by Jane Henry
"This… this isn't The Club?" Hillary asked, looking around in confusion.
Alice let out a peal of laughter that lit up her blue eyes and made her look even sweeter.
"Not even close. The entrance to The Club is back there." She waved a hand toward the doorway where Donnie's companion still stood.
"This is, like…" Alice paused for a moment, thinking. "You know how in those spy movies, there's always a front that the spies use? Oh, don't mind us, we're just a bunch of harmless accountants or movie producers or whatever?"
Hillary raised one eyebrow. "The bar is your secret cover?"
"Well, not exactly secret," Alice amended. "But you might say that this is The Club's innocent vanilla exterior. By club policy, we're not allowed to let just anyone in to the main club, only members and their guests. This front room is a place for people to meet up before they enter the chaos back there."
Hillary swallowed.
The chaos back there.
Images filled her mind. The flash of strobe lights punctuating the darkness as she followed Marauder through the throngs of people on the dance floor at Black Box, half-naked bodies pressing in on all sides. The demonstrations, the public punishments, the eerie silence of the sound-proofed room…
"Hillary?"
Hillary looked up at the sound of her name, then found she had to look up some more. Oh my word, this man was huge. She could feel her eyes widening as she tried to take him in.
She had only the haziest recollections of the man from the night he helped Matteo save her—a vague impression that he was a big guy, gruff and commanding. Her memory didn't do him justice.
He was bald, his head completely shaved, in a way that might have looked ridiculous, had his head not been perched on a neck as thick as a tree-trunk. The silver hoops in each ear and the variety of tattoos all over his hands and arms screamed dangerous. His black t-shirt stretched tightly across the most muscular chest and arms she'd ever seen—possibly even larger than Matteo's, and his booted feet were braced slightly apart, as though he were perpetually ready for a fight. Even his face was hard, his jaw clenched firmly, betraying no emotion.
She took a deep breath and prayed for courage.
"You must be Slay!" she said, extending her hand politely. "Hi! It's very nice to meet you."
Slay looked at her extended hand for a moment. His lips twitched. She noticed that his eyes were brown, like caramel, and fringed with long lashes. Insanely pretty eyes for a man this formidable. Somehow that realization calmed her nerves.
"Real nice to meet you, too, honey," he said, his voice deep and gruff, and his enormous hand engulfed hers. "Matt's told me a bit about you."
Hillary nodded. "He… um… he didn't tell me much about you. I was kinda out of it, but I know you were there last spring, when…"
Slay's face grew stony again. "Yeah," he said.
Hillary swallowed. "I just wanted to say thank you. You know, sorta get that out of the way before we, um…" She glanced at the back corner of the bar, where Donnie and the other man had resumed their positions.
"You do not thank me for that," he told her. "I'm sorry it happened. I'm glad I was able to help. And I wish I'd been able to tear that motherfucker's dick off so he wouldn't even think about doing that to anyone else."
Well. Alrighty then.
Hillary nodded and Slay's eyes softened.
"So, you want a tour of the club?"
She straightened her shoulders and smiled.
"Yeah. Yes. Definitely."
He grabbed her beer and placed it in her hand, then put his arm around her waist and steered her toward the door. But they hadn't gone more than a few steps before he stopped and called back over his shoulder.
"Alice. You staying out of trouble?"
Hillary looked back in time to see Alice's pretty face scowl as she glared at Slay's broad back.
"Not much opportunity for anything else when I'm stuck out here," Alice muttered, just loud enough for them to hear.
Hillary could swear she saw Slay smothering a smile. Then he nodded to Donnie, and the other guard pulled open the rear door. They stepped into The Club.
The music was much louder back here, the bass thumping. It was another bar area, twice as large as the one out front, with several hallways leading off it. And unlike the bar out front, this room was packed with people. But Hillary was relieved to see that unlike the writhing crush of bodies she remembered from Black Box, this room was well-lit, and fairly tame. People were dressed casually, sexily, much the way Hillary herself was dressed. She smoothed a hand down her stomach and felt her tension relax a notch.
