The Club: Ace

by Jenna Elliot

  Is it actually possible they found something?

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Emme. It’s me, Jason.”

  Ugh. What number is he calling from? And why didn’t I let the call go to voice mail?

  “Hey, Jason. I’m kind of busy right now.”

  “You have company?” I don’t like his tone, there’s an edge to it. As if he’s inconvenienced that I won’t drop everything for him.

  Those days are over, buddy . . .

  “I’m painting.” An answer without actually being an answer, because I don’t want to tell him I’m alone.

  “So you’ve decided to sign a new lease then? Last I heard, you were definitely planning on moving when it was up.”

  That would have been when I thought I was getting married. I don’t tell him that.

  “Undecided. But someone broke into my place last week, so I’m trying to get it back together.”

  “Shit, Emme.” He sounds surprised. “I’ve never liked that you live in such a cheap part of—”

  “It’s all I can afford until I get a real job.” This was a sore point between us. “Which will be soon. I passed my boards.”

  “Nice.” He genuinely sounds pleased. “I know how hard you worked.”

  He pauses, and tension builds in the silence. “You want to celebrate? I’d like to see you. How about we hang out tonight? I’ll take you for pizza and beer.”

  “No can do. But thanks.”

  “A date?”

  Definitely irritation. It’s in his voice. It’s in the pregnant silence as he waits for an answer. He’s jealous. Whoever said revenge is sweet was a liar. Dealing with him just wears me out. “Mia’s getting married.”

  “I didn’t get an invite.”

  Oh, please. I refuse to even justify that with a response. It should be obvious why he didn’t get an invite. And if he thought I was going to invite him, just pick up where we left off, then he was mistaken. Let’s hope he’s not stupid enough to show up at my sister’s wedding because my brothers—all of them—will kill him.

  But Jason is making an effort, and I can’t be unkind. I should have just told him I don’t want to resume a relationship. I’m not interested anymore. I should tell him now.

  “She marrying that auto body guy?” he asks.

  I wouldn’t exactly call Ethan an auto body guy, but whatever. “It’s a tiny wedding. Nothing like my family. You know how that goes.” I cradle the phone against my ear, and slit open the box. There’s another box inside. This one black with a silver bow. And a note. From Ace.

  Suddenly, the last thing I want to do is deal with Jason. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Another time, then?” he says.

  “I don’t think so, Jason. I’m sorry, but let’s just let this go, okay? You take good care of yourself.” I end the call.

  For one long minute, I stand there with the breath trapped in my throat, waiting for the panic to overtake me, or regret or something . . . But there’s nothing. Just the sound when I exhale in the quiet and the stifling smell of fresh paint.

  Oh no wait . . . There is something.

  Anticipation.

  I unfold Ace’s note.

  Dress code for the wedding: no thong. Wear these instead. And no satisfying yourself, either. That’s my job.

  So he isn’t cancelling, and from the sound of it, he won’t be bringing a date to the wedding, either. I grin as I push away the tissue paper to find a small butt plug and . . . I’ve never seen anything like the second device. It’s a tiny button. The gift tag says it’s a nano-vibe. I have to read the instructions inside the package to learn that I’m supposed to wear the nano-vibe on my clit.

  All my emotional fatigue over dealing with Jason evaporates and I tingle, actually tingle with excitement.

  Doesn’t look like Ace will be bringing a plus one tonight.

  Both devices are remote controlled. And no doubt Ace will be in charge of these babies. OMG. My stomach actually swoops with the idea of standing in my formalwear among the guests, no thong, a nano-vibe on my clit, another up my butt.

  Just the memory of the never-ending orgasm in Ace’s penthouse makes my insides melt, and worries me. Will I will be able to hide whatever the hell he plans to do to me in public?

  I hope so.

  But that’s the end of my concentration. I rinse out the paintbrush and decide to start getting ready. Anything to help me get a handle on my anticipation. I take forever in the shower, grooming every inch of me as meticulously as if I was the bride. I lotion myself with the pricey almond oil that Mia brought me back from Egypt last year. My fingers tremble when I finally slip Ace’s little torture device into my backside. Immediately, my insides swoop eagerly, and I realize I probably should have put on the tricky clit hugger first, since I’m already getting wet.

