The Exposé

by Sloane, Roxy

  For the first time in my life, I’m grateful for my big blue eyes that read more ‘Bambi’ than ‘crack undercover reporter.’ If I’m lucky, the flirting and low-cut dress did their job, and Dax remains oblivious to my real goals here.

  I sneak a look at him across the room, consulting with a polished-looking brunette. No wonder I mistook him for security when he first approached me in the hallway. Tall and broad shouldered, he looks way too brawny to be the owner of a sophisticated club like this. He’s got sexy two-day stubble on his jaw, and a nose that’s been broken in a couple of places. Even in the designer suit, he looks like he’d be more at home in a boxing ring than a boardroom.

  And when he turned that piercing stare on me...

  I shiver, remembering the focus and silent threat. This is not a man you cross lightly -- so does that make me stupid or reckless for going ahead with my plan?

  Or both.

  “Welcome to The Underground.” The woman up front speaks loudly.

  The girls around me hush.

  “I’m Dominique, the manager here. Before we get started, I’d like to remind you about the non-disclosure agreements you signed when we invited you to interview. Whether or not you are offered a job, the terms still stand. Any breach will be taken seriously, and I assure you, we will prosecute.”

  The girl sitting beside me grimaces. “Geez, way to start the night,” she whispers. I smile in agreement, but inside, my stomach ties in a knot.

  The paperwork was emailed over after I applied. Five pages of dense legalese that basically states if I even mention The Underground to anyone for any reason, they can sue me for breach of contract. I guess it’s why nobody’s ever tried to reveal their secrets before, and reading through it, I wondered if I was getting in way over my head.

  But this could be the story of a lifetime, so I went ahead and signed -- just not with my real name.

  “I’m Anna,” the girl whispers. “Hi.”

  “Kate,” I whisper back, lying.

  “Can you believe all this secrecy bullshit?” she asks, before Dominique steps aside and Dax addresses us all.

  “The Underground is a place where members feel at home,” he says, looking out at us. “Away from their jobs, their spouses, their ordinary lives. It’s a slice of fantasy, and every single person working here must be committed to keeping that fantasy alive. Within these walls, our members are special. We treat them like royalty. Whatever they want -- within reason, and the law,” he adds with a sardonic smirk.

  There’s a smattering of laughter. The tension is broken.

  “As hostesses, it will be your duty to put our members at ease,” he explains. “Offer them drinks, or show them to the dining area. Inform them about our different rooms, and displays. Some might be new to the club, and need reassuring. Others will want you to arrange more advanced entertainment. At all times, you must be polite, warm, and discreet.”

  Dax hones in on each of us in turn. “If you have an issue with any of the entertainment we offer here, leave now. If you like to gossip, or want to show off to your friends with details of what you’ve witnessed behind these walls, leave.”

  His eyes land on me and I cringe. Is he talking about me? His stare goes right through me, and I have to look away, flushing bright red. Finally, he continues.

  “If you are under the mistaken impression that this is some kind of high-class whore-house, and you have plans to solicit our members for sex, leave. You have no place here.”

  There’s a long pause. Nobody moves.

  Dax gives a nod. “Very well. You’ll each be called in turn for your interview. I look forward to meeting you.”

  He exits the room.

  I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

  “Wow,” the girl beside me, Anna, whispers. “He’s something else.”

  Something else alright. Hot, and dangerous, and sexy as all get-out.

  The first girl is called, and we all watch her sashay out after Dominique.

  “So what brought you here?” Anna asks chattily, offering me some gum. She’s got shoulder-length light brown hair and red lipstick, wearing a black dress like me.

  “I need the job,” I smile vaguely. “Student loans.”

  “Tell me about it!” she exclaims. She looks around, then leans in, dropping her voice. “My cousin used to work here, says the tips are insane. Some nights, she’d make a thousand bucks!”

  “Wow.” I blink. Maybe there will be some fringe benefits to this gig besides the newspaper job. I wasn’t lying just now: I’m sitting on a ton of debt, and I can’t let Tasha carry our rent forever. “Wait, used to work here?” My reporter instincts perk up. “What happened? Why did she leave?”

  Anna just shrugs. “She got into law school. Georgetown. Thanks to this place, she’s got the whole first year paid for already.”

  “Oh.” I deflate. No scandal there. “That’s great.”

  I glance around the room at my competition. There are only a few jobs open, and at least a dozen girls here. Every single one of them is gorgeous: glamorous glossy hair, amazing figures.

  I tug at my borrowed dress and pray I don’t look out of place. I’m already walking a thin line applying with a fake name, but I didn’t have a choice. Anyone googling ‘Zoe Warren’ would find my full list of bylines from the college newspaper: my articles investigating honor code violations, the time I interviewed football players about grade-rigging, my prize-winning expose on the trustees who gave vending machine rights to a junk food company in exchange for a lavish vacation.

  Nobody with half a brain could look at the search results and think I was applying for a job here just for the sweet tips. They would never let me in the building, let alone hire me to have free run of the place. I agonized for weeks over what to do, until I realized the answer had been right in front of me all along: my old college roommate, Kate.