Slay led her to a table on the far side of the room and nudged her onto a chair in the corner before taking the chair next to her. He caught the bartender's eye and lifted his chin, and the woman immediately rushed over with a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
She poured a shot without making eye contact with Slay, and set it neatly on a white napkin.
"On my tab," Slay said, and the woman nodded, her eyes never rising above Slay's chin before she scurried away.
Oh. Wow.
Hillary felt her stomach flip. That was hot.
"So," Slay said. He dragged his chair closer and leaned over her just a little, so the breadth of his chest blocked out the rest of the bar. It made Hillary's heart race, and she could almost pretend that it was in a good way. She took a nervous sip of her beer.
"We'll start our tour here. Hang out and relax for a bit, since you look like you're about to faint or some shit." He winked.
Hillary bit her lip. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just all kinda… new and overwhelming."
"I don't mind, honey," he told her seriously. "It's sweet. But you shoulda let me pick you up at your house."
She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped herself. She'd told herself that she'd make a real effort tonight, and that probably didn't involve pissing off a potential dom by arguing about trivial things.
She closed her mouth and nodded instead.
He looked amused again.
"I'll let you pick where you want to go from here," he told her, speaking into her ear so that she could hear over the thrum of the music. "The Club is actually the entire building we're standing in, plus the building behind us—three floors above ground, one below."
Hillary felt her eyebrows lift.
"Top floor has private rooms. Don't think we need to see those tonight," he said, leaning back to watch her reaction.
Hillary blushed and shook her head. Definitely not. Probably never. She couldn't even imagine…
"Right, didn't think so," he agreed, capturing her attention again. "So, there are various demonstrations going on downstairs."
Once again, he paused to take in her reaction.
Shit. That wasn't really her thing, either. She couldn't imagine standing next to this man while watching… But she didn't want him to think she was a total prude.
She forced herself to smile and nod eagerly.
He chuckled at that, and a full-on grin that transformed his whole face for a moment into something friendly and open.
"Yeah, I didn't think you'd wanna do that either," he told her, able to see right through her false enthusiasm. Hillary giggled in relief.
"There's a dance floor back there, plays mostly dance and house music," he said, hooking a thumb toward one hallway.
His tone of disgust made Hillary giggle again.
"So, you're a big fan of dance music, then?" she asked.
He raised one eyebrow. "Like, totally," he deadpanned.
Hillary snickered and felt another knot in her belly release.
"There's another dance floor that plays mostly pop stuff, some rock," he continued, hooking his thumb toward another hallway. "That one's not as bad."
"I do like dancing," Hillary offered, smiling.
"We can head back there, if you want," he told her. "FYI, I don't dance. But I'm happy to watch you do your thing for a while."
Heat
flared in his eyes and made Hillary blush again. She looked down at the tabletop and traced the wood grain intently with her fingernail.
It felt nice, this attention, it did. He seemed genuinely interested in her, and she found that she really liked him. But somehow she was still uneasy. Being with him like this, feeling his warm breath on her neck, felt wrong for some reason she couldn't put her finger on.
"Or," Slay said, putting his large hand on top of hers to stop her fidgeting. "We could just stay here and talk for a while. Get to know each other."
Her eyes shot to his and she smiled gratefully. Slay's lip twitched.
"So cute," he muttered.
"So, um…You said that Matteo had told you about me," she started. "What did he already tell you?"
Slay shrugged.
"The basics. You're a waitress at Tony's place, you just graduated from college, you're pretty new to the scene. You're not interested in getting any more tattoos, so I shouldn't get any ideas." He looked pointedly at the star tattoos on each of her wrists, and Hillary smiled.
"And," Slay continued, "he said you need a dom."
The words, spoken so casually, slammed into Hillary. This was no ordinary blind date. This man was a dom. If things went well, he would be... her dom. She tried to imagine it, but failed.
