by Celia Loren
I jerk my gaze back toward the horizon and feel my heart lodge firmly in my throat. There in the distance, a long strip of land rises up from the churning sea. In the gathering twilight, the island looks unremarkable. A jagged shoreline gives way to a thickly-forested rise. Just visible above the tree line is the imposing watchtower of an old military base. From my research, I know that this fort dates back to the days of the American Revolution. But this island is no place for a history buff’s field trip these days, that’s for sure.
As the yacht skims across the gray Atlantic waters toward the island, a low thudding sound makes my ears prick up. The rhythm pulses more deafeningly with every passing moment. I wonder, for a second, if we’re not experiencing engine trouble. But when the crashing cacophony of hard rock sweeps in to complete the soundscape, I realize that I’m hearing a heavy bass line raging from the shore of the island. We hear the party before we see it, and I know this is my last chance to bail—to let the other dozen girls go on ahead of me and scurry back to shore with my tail between my legs.
But then I think, for a second, about what I’d be running back to. A cramped two bedroom apartment, unpaid bills, a fruitless job hunt, an ever-dwindling bank account...I have to own up to the fact that I’ve got nothing to go back to. Nothing at all to lose. There was a time when that thought would have saddened me. But now, I realize that dwelling on my loneliness and fear won’t get me anywhere. I have to face them head on. Face this place head on. Take action for the first time in my life. And if I end up getting destroyed in the process...Well, at least I will have lived through something.
A long, shrill boat whistle cuts through the misty air as the yacht pulls up to a creaky dock that leads onto the island. I stand rooted firmly to the deck as the full, chaotic scene raging on the island comes into view, unfolding before my baffled eyes.
At the center of a large clearing in the woods, a massive bonfire roars, sending fierce flames leaping and licking into the darkening night sky. Dozens of shadowy figures writhe and swarm in the fire light, undulating to the heavy, pulsating music blaring out across the water. Glass bottles catch the glow of the bonfire as they’re raised to thirsty lips, and a score of smoldering cigarette tips light up in the darkness like a swarm of devilish fireflies.
Lengths of bare limbs and torsos glow and glisten in the red light of the fire. Men and women are laid out across every surface in sight, having at each other without any inhibitions. It’s a goddamn orgy—and we’re about to charge right into the middle of it.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Brie whispers in a panic as we make our way out onto the flimsy deck.
We join a handful of other young women, huddled together before the intimidating scene unfolding before us. Not a single one of us has cleared her early twenties. Hell, some of us are barely eighteen. But there’s one thing we all have in common: we’re here to spend a night among the toughest, most dangerous, sexiest men we’re likely to ever meet. Each of us made the decision to come here of her own free will. We all have different motives for seeking this place out—escape, adventure, curiosity. Me, I’m here in search of answers that have long eluded me. Answers about my past that might just end up shaping my future. And I’m not leaving until I’ve found them.
I feel the group of girls tighten around me as the yacht pulls away, leaving us to face the night on our own. As one, we turn our gaze toward the island, toward the place we’ve only ever heard about in whispers and rumors. The place simply called The Club. When I first heard of this one-of-a-kind spot, I wondered about it’s nondescript name. But what I’m quickly coming to understand is that The Club defies all other description. It has to be seen to be believed.
“Ladies!” calls a booming voice from just beyond my field of vision.
The yellow glow of a rusty lantern cuts through the darkness, illuminating the swaggering form of the large man making his way toward our little pack. His wide, wily grin is the first thing I notice. But it’s not just his teeth that are huge. Every bit of his body seems to be super-sized, from his bulging biceps to this bushy beard. He’s the closest thing to a giant I’ve ever seen up close. But something tells me he’s not likely to be a giant of the “gentle” variety.
The towering man looms over the group, a good foot taller than any of us, stilettos notwithstanding. He wears his long hair pulled back into a ponytail, a sleeveless leather vest over a white tank, and well-worn blue jeans. The steel toes of his boots gleam even in the darkness. He surveys each of our eager, upturned faces, nodding his approval.
