by W Winters
Rubbing my eyes, I move without thinking.
The cabinet door opens, and I resign myself to a bedtime ritual I’ve used countless times in recent years.
I won’t do anything that’s going to keep me up any longer, but I put water on for tea. Chamomile will calm me down and help me sleep.
With my hands gripping the edge of the counter, I find myself looking out the kitchen window as I try not to think about the day. This lease is for a corner lot on a busy street. It’s cheap, though. The building across the street has a yoga studio on the ground level. Through a crack in the curtains I can see the polished wood floor, which takes me right back to gym class in middle school.
To Declan Cross and the first time I spoke to him, well the first time I wanted to. To the man I know is going to keep me up at night.
I can still smell the lemon polish of the floors and hear the echo of voices in the large gym.
It’s crazy how much time has passed, yet how it still feels like yesterday.
So many years ago. Our shoes squeaked on the floor as the teacher herded us out into the sunshine; it must have been late spring or summer, because it was so warm. I dip the tea bag in the hot water, remembering. Declan sat by himself. He had dark circles under his eyes and a haunted look to his face that was there more than it should have been. Even as a kid I knew, but then again, there were whispers about him and his brothers. Everyone knew.
That day in particular, his expression was ragged. I knew his mom had died, and he just wouldn’t do what we were supposed to do for class. Jump rope. We were supposed to count the jumps. The smack of the rope hitting the pavement, the chatter around us—it’s all there in my mind, just as it was then. And it all means nothing now, just like back then.
I swung the rope over my head and counted. One. Two. Three. Nobody went near him. They were afraid of him, because of his brothers. He was all alone in his hand-me-down clothes. Like mine, because all of my clothes came from my older cousins. He wasn’t so different from me.
He was wrecked. He was alone.
It hurt to look at him, so I looked down at the rope. And at my feet on the ground. One. Two. Three. But I couldn’t look away from Declan for long. That was the other thing about him. We weren’t so different, but I felt this pull to him. A similarity between us. I was afraid of the Cross brothers, just like all of the other kids, but I thought … if I could talk to him, maybe we’d understand each other.
I stole a glance at him as the rope came over my head and found him looking my way. He stared right at me, as if he’d heard my thoughts.
A shiver ran through my body. He’d caught me.
The rope fell from my hand and I could hardly breathe. He didn’t look away and I knew I had to say something. His mother, I remembered. His mother died. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, but the sound didn’t make it to him. We were too far apart. I hated to see him look so down, but I also knew it was beyond me to fix it. The fact his mother was dead … it was too much for me. How could I ever help? But I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.
Because being alone is the worst thing there is in the whole world.
A whistle screeched to my right, scaring me and ripping my eyes away from Declan. The coach rattled off statistics about the number of jumps and who’d gotten gold and who’d gotten silver and bronze.
As if I cared and as if any of it mattered.
When I looked back at Declan, he wasn’t there anymore.
I turned in a slow circle, looking at all our other classmates, but he was gone.
My phone pings again and snaps me back to the present. With my tea in one hand, I grab my phone in the living room, once again wishing it was Declan, but it’s a string of messages from Scarlet.
Scarlet: Did he hurt you before? Hello? Hey, where did you go? You okay? You sure it’s okay?
Braelynn: Sorry. Just made some tea for bed. He didn’t hurt me, Scarlet, I promise
Scarlet: I thought you might have passed out. If he did, you would tell me, right?
Braelynn: Of course
Braelynn: I just … there’s a difference between being a waitress and doing other things. Not that I’m judging
Scarlet: Wear black. Just tell them no. Trust me! The guys that come in know they won’t leave alive if they hurt us.
I don’t tell her I already know to wear black. Declan told me as much. Instead I take the phone with me back to the kitchen, back to my tea.
I tip a sleeping pill out of the bottle I keep in the cupboard and wash it down with a sip of hot chamomile. The ceramic clinks on the counter as I stare out of the window again. The roads are empty. I probably shouldn’t text her back what I really think, which is that those men standing guard while women sleep with clients is exactly why I’m not sure I can go back. The Club isn’t the real world. It’s too involved with illegal shit.
The safer thing is to send her back a heart emoji, which I do before heading to the living room.
Then I pull the blanket over my lap, settling back into the sofa, and reach for the TV remote. I’ve got the TV set up on a little console, but the living room is full of stacks of boxes just like every other room in this place. Not much is unpacked yet, just like the bedroom.
I flick through the channels one after the other. It’s a bunch of infomercials and late-night stuff that doesn’t catch my attention. It’s too hard to tell what’s on, and I can’t focus anyway, so I turn it off and sip my tea.
My laptop’s on the coffee table, plugged into an outlet across the room. It’s a long enough cord to pull it into my lap. When I open it, all my old searches are waiting for me in the tabs of my internet browser.
It’s just like that day at gym class. I’m looking for him, but I can’t find him. There’s not much on the internet about Declan Cross or his brothers. If you ask anyone on the street, they could tell you more than what’s available online.