  We were assigned to room together sophomore year, and hit it off right away. We’re totally opposite personalities: she was studying social work, was in bed by nine every night, and spent her weekends volunteering with homeless people downtown, while I worked late at the newspaper (and even later down at the pub, partying after we sent an issue to print). But we got along great, so we found an off-campus apartment together for final year too. After graduation, she packed up and went to Africa to spend the year building schools and helping immunize kids.

  Like I said, she’s a doll.

  She’s also out of the country, with patchy cell service and a spotless employment history. I had her Social Security number back from when she needed me to file some last-minute forms for her, so it was easy to fill in her details on the application for The Underground, along with my current address. Anyone calling the references would agree that Kate Kendall is a fine, upstanding citizen who works well with others. The perfect employee for a place like this.

  But sitting here in the club right now, I feel another stab of guilt. Stealing her name isn’t just wrong, it’s illegal; if they catch me, I would be getting us both into a whole shitstorm of trouble.

  But this is the break of your career, a little voice reminds me. And you’ll explain everything to her afterwards. She’s on the other side of the world. If everything goes according to plan, nobody will ever know.

  “Kate?”

  I’m still zoned out when Anna tugs my arm. “Kate?” she says louder. I realize that’s the name I’m going by and snap my head around. “They’re calling you,” she nods to the front of the room. “You’re up.”

  “Oh, right!” I scramble to my feet.

  “Good luck in there,” she beams.

  “Thanks.”

  Dominique beckons me, so I follow her, trying to keep my balance in these heels. My pulse is racing as she leads me back down the hallway I explored earlier -- the one Dax caught me snooping around.

  “I’ve got my resume right here,” I babble, nervous.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Dominique stops outsid
e a door and knocks. “Mr. Ryan has everything he needs.”

  She turns to leave. My nerves twist tighter. “You won’t be staying?”

  “No. Mr. Ryan makes all the decisions on personnel himself.”

  A voice from inside calls, “Enter.”

  Dominique gives me a nod. “Go right ahead.”

  I catch my breath and push the door open.

  Dax is sitting behind a huge polished desk, looking down at a file. He beckons me closer without looking up.

  I step inside, and the door swings shut behind me.

  We’re alone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAX

  I glance through the next applicant’s file as she takes a seat across from me. Graduated cum laude... waitressed at a high-class restaurant... volunteer work... She’s got glowing references, and when Griffin called to check them out, they all agreed: they’d trust her with their life.

  Just the kind of dependable, discreet girl I need working here.

  Then I look up, and find myself staring at the girl from the hallway, the one sneaking around with the guilty look on her face and the devious glint in her eyes.

  “Kate Kendall?” I ask, wondering if Dominique sent in the wrong girl. But she smiles.

  “That’s me!”

  I pause, regrouping. Not what I was expecting. The girl in the resume is Mother Theresa, but the one on the other side of my desk strikes me as more sinner than saint. I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, but perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions here. Until I get this blackmailer taken care of, I’m going to have to keep my paranoia in check.

  “You have excellent references,” I note. “Everyone says you’re a pleasure to work with.”

  “I try,” Kate says brightly. “Service with a smile, that’s what I always say.”

  I reluctantly tick the box next to ‘good attitude.’ Some exclusive clubs like their staff to be snooty and remote, but The Underground has always been a welcoming place. My hostesses are the first thing a member will see when they walk in the doors, and I want the first impression to be a warm, relaxing one.

  “It says here you’ve been volunteering with homeless people.” I fix her with a curious stare, but she doesn’t flinch under my gaze. “The Underground seems an odd choice in careers.”

  “Not so much.” She doesn’t seem thrown by my question. “There’s not a lot of money in non-profit work. I have an internship right now, but it’s unpaid. A job like this would let me keep up my volunteer work, and get valuable experience in the field.”

  Another check mark. Her answer makes perfect sense, but something about her still doesn’t add up to me.

  “And you don’t have a problem with what goes on here?” I challenge her. Her file says she’s from a small town in Indiana -- probably a conservative, church-going community. The last thing I need is her blushing away from the sexual fantasies on display in the club.

  “A problem with what, exactly?” she replies sweetly. “Bondage? Multiple partners? Exhibitionism? I’m sure I can handle it. After all, I’m going to be serving drinks and taking people’s coats. As you made it clear in your welcome speech, I’m not going to be the one up there on the spanking bench.”

  I cough, struck with the sudden image of her there on the platform, her tight skirt yanked up to bare her round ass cheeks, her breasts bouncing with every sharp strike of the paddle as she moans in pleasure.

  She would be a wild one, alright. The kind to push back, make you work for her. Demanding exactly what she wants, until finally, pushing you to the edge, she gives in to your command.

  Goddamn.

  I clear my throat again, pretending to look at her file. “You’re fine with the late hours?” I manage another question, trying to get control again.