“Good pickings tonight,” he grins, rubbing a hand through his sandy blonde beard, “The guys are going to be pretty fucking stoked about you lot.”
A nervous titter runs through the group, but I can already feel the bodies around me beginning to relax. Despite this man’s dangerous edge, there’s something strangely comforting about his demeanor.
“My name’s Titan,” he goes on, “I’m what you might call the welcoming committee. It’s my job to make sure things at The Club run smoothly. Make sure everyone’s having a good time. That’s what you girls are here for, isn’t it? A good time?”
“That’s right,” pipes Kari.
“Uh-huh,” adds Ani.
“Well, then you’ve certainly come to the right place,” Titan assures us, spreading his brawny arms wide, “I promise you, this will be a night you remember for the rest of your lives. Now, why don’t you follow me, and we’ll get this party started?”
We hurry to follow Titan as he strides away, leading us toward the pulsing, pounding heart of the party. As we make our way deeper into the thick woods, I see that the very shadows are alive with orgiastic abandon. My jaw nearly hits the rocky ground as I spot a naked woman pinned up against an ancient oak tree by her muscled mate, their hips bucking wildly as their cries of ecstasy are swept up by the rollicking music. I watch as Brie catches sight of the couple, all color draining at once from her face. One thing’s becoming clearer by the moment—The Club is no place for the faint of heart.
I feel the heat of the bonfire before we’ve even stepped into the clearing. The crackling flames sear through the summer air, sending a thick cloud of smoke rolling over the treetops. Titan turns to face the group of us as we fan out along the fire pit.
“Here you are girls,” he roars above the cacophony of raised voices and blasting music, “Grab a drunk, grab a joint, grab a guy, and have at!”
A cheer goes up from the assembled pack of men and women all around us, all craning their necks for a view of the new goods.
“Christ, do I love me some fresh meat,” growls a tall, wolfish man from behind us. He slips his arms around Kari’s slender waist, tugging her tightly against his ripped body. “And you look tasty enough to devour, little girl.”
“Do your mommies and daddies know where you are tonight, little ones?” sneers a barrel chested man with a wild mane, tucking a lock of Brie’s hair behind her ear.
“Be nice now,” Titan cautions the circling men, “These girls are our guests tonight. Let’s make them feel nice and welcome.”
At his command, the swarm of bulky bikers and busty broads descends upon our group. I step out of the way as girls are snatched up, left and right. I’m not here to get down with just any biker boy, after all. I have my sights set much, much higher.
I scan the faces around the roaring blaze, seeking out my target. But I don’t have to look for long. There, across the fire, stands the very man I’ve come so far to find.
He presides over the party like a god in his own right. His staggering body looms over the raging fire, as if lending the blaze its heat. With thickly corded arms crossed over his bare chest, he stands with feet firmly planted. Nothing on heaven or earth could move this man an inch—that much is clear. Dark, inky lines snake along his cut chest and shoulders, skirting down his arms in dizzying configurations. But the most prominent tattoo stands out in sharp relief, centered across his tanned pecs. In thick, scrawling letters, i
t reads: “Diabolus”.
The Devil.
It’s all I can do to drink in the sight of him, this towering man I’ve set my sights on. I’ve been researching him for weeks, tracking down mug shots and newspaper clippings, aquatinting myself with every aspect of his public life. But no amount of research could have prepared me for the real thing.
His body looks like it was cut from the smoothest marble, his every muscle stands out in perfect definition. But you can tell, just from looking at him, that those muscles weren’t sculpted during long hours at the gym. His is a body that’s lived hard and tough for decades. For an entire lifetime. And oh, how it shows.
He raises a steel flask to his full, firm lips. I watch, transfixed, and slugs back his liquor, his scruffy jaw sharp as a razor blade. His high cheekbones, straight nose, and thick black stubble would make most models weep with envy, but there’s no fussy vanity in this man’s face. He knows he’s gorgeous, powerful, intimidating, but he doesn’t have to try to be any of those things. He just is.