The only concrete information that’s searchable are the deaths he endured, one after the other. His mother passed while we were in middle school. His brother, Tyler, in high school. Shortly after, his father died. I skim through their obituaries, which are sterile funeral home notices without much of a personal touch. It’s as if someone has left these records just so there’s something to find. It’s weird, in today’s day and age, to find nothing but an obituary online, especially for people like the Cross brothers. I run a few more searches. Declan Cross. Carter Cross. Cross brothers and Fallbrook.
They went from poor kids on the bad side of town to the men who run it, seemingly overnight. My mind reels, wanting to know what happened. What happened to Declan Cross?
Scarlet: I know it’s late, I just hope you know it’s good money, and the Cross brothers have helped me before.
Scarlet: You know, some men are bad, but others are just bad for bad guys, know what I mean?
I let her messages sink in before responding and turning back to my laptop.
Braelynn: I’ll sleep on it <3
There’s a long pause. I entertain myself by going back through my searches one more time, even though I know there will be nothing new to find.
The only way I’ll find out anything concrete about the Cross brothers—and about Declan—is to go back to The Club for another shift.
I close my laptop, put it in its place on the coffee table, and lean my head back on the couch. The chamomile is kicking in. The sleeping pill too. But my uneasiness doesn’t go away.
It’s one thing to work at a place that’s adjacent to the shady underground of the city. Oh, who am I kidding—it is the underground, if they have sex rooms in the basement. It’s another thing to go down there yourself.
And yet that’s where Declan Cross has his office. The Club is his world. I feel that same pull to him that I did on the playground all those years ago. It’s a dangerous, forbidden curiosity. We’re not kids anymore, and I know better than to trust men like him. Especially men with power.
My phone pings again.
Scarlet
: Promise me you’ll give it one more chance. Okay? One more shift?
I hesitate to type out the message. Part of me wants to be easygoing and make the promise. But then … that’s why it took me so long to untangle myself from Travis. And even that’s not fully done. If it was, he wouldn’t be texting me from new numbers and saying the shit he does. Life, Travis—it’s all relentless.
Braelynn: Sleep well, I’ll message you in the morning :)
There. Not so hard. No promises made. I can sleep on my decision tonight, like a responsible adult. I’ll make my decision in my own time without recklessly agreeing to anything.
My head is hazy from the sleeping pill as I go back into the bedroom and tug the corner of the sheet down on the bed. I remember to plug in my phone, which is good, because this pill is well on its way to knocking me out. My head has barely hit the pillow before I can feel myself floating.
I dream of The Club. It’s all endless black tablecloths and couples in expensive outfits and an imposing red door. I’m not afraid of the door. I go to it, knowing I’m supposed to be there, and it opens easily, like I’ve been invited. Chills spread down my body as Declan looks up from his desk. There are no dark circles under his eyes. They’re the same stunning shade they always were. His gaze roams down my body and the door closes behind me, trapping me there, with Declan Cross.
Declan
There’s faint bruising on the knuckles of my right hand and I run the thumb of my left over it as I watch the show. The dining room is nearly always packed on Thursdays.
Men in my line of work and the everyday patron have a certain addiction in common: sex. The phrase “sex sells” is timeless and there’s a reason for that.
The lights are dim, and my gaze moves from the stage to the corner booth of the dining room. All eyes are focused on the two women, bound tight with coarse rope and suspended from the ceiling … all eyes on them save two men in tailored suits.
The deal is almost done and as if on cue, a woman is spun, her back arched, her body covered in striations from the ties of the rope. The audience applauds the demonstration and the two men stand, buttoning their jackets and shaking hands.
Marco’s gaze meets mine and with the raise of my tumbler, he gives a short nod.
The crack of the whip behind him causes the man to flinch, and then a grin lifts up the corners of his lips. I watch as his trading partner’s shoulders rise and fall with a chuckle. It’s good for Davis that Marco is so easygoing and doesn’t take any offense to the laughter. Marco turns to face the stage, watching as the woman’s skin lights a bright pink from where the leather cat-o’-nine-tails has struck her. Even from this distance, I swear I can hear the soft moans of pleasure spilling from the woman’s mouth. Her hair is pulled back tight in a bun, and the stage performer grabs it, tilting her head to devour her lips.
“It won’t be long until they’re fucking on stage,” Mia comments as the glass clinks on the counter. I glance down to see another two fingers of whiskey at the ready for me.
Downing my drink, I slide her the empty one. “I believe that’s what most of the audience is waiting for,” I respond with a smirk, although it falls as my gaze moves to Braelynn.
She barely watches, just like the rest of the servers. They work diligently, taking care of the guests who are awestruck by the entertainment.
They’re not the only ones she avoids.
It’s been three days of her staying as far from me as possible. It’s a rare moment when I catch her gaze. More than likely because I’ve hidden myself away in my office, watching her and looking into her background.
Braelynn Lennox has secrets. Not the least of which is a life she’s just run away from, and I’m aware of every sordid detail. I’m all too aware of it.
The black dress clings to her curves as she bends at the waist to collect a stray cocktail napkin that’s fallen. A deep, low groan of appreciation leaves me without my conscious consent. My eyes close slowly as I attempt to rid myself of the black lace image. Unfortunately, all I imagine in its place is what lies beneath the delicate fabric.