  She gives me a wry smile. “I pulled all-nighters most of college. My body clock is rewired by now.”

  “And you’ve signed the non-disclosure, of course.” I study her again, watching for any reactions. “It’s not a formality. Anyone who breaches the terms will be dealt with.”

  “You mean, you’ll sue them?” She looks a little worried.

  “The law will be the least of their problems.” I drop the file and lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. I give her a warning look. “This is my club. Everything that happens within these walls is my responsibility, and punishment for any misbehavior falls to me.”

  She swallows, recrossing her legs. Her skirt rides up another inch, and I’m momentarily distracted by the flash of tanned, sweet flesh.

  “How did you get started here, anyway?”

  Her question gets my attention. She’s looking past me, through the two-way mirror, an interested expression on her face. “I mean, it’s not like you grew up wanting to run a sex club,” she adds with a grin. “Did you?”

  I allow myself a laugh. Her question is surprising: none of the other applicants have asked about my own history and employment. It shows she has a curious mind.

  Curiosity killed the cat.

  “This is my third enterprise,” I tell her, ignoring the part of me that says I should be the one still quizzing her. “I started with a bar in Brooklyn, added a winebar in Tribeca. I realized that there was a gap in the market. People go out to have a good time and escape reality, so why not take that a step further? Let them leave all the boundaries of regular life at home, and indulge in a real fantasy. Total freedom, total privacy, and no questions asked.”

  “But it’s not just business to you,” she notes. “This place... every detail is perfect. The rooms, the bar. And you oversee it all. This is clearly your vision.”

  “Thank you,” I nod, accepting the compliment.

  “So what is it that you really love about this place?” she asks, fixing me with an intent stare. “Do you need dark corners for all your dark deeds?”

  I pause. She’s using my own words against me -- asking questions that cut right to the heart of why I opened The Underground -- and why its secrecy matters more than anything to me.

  Could she be the one who sent me that note?

  “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be interviewing you?” I shut her down with a scowl. “You have so many questions, you could be a journalist.”

  She flushes. “Of course, I’m sorry. You’re right. What else do you want to know?”

  “Nothing. We’re done here.”

  Her face falls. And even though I know I’m on dangerous ground, I find myself saying, “You’re hired.”

  “Really?” Kate leaps up, excited. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”

  “Not so fast,” I stop her. “You’ll have to work a trial shift tonight, so we can see how you handle the job. Go see Dominique,” I tell her. “She’ll show you around and get you started.”

  “Thank you,” Kate beams again. “You won’t regret it.”

  “I hope not. Do a good job tonight, and you’ll be fine. Let’s see who you really are,” I add.

  She seems to flinch, then recovers, quickly hurrying out of the room.

  I stay seated, mulling over the past few minutes. She seems like just the kind of employee I need, but I wonder... There’s something about her that’s not quite right. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with the club, but I can’t be sure.

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  I’ll be watching her tonight. If she is connected to this threat, then I want to know what she’s playing at -- or who she’s working for.

  Either way, Kate Kendell won’t be a mystery for long.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ZOE

  I can’t believe he hired me.

  I leave Dax’s office shaking with relief. Holy shit, for a moment there I thought I was busted for sure. All those questions, and the way he looked at me too. It felt like those piercing blue eyes were stripping me naked, revealing all my guilty secrets.

  But I guess Kate’s spotless resume got me through. I send up silent thanks and vow to pay her bac
k somehow, whenever she’s back from Africa.

  Now, I just have to make it through this trial probation night so that he takes me on as a permanent hostess, then I’ll have free run of the place. If there’s a story here, I’ll find it -- and then that front page byline and reporter job at the New York Daily will be mine.

  “Ms. Kendell?” Dominique is waiting back in the lounge. The other applicants have cleared out, and only me and Anna remain. She smiles when she sees me, and mouths, ‘Congratulations.’

  I smile back. She seems nice, and it’ll be good to have a friend here. “Call me Kate,” I tell Dominique. I’ll need to get better about responding to the fake name. I can’t risk any more slip-ups with my cover story.

  Dominique nods. She’s in her early thirties, maybe, with dark hair pulled back in a chignon and striking features. “Congratulations on making it through the interview process,” she says to us. “But I’m afraid now the real work begins. Tonight, our doors will open and approximately a hundred members will pay us a visit. Everything about their night here must be memorable -- for all the right reasons. Let me give you the tour.”

  She starts to show us around: the main bar area, with rich decor and private booths; the dining room, and exhibition room. I look around with interest. Everything here is designed to feel luxurious and intimate, the kind of place where all kinds of secret things could happen.

  “Here is where we stage the shows,” she says, nodding to a raised platform at one end of the room.

  “What kind of shows exactly?” I ask, wishing I had my notebook here to keep track.

  “It varies. Bondage demonstrations, public spankings. We encourage our members to keep intercourse to the private rooms, but obviously, they can feel free to indulge out on the floor if they see fit.”

  Dominique rattles off the list without flinching. She could be reciting a grocery list, not a menu of forbidden, explicit activities.