"Oh, and he gave me your description. I didn't remember much about you from that night last spring."
Hillary nodded.
"He said, 'Look for Tinker Bell'," Slay said, chuckling. "Easy enough." He leaned back and winked at her.
She inhaled sharply.
Oh. My. God. She was going to kill Matteo.
As if her murderous thoughts had conjured him, Matteo walked into the room right then. Just the sight of him made Hillary's stupid heart start pounding faster than it had all evening.
He stalked up to the bar and signaled to the bartender, much as Slay had. His jaw was set, his green eyes were stern, and he spoke sharply to the woman behind the bar, who nodded without meeting his eyes. He spoke again and the woman handed him a bottle of water. He turned and stood with his back to the bar, his eyes roving over the scene…
Until they landed on her.
And then Slay.
And then the beer she clutched nervously in her hands.
And they narrowed.
He pushed himself off the bar and stalked towards them.
"Hey, man," he greeted Slay, exchanging chin lifts. "Tink behaving herself?"
His gaze fastened on hers, and his green eyes flashed. She'd almost swear he looked angry. For a second she wondered what had him so upset, and wanted to make him smile.
Before she remembered that she was pissed off, too.
Without waiting for Slay to answer, he grabbed the chair on the other side of her and turned it around, straddling it. He leaned across the table and spoke to Slay.
"You two getting to know each other?" he asked.
Hillary stiffened.
"Yes," she told him, before Slay had a chance to respond. "We are. And I was just about to share with Slay that I absolutely hate being called Tinker Bell."
She leaned closer to Slay. "It's a short-girl thing, you know? I'm kinda sensitive about it."
She gave Slay her most flirtatious smile.
Matteo scowled.
"So, you work with Matteo?" she asked Slay, taking a sip of her beer. "I feel sorry for you."
Slay chuckled. "Honey, you don't know the half of it."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Matteo demanded.
Slay turned to Hillary.
"We were in the service together, you know? Matt's a good man. The best. A talented artist. No one I'd rather have watching my six in here or out there. But, God, the singing."
Hillary choked. "The… what?"
Matteo glowered threateningly at Slay. "Dude, don't go there."
Slay only laughed. "You've never heard him sing? God, I thought he had a song for every occasion. The first week we were in—" he hesitated and exchanged a look with Matteo. "Well, never mind where we were. But it was hot, miserable, exhausting. We had sand in parts of our bodies where sand doesn't belong. Tempers were running high. It was impossible to relax. All of a sudden one night, right when I thought the shit was about to hit the fan, this guy starts singing… Disco hits from the 70s!"
Matteo growled and Slay cracked up.
Hillary shook her head, sure she'd heard wrong.
"D-disco hits?" she repeated, looking to Matteo for confirmation, but he shook his head.
"Gloria Fucking Gaynor," Slay confirmed, his big body shaking with laughter at the memory. "I… I will survive," he belted out in a crazy falsetto that had people at nearby tables looking over at them with wide eyes. "And it worked. Before you know it, everyone in that mess hall was singing along, laughing at his crazy ass."
"I… wow," Hillary said.
She stared at Matteo, who had folded his arms across his chest and was watching her digest that information. Did he worry that this would change her opinion of him? Make him seem less intimidating, less dom-ish? Because it didn't. If anything, it made it even harder to keep her heart from bursting out of her chest. There was so much about him that she didn't know, more than she had imagined. She wanted to know all of it, hear every story.
"I thought you were supposed to be getting to know Hillary, not reliving ancient history," Matteo grumbled. "She tell you she's a writer?"
Hillary's image of Matteo singing promptly dissolved and she stared at him in horror. It wasn't that she wasn't proud of being a writer, or of the things she wrote. It just… wasn't something she chose to share with everyone. It was intensely personal, and people could be so damn judgy.
Matteo returned her stare and cocked his head, a subtle dare.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Slay spoke. "You're a writer?"