With the crack of the whip cutting through the perverse vision, I open my eyes and she’s right there. A foot from me, the closest she’s ever been.
Her shy smile accompanies a quick glance before she reaches past the bar to deliver a drink slip to Mia.
“Boss,” she says, greeting me like everyone else. There’s a sick coldness that settles at the tip of my tongue, capturing the warm tease I had for her.
Her black nails rap on the bar and she hesitantly peeks up at me. All I can do is stare down at her, noting every delicate detail. Including the faint blush that gathers at her neck, traveling to her cheeks and then higher, moving to her temples as she’s caught in my gaze.
“Is everything okay, Declan?” she questions in a whisper.
That deep, low groan is silent this time, and it travels lower, to my hardening cock. That’s better, my little pet.
Smirking, I lift the whiskey glass to my lips, sipping before I nod and ask her how her night is going.
“It’s something else,” she answers, swallowing hard and I don’t miss how her gaze drops to my lips before she tears it away, the applause of the audience drawing her attention to the stage.
She’s quick to bring her attention back to Mia, who hasn’t yet touched Braelynn’s slip.
I offer up an observation, testing the tension between us. “Tonight’s entertainment is one of the more popular shows.”
One look down, and it’s evident her nipples are hard. Were they like that when she walked up here? The thin lace can’t hide her desire.
She’s quiet, only nodding at my commentary. “Are you curious?” I ask her.
Her dark eyes meet mine and this time there’s fire. The flames of it consume the oxygen around us. Fuck. What that look does to me is positively sinful. The heated stare doesn’t deny the pull between us. I could get lost in that gaze of hers and abandon the boundaries we’re toying with altogether. She hesitates at my question, but settles on one of her own. “Curious or scandalized?”
“If that scandalizes you,” I start, lifting my drink to the stage, “you may want to reconsider your employment here.” It’s meant as a joke of sorts, or perhaps a warning but as she glances back at the stage, without her expression easily seen, my body heats with an anxiousness that she could leave. She could so easily walk out of those doors and never come back.
The cords in my neck tighten, but then surprise takes hold of me at her response. “Is that what you like?” she asks in a soft murmur.
Depraved thoughts filter into my mind.
The ice clinks in my glass as I face her and say, “What did you ask?” My tone is deathly low as the background music continues to play, the whip cracks and Braelynn’s eyes close, her shoulders shuddering as if the tanned leather strips had stuck against her flesh. I can imagine how her olive skin would brighten, how the rush of fresh blood would be pulled to the surface. How sensitive she’d feel on every inch I played with.
She stares back at me, seemingly unaffected as I imagine her plump lips parted with a strangled cry of pleasure. “Is that what you like?” she asks again, quieter this time, tilting her head in the direction of the stage.
The woman on the stage is wrapped tightly in rope and at Braelynn’s question, my eyes easily undress her, imagining her gorgeous tan skin decorated in black satin binds.
“If it crosses a line—”
Rather than answer her, I ask my own question. “Do you like the idea of being bound?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she answers and then glances past me, checking on Mia and the state of the drinks I imagine she’s waiting on.
“Do you think you’d like to give up control, to be a fuck toy to whatever a man like me would want?” I question her, expecting the phrase fuck toy to throw her off. To send her back to the other side of The Club.
It doesn’t, though. Her body tenses slightly, her thighs subtly clenching. My
grip tightens on the glass as my throat dries. She seems to ponder it and my cock gets impossibly hard. Pulling her bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth, she hums softly before looking back up at me.
Tease. She’s nothing but fate’s temptation for me.
“Would you want to do it in front of others … on a stage like them?” she asks and the world pauses around us. Not a sound can be heard. It all blurs as I peer down at her, curiosity evident but so damn innocent.
She has no idea how I’d love to shove my cock down her throat, her hands bound behind her back, that black dress ripped down the front. If I could have her on her knees, struggling to catch her breath as her mascara ran down her face and her eyes brimmed with tears … I would have her every fucking day just like that.
Every instinct in me wants to drag her back to my office and show her exactly what I’d do to her. If she were my pet, mine to toy with. Mine to do whatever I desire.
“Would you?”
“I don’t know … I guess,” she answers as I stand impossibly still, not trusting myself. The reminder that she could be undercover and playing me screams in my head. Screams at me that if I wanted, she’d let me, that she’d do it just to get closer to me.
This beautiful, innocent woman would allow me to do every sordid thing I’ve ever wanted.
“Stop it,” I say, pushing out the words and then finish my drink, sucking the whiskey against my teeth.
“What?” She whispers the word with disbelief, taking a step back. I watch her from my periphery as I slam the tumbler down on the bar as gently as I can, although the adrenaline rushes through me, its intensity demanding I let it take over. Without looking at her, listening to the applause, I know not a soul in this room has any idea how on edge I am. What this woman does to me isn’t justifiable.
“Don’t say another word,” I command her and then move my gaze to meet hers. Her dark eyes swirl with a mix of emotion. The cords in her neck tighten as she swallows thickly. “You need to stop before something bad happens to you, Braelynn.”