A gasp escapes my lips as his eyes flick up to meet mine. The rest of the wild party fades away at once as our gazes lock. His bottomless eyes see right through me, stripping me down until I’m utterly naked beneath his gaze. A slow smile spreads across his smooth lips as he watches me melt before him. But entranced as I am by his singular brutish beauty, I won’t let him get to me that easy. From deep down, I gather my restraint, my composure, my cool. Straightening my spine, I plant a hand on my hip and smile right back at him.
Two can play at this game, I think to myself.
For the briefest of moments, I could swear that he’s taken aback. Clearly, this is not a man who’s accustomed to making the first move. My heart takes a running start and slams against my rib cage as he pockets his flask and takes a step toward me, circling the roaring bonfire. He approaches like a wild animal, circling his prey. I turn to face him as he steps up before me, craning my neck to take in his full, staggering form.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he growls, his voice rich and husky.
I swallow hard, steeling myself in the face of such an incredible, intimidating presence as his. With a miraculously steady hand, I reach into the pocket of his black leather cut and close my fingers around the cool steel flask. He raises a perfect eyebrow at me as I bring the flask to my scarlet lips—trying hard not to think about the fact that his mouth just rested where mine does now. I can tell that he’s intrigued, unused to being approached so brazenly. The smoky whiskey sears my throat as I gulp down a huge swig and hand the flask back to him with a mischievous grin.
“Thanks,” I say, flicking a tress of black hair over my bare shoulder.
“My pleasure,” he smirks, placing his firm hands on the points of my hips.
His pleasure is the first and only thing on his brain, I can tell that for certain. But I’ve made up my mind not to fold so easily. I step back from him, knocking his hands away.
“Sorry. I don’t think I happened to catch your name,” I say, fighting hard to keep the quiver from my voice.
“Huh,” he laughs, eyeing me up and down, “This isn’t usually a place where names are traded, babe.”
“Humor me,” I insist, all too aware of the fiery sensation his gaze leaves in its wake as it rakes along my body.
“I’m Devlin,” he tells me, his voice full and sure, “Devlin Vile.”
Jackpot.
“Hi Devlin,” I purr, letting down my guard just an inch, “I’m Logan. Logan Farrah.”
“Well Logan,” Devlin goes on, closing the careful space I’ve put between us, “Welcome to The Club. I’m glad you stumbled on our little island paradise for the night. You’re gonna love it here. I’ll personally make sure of that.”
“Oh, I bet you will,” I return.
Little does he know, of course, that my presence here is the furthest thing from a stumble. I’m a woman on a mission. A mission that has everything to do with him, as it turns out. But as I breathe in his intoxicating presence—the towering form, the searing gaze, the smoky, spicy scent of him—I decide that as long as I’m here, I may as well have a little bit of fun. All work and no play has never done anyone any good, right?
Is it possible that this Devlin Vile could be good for me? Or is that just the most dangerous kind of wishful thinking? Only one way to find out, I muse to myself, and take a step toward him.
Chapter One
Boston, Massachusetts
One month earlier...
The sound of a sarcastic catcall tears my attention away from the full length mirror. I turn to see my roommate Emma leaning against the doorframe, grinning at my current getup.
“Hey, sexy mama,” she teases, “Can I get some of that?”
I frown at my reflection, all decked out in its unflattering cap and gown. I’ve been trying to convince myself that the whole costume isn’t really that terrible...but to no avail. I look like a giant green Easter Peep that someone’s run through the microwave.
“You’re so lucky you don’t have to sit through graduation,” I sigh, flicking my cap’s tattered tassel away from my face, “Maybe I can hire a body double to go for me or something? Surely there’s a section on Craigslist for that.”
“Or you could just skip the whole thing like a sensible human being,” Emma shrugs, tucking her short blonde hair behind her ears.
“I wish,” I grumble, sinking onto my narrow bed in the starchy, sweaty robe. “My parents would never speak to me again if I didn’t show up.”
