What About Love (Club Decadence Book 6)

by Maddie Taylor

  “No,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I need to marinate in tequila for a good half hour before I’m ready.”

  They gave her that and she took it. Letting the liquor soothe her frazzled nerves, she watched and listened without uttering a single word as Elena finished her first set, took a short break, and came back for her second.

  As she walked on stage, she made an announcement. “Our next set settles a debt I have with a dear friend. Joanna, this is for you.” The band opened up on a sick guitar lick that brought Joanna to her feet with an excited squeal.

  “This is it,” she cried out, bouncing up and down as the band played a 1980’s classic, Pour Some Sugar On Me, by Def Leppard. She whooped and hollered, singing along and dancing up a storm as the girls looked on with mystified amusement.

  “Joanna!” Lexie cried at the end of the song. “Are you drunk?”

  “I haven’t had a drop of liquor,” Jo called back as Elena plunged from the first song right into the next, a sultry rendition of White Snake’s Is This Love. “This is it.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Megan shouted, in order to be heard. “What’s it?”

  “An 80’s rock set!” Joanne explained. “Elena’s payment on our bet!”

  “What bet?” Lexie asked, also shouting.

  “Silly girl thought I couldn’t get her the gig to play at the Mayor’s wedding. I did. She lost. So I get this.” She threw her arms up in the air, enjoying every minute.

  “You mean Peter’s brother’s wedding?” Lexie demanded.

  Joanna turned and put a finger over her mouth, hushing her.

  “You cheated!”

  Joanna grinned. “Ah, but she doesn’t need to know that, at least not yet.”

  They laughed at her exuberance because it all made so much sense. A child of the seventies who came of age in the eighties, Joanna was a rock, power ballad, hairband junky. It blared from her car stereo and was always queued up on her sound system at home. She’d been pestering Elena for years to add eighties music to her covers, but she always put her off. Until now, when she had no choice.

  So for the next thirty minutes, they watched Joanna Davis in her element, as she danced, sang and played air guitar like a teenager to the songs of Pat Benatar, Bon Jovi, the Scorpions and Heartache Tonight by the Eagles that got the whole lounge on their feet clapping and singing along. No vanilla club girl walking in and seeing this would suspect this was a kinky sex club.

  Angie looked on, somewhat distracted from her misery by Joanna’s infectious joy in the music and surprised at how many of the songs she knew. With the next one, Joanna stunned them all as the conservative suburban housewife, mother of two, grandmother twice over, a fundraiser for the local USO and military families, former director and volunteer at the safe house network for abused women, and wife of a highly decorated two-star general, climbed onto her chair. Caught unawares, the girls could only stare when her next step put her on the tabletop where she began dancing in her sky high red heels.

  Lexie, who knew her the best, shook her head with worry. “Ohmigod, did she have to play Steve Perry? She goes apeshit over him. The only reason her bedroom isn’t wallpapered with posters of the man is because the general put his foot down.”

  “Who?” Angie asked clueless. No one answered because Elena did it for them as she belted out the first line of the Journey classic, Anyway You Want It. Every eye at the table was glued on Joanna, every woman on alert, ready to catch her if she tumbled. They hadn’t hit the second chorus before a tall, sexy, still handsome as sin and looking as if he were twenty years younger than he was, Peter Davis appeared at their table. He peered up at his bride of three decades with a completely smitten look on his face while waiting for her to notice his presence. When she did, he shook his head, unable to contain his grin as he held up a hand for her. No one could mistake it for other than what it was, a silent command to get down.

  “But Master,” she implored with a pretty pout, “this is my payment for winning our bet. Besides, it’s Journey.” The emphasis she put on the band’s name, told everyone clearly that it held a special place in her heart and her past.

  “Dance, sing, and play to your heart’s content, my love, but do it from the floor. I have plans for you tonight, Joanna, and they do not include a ride to the emergency room when you take a header off a table.”

  She stopped dancing and returned his grin.

  “What kind of plans?”

  “That’s a surprise for later. Come on down.”

