by Sloane, Roxy
“OK,” I smile, deciding not to stand in his way. “Let’s shop.”
*
Two hours and five stores later, I’ve given up trying to keep track of how much Dax is spending. I felt bad the first couple of times he passed over his black AmEx, but soon he didn’t even let me look at the price tags before telling the sales staff to take it all. And this isn’t Forever 21 we’re talking about, no, Dax insists on taking me to the most exclusive boutiques in the city.
“Just for the record, I don’t need a five hundred dollar pair of shoes,” I say, modeling the black strappy pumps in the store mirror.
Dax grins, lounging on a chair nearby. “No, but I need to see you in them. Nothing but them,” he adds. I take them off, and he beckons over an assistant. “She’ll take them,” he decides. “And all those dresses she tried.”
“Absolutely,” the clerk breathes, probably calculating her commission. “Can I get you anything else, sir? Champagne, perhaps, or coffee?”
“Zoe?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“We’re fine.”
She scurries off to ring up all the purchases.
I go barefoot over to Dax and slide into his lap. “So is this what life is like for you all the time?” I tease, putting my arms around his neck. “You wave that card around, and everyone runs around obeying your every whim?”
He smiles. “It’s stupid, I know, but I still get a kick out of it. Ten years ago, none of these people would have looked at me twice. But now...”
“Now you’ve earned your place in this world.”
“So I may as well enjoy it.” He slides his hand over the curve of my ass and winks.
I wriggle away, laughing. “No wonder you couldn’t deal with me at the club. I’m probably the first person to talk back to you in years.”
“The first employee, for sure. But that doesn’t mean you don’t know your place.” Dax’s eyes flash, teasing.
“My place?” I echo, arching an eyebrow.
He gets up, and slowly paces closer. He leans in, sliding his arms around me from behind, so I can see us in the mirror. His breath scratches my ear, hot.
“Your place is on your hands and knees with my cock buried deep inside you. And don’t you forget it.”
Oh shit.
In an instant, my cheeks flush red and my nipples tighten. I can see it in the mirror, there’s no hiding my desire.
“Or up against the wall, your dress hiked up, no panties,” Dax continues in his low, hypnotic voice. “Spread for me, so I can taste every inch of that delicious cunt.”
I shiver. We’re in the middle of an exclusive store, people just a few feet away, but I’m already hot and wet for him.
Dax’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. He smiles, knowing the effect he has on me.
The power.
“The minute we get home,” he murmurs the promise. “I want to fuck you in nothing but those kinky heels.”
“Then why are we not at home yet?” I shoot back.
His lips quirk in a smile. “Now you’re talking.”
I quickly change while Dax pays, then we load the huge collection of bags into his car. I swear, he runs half a dozen red lights on the way back, and I feel just as impatient. Just the thought of him delivering on all his dirty promises is making me hot: my thighs clenching as I feel my pussy grow wet.
I slide my hand over into his lap. He’s already hard, and I trace the outline of his massive cock through his pants, teasing.
Dax lets out a growl. “You want me to crash this car?”
I drag my hand away. Crashing would mean police, and the hospital, and that much longer before I’m fucking him again. “Just drive,” I beg him. “Or I’ll have to start without you.”
Now, that’s an idea.
I move my hand down between my thighs, massaging through the fabric of my dress. My clit feels swollen and tight as I stroke it in slow, deep circles. I let out a deep sigh.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Dax yanks the wheel, taking us around a corner.
“Life’s not fair,” I grin, enjoying the frustration on his face. I decide to tease him more, and use my other hand to toy with my breasts. I pluck my nipples into stiff peaks through my dress, tilting my head back and letting a smile play across my lips.
Dax glances over, and lets out a hissed curse. “You’re going to pay for this,” he warns me.
Good. “As long as my punishment is hard and deep,” I reply.
Dax pulls up to the sidewalk outside his building with a screech. He practically bolts from the car and pulls my door open, dragging me out.
“The bags--” I start to say.
“The bags can wait.” He hustles me into the lobby, pushing me up against the wall and claiming my mouth in a hard, hot kiss.
Yes.
His tongue plunges deep as his hands grip me to him, massaging my ass and pulling me snug against his bulging cock. I arch against him, greedily kissing back as he tugs up my skirt and--
“Ahem.”
Somebody clears their throat, just a few feet away. Dax owns this whole building, so I’m immediately on alert, and when he wrenches back from me, I blink to see who’s there.
It’s Griffin: loitering in a windowless corner with something under his arm. Relief floods through me and then I feel myself blush; I didn’t realize we’d had an audience.
“What?” Dax demands, breathing heavily.
If Griffin doesn’t like the rudeness, he doesn’t say a word, just arches an eyebrow.
“Thought you might want to see this,” he says, holding out something. “A contact gave me the heads-up, they’re already going to print for the Monday morning edition.”
“What is it?” Dax unfolds the newspaper.
My stomach drops.
It’s a copy of the New York Daily, and the front page is my worst nightmare.