  My pussy gives a hungry throb as I finger myself to attach the tiny nano-vibe . . . there. It slips right onto that sensitive little bud, and my knees turn to rubber.

  “Oh.” I grab the vanity for support. “How the hell does he expect me to walk around all night like this?”

  There’s no answer from my silent apartment. I slowly straighten, still clinging to the vanity, testing . . . The butt plug isn’t going anywhere. I’m not so sure about this clit thingy, and I have visions of it slipping off and landing on the floor between my feet just as Mia and Ethan are exchanging vows.

  Plunk, clatter . . . All the guests suddenly stare at the sex toy on the floor under my pussy instead of the bride and groom. Oh great, just what I need. More anxiety.

  Ace better be very selective about when he uses that remote control or he can explain to the crowd why I collapse into a twitching, orgasmic heap during the wedding ceremony. I’ll play possum, I swear I will.

  I take a few steps and all my apparatus seems reasonably snug and in place. And as I get dressed, I realize I’m not without my own weapons. I’m not the only one who’ll be horny. My dress is killer. My heels are high. Ace is going to suffer.

  I pack an overnight bag. And hope this time I’ll get to spend the whole night.

  21

  Emme

  ACE’S YACHT IS nothing short of spectacular, and I get a thrill as I board the gangplank. Not because of the sex toys, even though they’re making their presence known in a big way. But this yacht has to cost more than my family home and the lot it sits on. I’m practical if nothing else, and I can appreciate an experience. Tonight certainly qualifies.

  Pretty much my every interaction with Ace qualifies.

  Even the weather cooperates in a huge way. Perfect for Mia’s wedding. I smile as the sea breeze whips my hair and a steward greets me, then leads me into a salon that could have come straight from a museum. It’s too crammed full of pricey décor to make it into Architectural Digest, but I see Ace in everything from the huge windows overlooking the bay to the neon-lit winding staircase that goes to upper and lower decks.

  Extravagant. Decadent. Like the man himself.

  Luxe Italian leather couches and a long expanse of cherry paneling showcase a stained-glass chandelier that drips with a myriad of tiny glowing crystals. Art that could easily hang in a museum. Everything’s expensive, exquisite, and he really needs another yacht to effectively display all this stuff.

  Not sure what his deal is with acquiring stuff, but I do like these glimpses into his personality. It’s a connection to Ace that goes beyond sex, and gives me a hint of the real man behind the gracious smile.

  My heels tap on the hardwood floors as I take an honest-to-goodness elevator down two decks, where I find Mia ensconced in the main salon.

  “This cabin is bigger than my entire apartment,” I say conversationally. “And I thought your old place had a view. You were looking through reading glasses compared to this.” This is a panoramic 180-degree view of the bay and the city.

  “I know, right?” Mia rolls to the side on the bed, plucking cucumbers slices from her eyes.

  Our gazes meet across the
posh distance, and I immediately see she’s wound tight.

  “Hey, there,” I say softly.

  Leaping up, she flings herself into my arms. “I didn’t think you’d ever get here.”

  “I’m here.” I hug her hard. “I’m here. You okay?”

  “I’m freaking out.”

  “You’re marrying the man of your dreams and the father of that bean in your belly. What’s freaking you out?”

  “Nothing. Everything,” she admits with a shrug, looking so edgy that I can’t help but smile. “I’m getting married.”

  “I know. I saw your ring.”

  She steps back with a laugh. “I wouldn’t let the makeup artist or hairdresser start until you got here. And where’s your mom? She’s still coming, isn’t she?”

  “You’re joking? She wouldn’t miss your wedding if she had to swim to get on board.” Wish we could say the same for Mia’s own mother . . . I check my cell phone. “She’ll be along. We still have two hours. Plenty of time.”

  “I want to look perfect.”

  That explains the cucumbers. “You already do.”