Hillary stopped plotting Matteo's murder and looked at Slay thoughtfully. Given the fact that they were already meeting in a BDSM club, she figured maybe she could be a little less reserved than she normally was.
"I am," she agreed. "I write… romance."
Slay's eyebrow shot high. "You're shittin' me."
She smiled. "Nope."
"So, like… knights and ladies and stuff? Or, um, the hardcore stuff?" he asked her. Then, seeing Matteo's raised eyebrow, he said defensively, "I don't live under a rock, asshole. My grandma used to read them. And now my sister's all over Facebook about Fifty Fucking Shades."
He and Matteo both grimaced.
Hillary giggled.
"Well, um… closer to the second kind, I guess. My high school lit teacher told me to write what I like to read, so…" She shrugged and smiled. "It's mostly erotic romance with some dominance and submission elements."
His eyes widened. "Shit. So, with the steamy sex scenes and... everything?"
Hillary stifled a laugh. This big, burly, tank of a dominant looked a little bit shocked.
"And everything," she agreed.
It wasn't precisely true. She was able to get the sex scenes down, all right, but lately the steam was sadly lacking and she had no clue how to fix it. It was like some weirdly-specific form of writer's block. And it meant that her recent novel was still sitting on her computer, unfinished.
"And you're fine with this?" Slay asked. This was directed at Matteo, and Slay looked like he was simultaneously horrified and impressed.
Matteo scowled.
"Matteo doesn't get to have an opinion," Hillary interrupted. "He's not my dom." It was a knee-jerk reaction, and as she said the words, she felt the pain of them all over again. But then she realized the implication of what Slay was saying.
"Do you mean you wouldn't want your sub to write romance?"
Slay shrugged. "I don't know. Doesn't it draw a lot from personal experience? I wouldn't want people to read that shit and be speculating about my private business."
Hillary nodded slowly, wishing Matt hadn't brought it up.
Matteo snorted. "She writes under a pe
n name, idiot. Besides, there's not a damn thing wrong with writing about it. We live it for Christ's sake."
Slay shrugged again. "Didn't say there was anything wrong with it. Just not my thing."
Matteo narrowed his eyes. "I can't believe you're being judgmental about this, shithead."
Hillary held up a placating hand.
"Matt, stop. It's fine. I get it," she told Slay. "No big deal. Everyone has a different comfort zone."
Slay nodded. "So, um… You want another beer?" he asked, clearly trying to turn the conversation.
"Yeah, sure!" Hillary said, finishing the last sip from her bottle. "I'd love another."
"How many have you had?" Matteo asked her. Then he turned to Slay angrily. "Have you even asked her how many she's had? Do you even know?"
Slay sat back in his seat and folded his arms, eyeing Matteo speculatively, but he said nothing. So Hillary stepped into the breach.
"Matteo! This was my only beer. I am fine," she said firmly. "Why are you always so obsessed with how much I've had to drink, anyway?" She smiled, inviting the two stony-faced men to smile with her, trying to play peacemaker.
"It's not about how much you've had to drink," Matteo said. "I could give a shit if you get drunk, as long as you're safe. That means being in a safe environment and having a safe way home."
Hillary sighed. Why did he have to be so wonderfully protective and kind, even while he was essentially trying to give her to another guy? He made her head spin way more than the beer did.
"You think I wouldn't protect her?" Slay challenged. "Are you kidding me with this shit?"
Matteo shrugged, and the tension around the table ratcheted up a notch.
This was not good. Not remotely good.
"Excuse me, sir." A brunette, dressed in a white t-shirt and leather skirt like those worn by all the bartenders, stood at Matteo's elbow and addressed him breathlessly. "You asked me to let you know if that certain person was causing trouble. He is, sir. He's making a scene in the Red Room. Hank has him locked down, but can't get him out without some assistance."
Matteo looked torn for a moment, glancing back and forth from Hillary to Slay to the hallway beyond the bar. "Yeah, fine. Thanks, Deb. I'll take care of it."