“Last time I checked,” Emma says, raising a fair eyebrow, “They forfeited their right to this graduation nonsense when they refused to pay for your education.”
She does have a point. By all rights, I should have no qualms about ditching graduation despite my parents’ desires. I’m the one who financed my degree through a half dozen scholarships (and about 50K in student loan debt, of course). My mom and dad always told me when I was growing up that they’d be more than happy to pay for my college education, provided that I studied something “practical” like medicine or law. But when I decided to major in marketing and communications instead, their offer of financial assistance was snatched away right quick.
“Why would we pay for a degree that’s just going to leave you jobless and living in our basement?” my mother had scoffed at the time.
And much to my chagrin, she seems to have had a valid argument. I’m graduating from college at the end of the week, and I’ve spent the better part of the past year sending out resume after resume to every media and publishing outlet in the country. In that time, I’ve had exactly four lackluster interviews and zero job offers. I’m about to step into the real world with a boatload of debt, no job, and a rather fatalistic attitude about my prospects. Just like my mother predicted way back when.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Emma sighs, sitting down next to me on the bed. I watch as she tucks her slender legs beneath her, nimble as a kitten. I’ve always been slightly covetous of my best friend’s tiny frame. I’m a relatively tall young woman, 5’ 9” to be exact, and was an early bloomer, as far as curves as concerned. I’ve come to love my fuller, voluptuous figure, but I never heard the end of it from my mom when I was growing up. She was born in Japan, and always boasted a super-slender figure. My older sister, Juliet, inherited her body type, but I took after my English-born father. You can’t pick your parents, and you certainly can’t pick what you get from them out of the genetic grab bag.
“At least you’re graduating at the top of your program,” Emma points out, “I don’t even think they bother to rank us in the Fine Arts department, but if they did I certainly wouldn’t want to know about it.”
“That’s true,” I allow, “I did kind of kick this degree’s ass, huh?”
“I’ll say!” Emma smiles, “You even managed to snag a minor in psych like some kind of academic super hero.”
“To be fair,” I point out, “My psych classes were mostly introductory. And al
l we did for the most part was fill out weird personality quizzes and try to psychoanalyze our parents.”
“No wonder you had such an easy time of it. Think about all the material you have there,” Emma smirks.
“Ha, ha,” I say, shrugging out of my ridiculous green gown, “You’re a regular laugh riot, Emma Sanders.”
“I’m here all week,” she mugs, laying out across my bed. “Aren’t you glad you’re going to be stuck with me for the foreseeable future?”
“I really am though,” I tell her sincerely.
Emma and I have been living together since sophomore year of undergrad, when we were randomly assigned to the same dorm room. You’d think there wouldn’t be much for us to talk about—she’s an abstract painter, I’m an aspiring media type. But in a school overrun with Greek life and hard core athletics, we were lucky to find each other. We stuck together for the rest of our undergraduate careers, and just found a tiny two-bedroom apartment to share after graduation. Emma’s already snagged a job as an artist’s assistant here in Boston, and while I haven’t been so lucky job-wise, I’m determined not to move back home with my parents. I don’t care if I have to sling coffee, or walk dogs, or babysit some horrible rich kids. I’m going to make it work.
“Come on,” Emma says, rolling onto her feet, “It’s already three minutes past five. I need a drink.”
“Yeah, OK,” I agree, gathering my long black hair into a bun and securing it with my signature hair sticks—the only thing passed down to me from my mother, besides raging social anxiety. “I could really use one, after today.”
Emma skirts off to find her purse as I drop into my desk chair, absentmindedly checking my social media pages and favorite blogs. Not much to see on Facebook and whatnot, but that follows. I don’t exactly have a large group of friends. Or any group of friends, for that matter. There’s Emma, sure, and some people from my study groups and classes, but not many people that I’d consider honest-to-god friends, despite what Facebook might call them. But to be honest, my lack of close friends makes perfect sense.