  Clearly, Mia’s had too much alone time to think. I see wine chilling in an ice bucket on the sideboard and pour a glass.

  She frowns. “I can’t drink. I’m pregnant.”

  “This isn’t for you. It’s for me.” I grin. “You’re over-thinking. I need liquid strength to talk you down.”

  That gets a laugh. “You’ll have to drink for both of us tonight.”

  I take a big gulp. “A dirty job, but someone has to do it.”

  Mia flings out her arms and does a quick spin. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

  I can’t either, but I don’t admit it. A year ago, my BFF was on such a different path, one her parents had chosen for her, and one that wasn’t making her happy. Especially not the guy.

  I didn’t think Mia would ever figure out that her parents’ dreams weren’t hers, but she did. And now . . .

  “This is exactly what a wedding is supposed to be like,” I say. “Exciting. No stress or second thoughts. And drinking. There really should be lots of drinking, but you’re kind of screwed there.”

  She laughs, and our lunacy is cut short by a knock at the cabin door.

  “Come on in,” she says, sounding better.

  My mom sweeps inside, dressed up in her official special occasion outfit—tailored skirt and jacket ensemble with fine gold threading. The same outfit she’s worn to every special event for at least a decade. But she looks very pretty.

  “Mom LB!” Mia squeals so loud I automatically take a step back and wince. “You’re here!”

  Mom LB, which is Mia’s version of Mom LeBlanc, gives her honorary daughter a big hug. “Where else would I be, silly? You’re getting married.”

  I can’t help smiling as I watch my mom and my BFF play out the exact scene I just lived through.

  “But you work on Friday nights.”

  She actually works both Friday and Saturday nights as a waitress in the same country club since she had four little kids running around and needed to help my dad make ends meet.

  “I can take off a night now and then.” Mom laughs. “For a special occasion, anyway, and I think this qualifies.”

  “This definitely qualifies,” I say. “I can tell by your outfit.”

  My mom narrows her gaze at me. This is an old joke, because she’s dressed exactly the same in every photo we have from every special occasion that has taken place in the past dozen years.

  “You should both hope to wear the same size for so long after giving birth to seven kids,” she says proudly.

  Mia laughs, and I concede she has a point.

  “You look beautiful,” Mia says. “And I am so sorry about the short notice.”

  Mom pats Mia’s cheek, a gesture that reassures without words. Then she starts chatting. “Would you look at this boat? This isn’t Ethan’s, is it? You mentioned he had a boat, but I sure didn’t imagine this.”

  Mia looks calmer already. “No, Ethan has a speedboat. This belongs to his friend Ace. He’s the one who suggested we have the wedding here.”

  “Then I like him already,” Mom says.

  Fantasy and reality collide, and I have the most surreal disconnect again. My mother likes Ace. It doesn’t get any more real than that.

  Of course, the sexy devices between my thighs remind me that she has no clue what Ace is all about. And damned if I don’t feel heat start to flush my cheeks. I beeline for the sidebar.

  “Glass of wine, Mom?” I ask, refilling my own glass. “We’ve got to drink for Mia tonight.”

  “Oh, I know all about that.” Mom chuckles. “I was pregnant more than I wasn’t for a lot of years. Now it’s your turn.”

  Mia rolls her eyes. “We’ll keep that between us, if you don’t mind. Ethan may jump overboard if I tell him this is number one of seven.”

  We all dissolve into more laughter as I pour my mom a glass of wine. I know exactly what she’s doing—everything she can to distract Mia from her nerves. And I’ve never been more grateful for her in my life.

  I hand her the wine glass, and our gazes meet. Her eyes are twinkling.

  My mom’s the bomb.

  The hairdresser and makeup artist join us and whip around the room setting up their equipment. Mirror. Flat iron. Product.

  “Come on. Let’s get started on more perfect.” I gesture for Mia to sit in the chair the stylist placed in front of a mirror.

  Mom immediately starts bossing all of us around.

  “She doesn’t want to wear all her hair down. We’re on the bay. Sun’s going down, so the wind will pick up.”