  With a look of adoration for her husband, that rivaled his of a moment before, she bent and placed her hands on his broad shoulders. Her friends, every one of them, entranced by the scene playing out in front of them, sighed as he caught her around the waist and swung her down from the table. He didn’t let her go when her feet touched down, instead he bent her over his arm in a deep, dramatic dip and kissed her passionately. As Elena segued into the heart thumping beat of Journey’s Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’, the general made them all melt, as he plastered his wife’s body against his, hip to hip, chest to chest, one large hand gripping her behind, and began to dance—well, more like slowly sway—with a beaming Joanna entwined in his arms.

  At the end of the song, Elena announced another break. The lights came up a bit, while the general handed Jo back into her seat and gave her another long, lingering kiss. Then, he warned with a hushed, “be a good girl, now,” and in a blink was gone.

  Angie, who had taken it all in, was convinced she’d never find a man who could share that depth of feeling, or the same love and connection that Joanna clearly shared with her man. It was the same for the twins, Elena, Lexie and Mara all of them had found love, the kind she wanted to have with T. Despondent, she threw back another shooter and laid her head on the table, muttering downheartedly, “Men suck.”

  Joanna, still flushed and dreamy eyed from the unexpected dance with her Master, turned her way. “They can, honey, especially ones of the dominant variety, although they usually have redeeming qualities that make up for it. Tell us what happened.”

  Angie snorted derisively, then with the buzz of four tequila shots flowing through her veins, the alcohol did as it always did. It loosened her tongue and had her zipping off a response to Joanna’s directive without thinking. “Just because they can fuck you insensate against a wall, doesn’t mean that they should.”

  As one, the other women gasped.

  “It’s Lil T, isn’t it?” Megan guessed.

  Seeing no reason to hide it any longer, Angie nodded unhappily.

  A pink tipped finger pointed at her as her cousin exclaimed. “I knew it. Ever since you got back from L.A., both of you have been moping around like heart sick teenagers.”

  “I have, but I doubt he has moped for a minute.”

  “Not true,” Lexie put in. “He hasn’t played in weeks. Jonas commented on it just the other day. He’s been either away on Rossi business or on DM duty.”

  “Well, that may be the case, but he hasn’t changed his tune. At least not as of an hour ago.”

  Megan reached for Angie’s hand across the table and squeezed. “Oh, cuz. Why didn’t you listen when we told you he was a player?”

  “I did, but I guess I’m more into pain than I realized, and apparently, I like mine self-inflicted.” Angie stood, searching for the waitress. Flagging her down, she promptly ordered two more shooters as her friends looked on with concern.

  Not twenty minutes had passed when she counted six empties and eight demolished lime wedges in front of her, the waitress having cleared at least two shot glasses away. She was considering another round when Megan sat bolt upright in her chair and announced in a noisy whisper, “He’s here.”

  Sobering fractionally, she followed her gaze and saw the top of his dark head as he moved toward the bar. “He was supposed to be going out of town. That’s the only reason I came.” Blinded by tears that threatened to overflow, she choked out. “I’ve got to get out
of here.”

  “Don’t you dare cry,” Joanna ordered. “You can’t give the little prick the satisfaction.”

  A drunken laugh bubbled up inside her. “I think that’s probably the first time little and prick were used in the same sentence when referring to T.”

  “Good to know, Ang, and we will talk about that more in-depth later,” Megan cut in as she moved around the table and took the seat beside her, “but she’s right. I know it’s hard, but keep your head high, honey.”

  “Like you didn’t cry over Cap?”

  “I did, but I also told him to go fuck himself when he cut me off at the knees. He did that once to me. T has done it repeatedly, hasn’t he?”

  She nodded, choking back a sob. “I need another drink.”

  “No!” This came in a chorus of cries from around her.

  Lexie pulled out the chair on her other side and slid into it as she slipped a sympathetic arm around her shoulders. “You need to find another Dom right away. Show him what he’s giving up and he’ll be back.”