ANDREW LANDSLEY: EXPOSED.
There’s a photo of Andrew Landsley, another of the exterior of The Underground club.
I read over Dax’s shoulder, my heart racing in horror.
It’s the exposé. But not the way I planned it, talking about corruption or ethics, no, this is tabloid trash journalism. Sensational. Scandalous.
“Wild sex parties... bondage and spanking.... ‘Landsley couldn’t get enough.’”
The article details the club, even mentions Dax by name. They have a source on record saying Andrew loved to get spanked and fuck in public, and all kinds of other things.
“The councilman couldn’t be reached for comment.”
And there, above it all, the byline reads ‘Zoe Warren’.
My blood runs cold.
“Dax--” I start, but he turns on me. His eyes are cold.
“You did this?”
“I—I—”
“Answer me!” he demands.
“No! I swear, I told my editor I was off the story,” I insist. “He must have used my old notes, or something like that. I promise you, this has nothing to do with me!”
“But you told him about it.” Dax towers over me, tense as a rock. “He wouldn’t even have known about the club if you hadn’t served it up on a silver platter.”
My protest dies on my tongue. Oh God, he’s right. This is all my fault.
Griffin slips out the exit door, leaving us alone in the lobby.
“I didn’t write this, and I don’t know who did. I told him I didn’t want to do the story,” I insist, but my voice falters. “I said it wasn’t our business what Landsley did in private.”
“Well, it’s not private anymore.” Dax is grim. “It’s all over the fucking front page. His career is over, do you understand? He trusted me with his secrets. They all do!”
I shrink back from his rage. Guilt floods through me.
“I didn’t realize...”
“What?” Dax cuts me off. “That there would be consequences for you snooping around? Dammit, Zoe. These are real people, with lives, and families, and careers! They come to
my club because I promise them privacy. But you’ve just gone and thrown that all away!”
I try to blink back my tears. I wish I could argue, but I know he’s right. Even if I didn’t write that story, I had planned to. So what if I walked away in the end? The result is the same, either way.
And the truth is, I would have done this to them, if I hadn’t fallen for Dax first.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, crying. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry won’t fix this fucking mess!” Dax yells. “This is my club, my reputation you destroyed. Not to mention Landsley. Fuck!”
He turns and drives his fist into the wall. I flinch back.
“Just go!” Dax won’t look at me. “You’ve done enough here.”
“But...” I stutter. He can’t mean it. It can’t just be over in the blink of an eye, not after everything we’ve been through. “Please, just listen to me. We can talk about this. I can explain!”
“The only explanation I need is right there in black and white.” Dax replies grimly, throwing the newspaper down at my feet. “Nothing you can say will change what you’ve done.”
Shame hits me hard. It feels like everything is crumbling under my feet, but there’s nothing I can do. No way to explain myself or make him see -- I didn’t mean to do this. I stopped investigating for the story, I walked away from it.
I chose him over my career.
But I’m losing him all the same.
“I’m sorry,” I sob again, but Dax still won’t look at me. He gets in the elevator, the grille closing with a final clang.
As the elevator ascends, taking my heart with it, I’m left alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAX
Goddamn.
I can’t believe that I fell for it again. That after everything, I let my guard down long enough to really care about her -- and for her to stab me in the back like this and destroy everything I’ve ever worked for. Whether Zoe wrote the article or not, it’s her dirty work that’s led to this, her snooping, her carelessness with my secrets.
I don’t even have time to prepare for the blast: the online edition goes up early, and within an hour, my cellphone is ringing every few minutes with panicked members and investors worried that their own secrets will be splashed across the front page before too long.
CEOs, sports stars, celebrities... My client files include some of the most powerful and famous people in the country. And now they all know I can’t be trusted.
The Underground is secret no more.
“No, I can’t be sure what other names were revealed. Whoever the source is, they didn’t access my files, I can promise you that.”
I’m in my office at The Underground now, trying to run damage control on the phone with another scared client. The club is shut down on Sunday nights, and there’s nobody around to field calls. I raced over as soon as I realized the extent of the damage.
“I understand your concern. I promise that if anyone breached their non-disclosure agreement, they’ll be dealt with to the full extent of the law.”
I hang up, and grab the bottle of whiskey that’s been emptying all night. It’s lies, all of it. I know damn well who spilled my club’s secrets to the press.
And still, I can’t bring myself to set the lawyers on her. Not Zoe.
“Fuck,” I curse.
“Bad time?” Dominique is waiting in the doorway.
“It’s all bad timing.” I grit my teeth, and beckon her in. “You’ve seen it, I suppose?”
She nods. “I came in as soon as I got the news. It’s not just the newspaper,” she adds, taking a seat. “Gossip blogs, news stations, they’re all running with it now. This club is the hottest story in town. You’ll have reporters and camera crews lined up outside the minute they get an address.”
I slump in my chair. “And there goes our business. Nobody will want to risk having their face plastered on the six o’clock news. I’d be surprised if we have a single member show up tomorrow night.”
“What do you want to do?” Dominique looks sympathetic.
