come back, or if I come back and I don’t sit down, you’ll know what he thought about it.”
After she leaves, I pace around the reception area, fiddling with the ring I wear on a chain around my neck. Although there are no good memories associated with the ring, I can’t bear to part with it, but sometimes it really weighs me down.
Finally, Kitty returns, her face flushed. “He says if you sign a waiver, you can go in.”
My pulse kicks up a notch when she hands me the document. “Where’s the pen?”
“You should read it first.”
“I’ve seen lots of liability waivers,” I tell her. “And I’m not planning to stay, so there is little risk of anything happening to me. I’m in, and then I’m out.”
“It’s not that kind of waiver.”
With a sigh, I sit and read over the short document in which I am asked to confirm that I am over the age of eighteen, agree to all activities that take place in the club, hold the owner and attendees harmless from damages or injuries, and agree that anything I hear or see will be kept confidential, including the identity of club members. No cell phones or recording devices are allowed. Violation of the agreement or the club rules will result in legal and/or civil action or punishment as the owner sees fit.
“Punishment?” My hand hovers over the signature line. “What do they mean by punishment?”
Kitty turns around to show me the bright red backs of her thighs. I can just make out actual handprints on her skin.
“Oh. My. God.” I stare at her in shock after she turns back around. “He did that to you because of my message?”
“He did it because I left the reception desk unattended without permission.” A smile spreads across her face. “Isn’t it hot? Most of the submissives here would die to get a spanking from Master Damien.”
A thrill of fear runs through me, but when I make a move to the door, she hands me another document. “You need to read and sign this, too.”
“Seriously?” I take the papers. “I’m only going to be in there for five minutes. Four if I walk fast.”
Kitty laughs. “He thinks you’ll be longer than that.”
Five minutes later, I follow Kitty into the belly of the beast. My heart pounds wildly as I step through the door, only to thud to a stop when I see nothing more than a fancy bar—long sweeping counter, shelves full of bottles, leather chairs, a few tables, televisions in the corners… But wait. Is that a man on a leash?
The surroundings may be ordinary, but the people are not. I see everything from nudity to corsets, from leather straps to lace, and from rubber to chains.
“Master Damien doesn’t allow any play in this area,” she says. “It’s just for relaxing.”
“Sure,” I say, although how relaxed can a person be kneeling on the floor in a collar and leash?
She nods to two burly bouncers, and they open a steel door at the side of the bar. “These are the private fetish and play rooms.” Kitty gestures me into the hallway. “Don’t forget that the waiver you signed means you can’t tell anyone what or who you see in here.”
I glance down at her still-pink thighs and swallow hard. “Yeah, I got that message.”
Wide and spacious, with shiny black marble tiles, deep purple–painted walls, ornate sconces, and wrought-iron chandeliers, the hallway is at once sensual and frightening. We pass several closed doors and a few with windows, curtains open to reveal rooms containing everything from padded benches to cages.
“Watch yourself here.” Kitty draws me to one side. “This is the whipping alcove for longer implements, like single tails.”
I startle at the crack of a whip and glance into the alcove, dimly lit and painted a deep red. A woman in red lingerie is bound face-first to a large wooden cross. Behind her a tall, muscular man with short, dark hair raises his whip. He is wearing leather pants and a black T-shirt. From the back, he is breathtaking. Broad shoulders narrow to slim hips, a tight toned ass, and muscular thighs.
Something niggles at the back of my mind, and I pause as he cracks the whip, the motion both smooth and powerful, his lats bunching and flexing as he lets it glide, th
e tip brushing over the woman’s exposed buttocks. She screams and arches her back, her hands straining against her restraints.
“Did I give you permission to scream?” His deep, rich, commanding voice sends a familiar tingle down my spine.
“No, sir.”
“That’s Master Jack,” Kitty whispers. “He’s a sadist. He’ll only play with the most experienced submissives, and even then, he’s very selective.” She tugs on my arm, but I can’t move. Whether it’s the scene or the man, I don’t know, but I cannot tear myself away.
Master Jack strikes the woman again. Light glints off the tats on his left arm, but I can’t make out the designs. The woman arches against the cross, and I cringe at the red welts covering her back, although I see no blood. The whip cracks again, and she gasps, her legs giving out until she is held up solely by the restraints.
“Yellow,” she says, her voice hoarse.
“We have a safety system,” Kitty explains. “Red means stop. Yellow means slow down or she’s not sure she can take anymore. Green means go.”
Master Jack carefully replaces the whip on the rack on the wall and walks across the floor to the woman on the cross. His leather pants creak with every stride of his long legs, and his boots thump on the floor. He is all raw power and lean grace and so achingly familiar I shake off Kitty’s insistent tug. I have to see his face.
After a brief conversation with the woman, he turns, and his gaze locks on me.
Rampage.
My hand flies to my mouth, but I can’t suppress a gasp. How can Redemption’s gossip king, all-around good guy, everyone’s best friend, professional athlete, and the epitome of chivalry be here, whipping a woman until she screams?
His eyes narrow and harden, and then he turns away as if he doesn’t know me. He retrieves the whip and strikes the woman again.
“We have to go,” Kitty insists. “Master Damien doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Fighting Attraction Page 3