  “No. She needs to find a Dom who’ll appreciate all that she is and make her forget Lil T ever existed,” Mara countered.

  “Either way,” Joanna said with a glint in her eye, “she needs another Dom. Now. And, I have the perfect one in mind.” She rose to her feet, systematically searching the crowded lounge until she found who she was looking for. Her smile was filled with an unholy light as she leaned forward and squeezed both of Angie’s hands. “He’s perfect and he’s got a sexy French accent. He’ll either have T ready to rip his head off in a jealous rage and claiming you as he should or you’ll leave here tonight with a well satisfied smile on your face shouting, ‘Viva La France’.” She straightened, smoothing down her dress and hair, still flawless despite her set of table dancing and panty melting kisses. “It’s a win-win,” she added, giving Angie a wink. “Don’t let her drink anymore,” she cautioned the other girls. “I’ll be right back.”

  The table of submissives watched as their de facto leader, stunningly turned out in a clingy backless black dress and crimson stiletto heels, glided across the lounge, turning heads as she passed despite her rapidly approaching fifty-fourth birthday.

  “Damn,” Angie slurred. “I want to be her when I grow up.”

  The rest of them nodded in full agreement.

  *****

  It was almost ten o’clock when he walked through the front doors in a foul mood. An hour on the road to Ft. Worth, he’d turned around when the bondsman called to advise that the fugitive had been apprehended. He should have gone straight home, but knowing Angie would be here, along with fifty of the club’s available Doms hungry for submissive ass to beat and pussy to fuck, or vice versa, he’d been unable to resist coming to keep an eye on her, although he didn’t have that right.

  Without a word to anyone, he strode to the bar with one intent, to take the edge off his self-directed anger with large quantities of alcohol. Ben slid a draft in front of him without asking. He downed half of it before swiveling on his stool, his back to the bar. Scanning the lounge, he easily located the girl’s table. No Angie, thank God. Maybe she’d changed her mind. That idea made him feel like an even bigger shit, knowing he was to blame for wrecking her plans for the night.

  “Looking for someone?” Cap asked as he took the open stool next to him.

  T shrugged.

  “Bullshit.”

  His head jerked around. “You got something to say, Cap, then say it.”

  “You and Angie have been going head to head from day one. What gives?”

  “Nothing gives. Not that it’s any of your business.” He almost laughed. A similar line had been used on him little more than two hours ago. “Angie wants more than I’m able to give.”

  “More bullshit,” Cap repeated, making T scowl. “You’ve got your head so far up your ass you can’t see the goodness right in front of you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You mean how you fucked off when I asked you to when I pushed Megan away? You, Rick, Dex, all of you, were all over my ass. Not that I’m not grateful now, still, paybacks are hell, my friend. Something in your past is messing with your head. I recognize the signs, but you’re a fool if you let Angie slip through your fingers because of it. When you come up for air one day, and you will, you’ll want to kick yourself for being such an idiot.”

  “You don’t know—” T began.

  “That’s right. I don’t,” Cap cut in. “None of us do because you won’t let us in. You wrap it up with a joke or a smile and try to console yourself with a quick lay for the night. That’s a lonely existence, bud, especially when you walk out of here or Rossi alone, night upon night. Even more so when the woman you want is within reach. It took me thirty-eight years to get my head on straight and claim what was mine all along. Learn from one who has been there, T, don’t waste a precious second.”

  He shook his head. “Your situation is different than mine. I can’t—”

  “Then you won’t mind that she’s drunk off her ass and dancing with Arturo Durand.”

  T’s head came up immediately searching the teeming dance floor.

  “Like Megan, Angie was blessed with the Sinclair curves, which Arturo appears smart enough to appreciate. And, he seems to be greatly appreciative right now if that hand squeezing her ass can be read correctly. Although she’s too drunk to play tonight, he seems to be having a good time exploring what’s on the outside of that black lace dress. I’m sure he’ll see her home safely and do a more up close and personal exploration later.”