“I haven’t a fucking clue.”
I take another drink. Bad enough that my business is crumbling around me, but I feel like I have a bullet wound in my chest.
Zoe did this.
I trusted her. I let her in. And now look at the wreck she’s made.
“Should I call the staff, and tell them we’re closed temporarily?” Dominique has her tablet out, ready for my command.
I don’t want to think about a plan. I don’t want to think about anything at all. I just want to drink until the pain numbs.
“Sure.” I gulp at the whiskey. “Why the hell not?”
“How long for?” she presses me. “A week? Do you think it’ll have blown over by then?”
I snort. A political sex scandal will keep the feeding frenzy alive for weeks, if not months. People will be crawling out of the woodwork to go on the record now: former employees, the few members we’ve had to ban permanently, current members’ guests. The floodgates are open, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“Dax?” Dominique asks again. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t fucking know, OK?” I see the disapproving look on her face and try to pull it together. “Sorry, my head’s a mess right now.”
“We need damage control,” Dominique decides. “To shut this thing down before anything else leaks. If we’re lucky, this stays a story about one guy. Not everyone else on our membership list. Our PR firm has been emailing and calling, and I’ll also have the lawyers call every single person who’s ever crossed the threshold and threaten to sue if they breach their agreements. If we come out fighting, we should be able to stop anyone else going to the press. If anything, it’s still publicity, right?”
I nod, worn out. “Sure. That all sounds fine with me. You really think it’ll work?” I pour myself another drink, spilling some on my desk in the process.
Dominique looks pissed. “I don’t know, but at least it’s a plan. I happen to like this job. I’m not just going to sit around drinking myself into oblivion while the whole place falls apart.”
She stalks out, leaving me alone with my self-loathing anger.
Fuck, she’s right. I should be fighting, at the top of my game. But somehow I can’t find it in me to care.
Losing the club seems like nothing compared to Zoe’s betrayal.
She said she quit the story -- and I believed her, too. But why else would her byline be at the top of the front page? Who else would write the story for her, and take no credit? And how else would the newspaper get ahold of such confidential information? No, Zoe had to have written it. She must have been lying. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I click online and scan through the story again, still looking for any sign that Zoe isn’t the traitor I think she is. But the details are unmistakable. They’ve got a source describing the different pleasure suites, the public demonstrations, everything about Landsley’s visits, right down to his drink order.
She sold me out. It couldn’t have been anyone else but her.
But I’m to blame, too. I let her in. I showed her where I came from, showed her every part of me. I held nothing back. I should have trusted my instincts. I knew from the start she was trouble, but I wound up thinking with my cock, not my brains.
Fuck her. Fuck all of them.
There’s another knock at my door. “What?” I yell, half-way to drunk.
Andrew Lansley walks in.
He looks about as shitty as I feel: unshaven and a mess. That’s when I remember: my business may be screwed, but his whole life is on the front page.
“You promised me!” he yells. “You promised this was the safest place in the city. Nobody talks, you said.” He slumps into a chair and runs his hand over his face. “My life is fucked.”
I could throw him out of here, call security, go at it with him myself. But instead, I level with him. Owning up to this is the only thing I can do. “I’m sorry. T
his never should have happened. I don’t know what to tell you.” I get up and pour him a drink. “I guess it was stupid to think this place could stay hidden forever. But I never saw this coming.”
I hold out the drink to him and brace myself, expecting more anger and accusations. But instead, when Andrew meets my gaze, he just looks defeated.
Broken.
“I’m a fucking laughingstock,” he says, taking the glass. “My re-election is done for. My campaign manager already jumped ship to the opposition, and donors won’t return my calls.”
My own ruin couldn’t rouse me from my despair, but seeing Andrew like this lights a fire in me again. He’s an innocent victim here, and as a politician he’s always tried to stay above the bullshit—refusing bribes and staying away from underhanded dealings, talking straight to the media and sticking to his guns on important issues. That’s why the newspapers are having such a feeding frenzy now—Landsley’s the one politician who’s always come up clean, which makes this scandal even more of a shock. But I’ll be damned if I’ll be the one to destroy his career.
“You can fight,” I tell him. He snorts with laughter.
“How? You’ve seen the headlines!”
“I’m serious. Get a great PR team, make a statement. Private is private. You’ve had a great track record prior to this, and people respect you. Hell, you know politicians have come back from worse!”
“People with money,” Andrew corrects me. “Contacts. Support. I’ve got none of that, I’ve burned too many bridges doing things my way.”
“So, I’ll help connect you with backers,” I urge him. “You can’t quit because of this. We both know what you do in the club has nothing to do with your job. Hell, if we all got judged by what we get up to in the bedroom, not a single person would be able to run for office.”
Andrew offers a weak smile. “Thanks, but I think this is it for me. My polling is in the garbage, and short of a miracle, I’m going down in flames.”
“It’s not over,” I tell him, and I can tell he’s mulling it over as he sips his drink.
Finally he gets up. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I let out a sigh. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
