“Stop it,” I say, pushing out the words and then finish my drink, sucking the whiskey against my teeth.
“What?” She whispers the word with disbelief, taking a step back. I watch her from my periphery as I slam the tumbler down on the bar as gently as I can, although the adrenaline rushes through me, its intensity demanding I let it take over. Without looking at her, listening to the applause, I know not a soul in this room has any idea how on edge I am. What this woman does to me isn’t justifiable.
“Don’t say another word,” I command her and then move my gaze to meet hers. Her dark eyes swirl with a mix of emotion. The cords in her neck tighten as she swallows thickly. “You need to stop before something bad happens to you, Braelynn.”
Braelynn
Yesterday’s conversation plays back in my mind as I stand here, remembering last night.
The whips and the couple on the stage who performed all manner of sinful deeds for the crowd barely penetrate my consciousness as my body heats. All I can think about is the warning tone from Declan for me to stop.
Swallowing down the memory, I choose to ignore it. Just like I did last night, even if the thought of him doing whatever he’d like to me is exactly what I dreamed of last night. And exactly what I touched myself to this morning. My imagination runs wild with wondering about the things Declan enjoys in the bedroom. I have no right thinking of him like that, but every bit of my intuition begs me to submit to him and let him engage in all manner of depravity. There are whispers about what Declan enjoys.
Clearing my throat, I hover at the bar waiting for Mia to refill the drinks for table six. She does it quickly, her hands working efficiently. It’s then I note, Mia always wears black. I wear black now too. Declan’s orders, of course. I wonder if he ordered her to as well, or if that’s her preference. The question stays in the back of my mind; I wouldn’t dare ask her.
It’s a slow Wednesday afternoon. Other than Mia, expertly mixing the cocktails, not a soul is in a hurry.
Really slow, actually. There are only four tables occupied. My table is a two-top. Two men in suits, obviously doing business. The two of them were a little heated earlier, their voices rising above the soft music that floats through the room, but they settled down when I came over. They’ve been quiet and patient since. I can sense they’re both making an effort with each other, so I’ve been hesitant. I don’t want to interrupt an important negotiation.
I’ve learned some clients of The Club are … particular and handled more delicately than others.
When Mia hands me the drinks, I murmur a quick thank-you. I don’t think she even heard it. Her attention is elsewhere and I don’t take it as a slight. Something’s obviously on her mind, or maybe she’s hungover.
I opt to imagine it’s the second, and that she’ll be her normal self before the dinner rush. With the two drinks, a white russian and a tom collins, balanced on the tray, I take it over to the men and slide it in front of the first one. He nods without stopping the flow of conversation, but the other man interrupts.
“Could we get more,” he questions as he brushes the empty white porcelain dish with his fingers. The mix of honey roasted assorted nuts and dried fruits has vanished since the last time I was here. Perhaps that’s a good sign.
“Of course,” I say and pick up the small bowl without hesitation.
Many men come here to do business. It’s been obvious the last few days, and Scarlet said she’s noticed too. She also said it’s best not to ask questions, or to linger around the tables. At The Club, privacy is a top priority. So I don’t stay longer than I have to, and I don’t ask questions. Half the time, I don’t want to interrupt at all.
Instead, I wonder about The Boss.
That’s what everyone calls Declan here. The Boss. Although he didn’t seem to like it when I called him it yesterday. A chill runs through me as I work without thinking, dropping the small bowl off, only to be asked for another white russian.
The man’s already downed it.
With a nod and another softly spoken of course, I take his tumbler back to the bar.
“Table six again,” I tell Mia. She glances down at the empty glass in my hand.
“One second, Brae, I’ve got to grab more coffee liqueur from the back.”
While she’s gone, my attention drifts toward the black door that blends in with the wall. That door leads to Declan. The Boss. The man behind the red door. I’m enthralled with him. There’s no better way to put it. Every time I have a moment to myself, I think about him. I try not to, especially when I’m on shift, but I can’t stop. The images come fast and furious. Declan leaning against his desk, his dark eyes raking over me. The way he told me not to wear red … ever again. I think of him constantly at work, and when I lay my head down at night, I dream of him.