  “I understand that’ll make her lashes more dramatic, but she needs waterproof mascara, and plenty of it. Not only is she a bride, but she has hormones happening.”

  I guess all those years of directing the traffic of seven kids makes Mom automatically take charge. Mia clearly appreciates the guidance, which only eggs Mom on.

  “You’re getting even bossier in your old age,” I finally say when Mom goes full-tilt at the hairdresser about how many bobby pins to use so Mia’s hair will hold up to the bay breeze. “How is that even possible?”

  Mia shifts her gaze between us. “I really would rather be safe than sorry.”

  “Of course you would.” Mom narrows her gaze at me. “You’ll be immortalized in print, so twenty years from now your kids can poke fun about the way you look.”

  “Twenty-three years, thank you very much,” I say.

  “Twenty years,” she repeats. “Believe it or not, there was a time when you couldn’t talk.”

  Mia cracks up. “Wise words, Mom LB. I vote for the extra bobby pins.”

  “Smart girl.” Mom smiles, her cue for the hairdresser to get busy. “I’m glad one of you listens. I’d really thought you’d come out of that teenage knee-jerk rebellion already.”

  “Don’t let her fool you,” Mia says. “Just last week, we discussed how smart you and Dad LB are, and whether you’d all of a sudden got that way or we just matured enough to see it.”

  Mom is appeased, and we finally get Mia buffed, gorgeous and in her dress.

  She stands in front of the mirror, and the next thing I know, I’m handing out tissues.

  “Now, aren’t you glad you used the waterproof mascara?” Mom dabs at her eyes.

  “It’ll hold up even if you cry a fountain,” the make-up artist adds.

  “Good.” Looks like Mia’s going to need it. I smooth the veil around her face. “Ready?”

  “I’ve got my rebel nail polish on and my blue and borrowed bracelet,” she says, holding out a hand with a perfectly-funky green manicure. “I’m ready.”

  “And you look fabulous, too,” she says. “Both of you.”

  “I’m going to collect my crew,” Mom says. “I’m sure they’re all on deck waiting for me. Let’s hope they saved me a seat.”

  Mia hugs her tightly and whispers, “Thank you so much.”
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  “Just go marry the man you love and be happy,” Mom says.

  I grab another tissue. How can I not be teary with all this emotion flying?

  “And you couldn’t look more beautiful either, Emme,” Mom adds with a wink before slipping out the door.

  “Thanks, Mom.” And I find myself hoping Ace thinks so, too.

  I have no clue if he’s even aboard yet, but I can’t forget tonight’s special for me, too. My third test for level two. With every step I take, all my sensitive places remind me Ace has all the control. Again.

  Then the steward arrives to take me topside, and I give Mia one last hug. “You’re going to be a married lady.”

  “Wow. I know. Seems like we’ve been talking about this forever.”

  “We have. And it’s turning out even better than all the dreams we spun during our slumber parties.”

  “You’re perfect,” she whispers, kissing my cheek. “I’ll see you on deck.”

  Then I follow the steward. Once we’re topside, I realize the yacht has left the dock. We’re cruising away from land, and the weather is not only cooperating, it’s divine.

  The sunset glows. Fierce shades of pink and purple reflect off the clouds. The temperature is balmy, the breeze just enough not to upset Mia’s hair, and the sea is calm. We couldn’t have ordered up a better night.

  A cellist plays, and classical strains mingle with the music of waves and snapping sails from nearby boats, the swooping cry of gulls overhead. Tropical flowers scent the salty sea air. A carpet of white rose petals mark the path for Mia to meet her groom.

  Guests sit in rows of chairs on deck. There’s a floral bower on the bow. Ethan stands there, dressed in a dark suit. He looks a little nervous around the edges, but determined.

  Beside Ethan is Jax from the club, a witness to my nighttime adventures. I’ve never interacted with him, but I know he monitors whoever walks through the door, the candidates, the trainees. He’s always a silent presence at Command Performance, but never more than right now. In the middle of guests gathered for a happy occasion, he wears black—suit, shirt, and tie. Even standing only two feet away from Ethan, Jax seems the epitome of dangerous loner.