  Cap paused in his play by play letting that sink in for a moment. T felt his friend’s eyes on him, while his remained riveted on the brunette in black on the dance floor.

  “He’s half-French, half-Spanish and lives in London, so I hear. He’s got business with the general and will be in town for a while, so he’s been given temporary membership. The subbies are all gaga over his accent and although he’s a sadist who prefers a French whip called a martinet, they don’t seem to mind and come at the crook of his finger—quite literally. It might be me, but I think a mysterious European Dom who can handle a whip and a drunken submissive, make for a dangerous combination. Don’t you think, T?”

  The calculating bastard was talking to air, however, because halfway through his former captain’s scheming soliloquy, T was on his feet, stalking to the edge of the dance floor. He froze, seething with jealousy as the tall, bearded Frenchman, who look more like he hailed from Spain with his dark hair and eyes, arched Angie’s aforementioned curves over his arm in a low dip. His jaw clenched and his hands fisted as he watched the bastard’s lips hover over her bare skin as it pressed upward out of the low neckline of her dress. At the same time, he slid his hand down her back, over the curve of her ass and along her thigh, reversing direction the next moment as his fingers disappeared under the hem of her short skirt.

  On the move, he charged impulsively into the crowd, unable to bear watching his hands on her another minute. He was fully aware he was about to give Angie more mixed signals, but he couldn’t help that he was screwed up, caught between the nightmare of his past and the ravenous desire to have this woman as his own. Dodging the dancers as they dipped and swayed, it took T a few moments to reach the couple in the center of the hardwood floor.

  As he moved in, he saw Durand snap her upright out of the deep dip and slam her into his body, not a speck of daylight separating them from knee to chest. He heard Angie giggle and saw red, wanting her sweet though drunken laugh directed at him not some Dom she’d picked up for the night. As the other man spun her around, her head fell back, glossy hair sweeping down skin left bare by her open back dress. In her inebriated state, she couldn’t realize the temptation her exposed throat offered. Durand didn’t miss the invitation and lowered his mouth, openly seeking.

  He wanted to snatch her out of the swarthy Dom’s arms and slam a fist into his face, upgrading his violence from a punch to separating his head from his shoulders when
T saw his tongue slip out and taste her skin.

  “That’s enough, Durand,” he snarled. “She’s shitfaced.”

  The man’s dark head lifted and his eyes angled up at him sharply. Astutely reading the volatility of the situation, he brought the dance to a halt, easing Angie slightly away from him. “Have I poached unintentionally?”

  “Yes,” T barked, at the same time, Angie snapped, “No.”

  “It’s like that, is it?” Arturo surmised correctly. He bowed to Angie gallantly, “Obviously, you two have things to work out. If it doesn’t, find me the next time, Angeline, and we’ll finish our dance.”

  “There won’t be a next time.” T declared, to which Arturo smiled faintly. He inclined his head to Angie and disappeared among the crowd of dancers who were now standing still, watching the show.

  T took her hand. “I’m taking you home.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she protested, yanking it away. “Besides, I’m having fun and want to stay.”

  “You’re drunk and don’t know what you want.”

  “Ha! That’s rich coming from you, Mr. On-and-off-like-a-light-switch. I’m fully aware of what I want and I know I don’t want you.”

  He pulled her against his chest and bent his head to her ear. “That’s not what you said while I was fucking you against the wall a while ago.”

  Her indrawn breath was the only reaction she allowed herself before demanding coolly, “Let me go. You seem to be very good at that when it suits your purpose.”

  Knowing she was drunk and hurting, didn’t diminish the sting of her words. Without loosening his hold, he stared down into her flushed, angry face. Neither was ready to back down, until abruptly Angie looked away.

  “Why are you doing this, T?” Her whisper was easily heard in the eerie silence of the bar, the music and conversation having come to a near standstill as their drama unfolded. “For whatever reason, you’re determined to be alone, to live a cold, solitary existence without love in your life. I don’t pretend to understand it and you sure as heck won’t let anyone in. But this has to stop, please.”