Daring Dixie

by Tara Crescent

  “He took advantage of Xavier,” I retort. “I don’t like people like that. And it’s more than simple negligence. Something feels off.”

  Hunter gives me a sharp look. “Off? In what way?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it,” I reply. “Not yet, anyway. It’s just been a week. I’ll have to sit with Leforte’s books to figure it out.”

  I scan the bar and my gaze snags on a woman. She’s sitting with her back to me, her honey-brown hair tumbling down her back in loose waves. Something about her reminds me of Dixie Ketcham. Same hair color. For a second, I consider the possibility that it could be her and then dismiss it with an inward laugh. Dixie voluntarily showing up at Club M. What an impossible thought.

  “Something’s just occurred to me.” A slow smile spreads over Hunter’s face. “If you’re working at Leforte, you must have run into Dixie.”

  “Mmm.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say? Come on, Eric. I know your type, and Dixie is—”

  “Not it,” I interrupt before he can continue his sentence.

  “Really?”

  “I’m not looking for Cici 2.0,” I say bluntly. “She’s too uptight for people like us. Dixie Ketcham is the type of woman who will marry the high school quarterback, have two-point-five children, and live in a house in the suburbs with white picket fences. He’ll coach the kids’ soccer team while she drives a Volvo minivan and is active in the PTA. If you’re attracted to her, you’re wasting your time.”

  And so am I.

  Except there’s a frisson of electricity there. All week, I’ve done my best to avoid her, but every time I run into her in the kitchen, a jolt shocks me. I know chemistry, and this is it.

  But chemistry is stupid. I’ve learned the hard way that attraction is no substitute for compatibility. Particularly, sexual compatibility. Cici taught me that.

  “Normally, I’d agree with you,” Hunter says. “However—”

  “However what?” I don’t wait for him to answer. My gaze follows his to the bar, where the woman in the grey dress has turned around.

  It’s Dixie Ketcham.

  A few minutes earlier, I’d thought that Hunter was the last person I would have expected to see here. Turns out I’m wrong.

  Well, well, what do you know? I thought I had a read on Dixie, but it turns out she’s full of surprises.

  7

  Dixie

  A thousand times during the week, I’ve wanted to change my mind. The idea of going to Club M is daunting. Terrifying. Strangely exciting.

  Even as early as this morning, I was ready to chicken out.

  But then, at brunch, my friend Kiera gave us some bombshell news about her past. When she was a teenager, her sister got involved with the wrong crowd. Kiera had tried to get her out, and in the process, she’d witnessed a murder at a bar. Almost immediately after, the bar was burned down, and her sister died in the fire.

  Grief-stricken, Kiera testified against the mob boss, and she’s been in witness protection ever since.

  I was so shocked I barely knew what to say. And Kiera wasn’t done with the bombshells. She also announced that she was going to do a scene with two guys she barely knows, because she thought they might know something about her sister’s murder.

  I’m worried about her. I knew right then that I was going to be at the club with her tonight. Not to interrupt the scene—done that once, never going to do it again—but to send the message that she’s not alone. I don’t have any reason to be suspicious of the guys she wants to scene with—I’ve met Nolan Wolanski when I worked at Lockhart & Payne, and while I haven’t met Caleb Reeves, I’ve only heard good things about him—but still. Better safe than sorry.

  Admit it, Dixie. You’re looking for an excuse to go. You’re curious about the club.

  I was still on the fence when I got dressed. I’d worn a dress I bought on the Internet on the day Pierre had been fired. (Yes, I’m petty like that.) It’s grey in color. Asymmetrical straps crisscross the bodice and leave my shoulders bare. It’s an uninhibitedly sexy dress, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt like a stranger.

  I’m acting like a stranger.

  It’s a little after eight when I get to the club. It’s too early for it to be busy. I stand in the doorway for a second and take it in.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. I knew the club wasn’t going to be seedy, but still, on some level, I guess I’d been uncertain about what I was going to find.

  But this isn’t it.

  Club M is where the rich, the powerful, and the well-connected come to play. Everyone is dressed. Well-dressed, even. The men are in suits and the women wear couture.

  In my second year of law school in Columbia, I’d been invited to a recruiting event thrown by one of the city’s most prestigious law firms. They’d hired out a private club on the Upper East Side, and when I’d walked in, all I could see in every corner of the room were men and women wearing clothes that cost more than my monthly rent. I’d felt like a fish out of water then. I feel just as out-of-place now.

  Steeling myself, I step inside. A few people—men mostly—check me out, and it sets my pulse racing. I spot Kiera at the bar and make a beeline toward her. Thank heavens, a familiar face.

  Ninety minutes later, a glass of wine has taken the edge off my nerves, and my urge to run away has diminished somewhat. I start to contemplate the idea of talking to people. There’s a guy here—tall, ash-blond hair, broad shoulders—who’s looked at me several times, telegraphing interest.

  So far, I’ve avoided eye-contact, but maybe I can go over and say hi. I haven’t gone out on a date in years, but I’d like to. Now’s not the greatest time for anything serious, not with work being so busy, but we’re at a sex club. Viking Guy is unlikely to be looking for true love.

  Dix, he’s looking for sex. If you go over, you’re telling him you’re interested. He might invite you to one of the private rooms. What are you going to do then? Are you really going to do it with a perfect stranger?

  A fresh surge of nerves hits me. Okay, maybe I’m not ready to go over.

  Then I catch sight of them.

  Hunter Driesse and Eric Kane.

  I groan out loud. Seriously, what are the odds? I mean, I know that Hunter and Eric are members of the club, and I thought there might be a tiny chance I’d run into them, but I figured it was worth the risk. After all, Eric is swamped at work. (Welcome to my world, buddy.) Hunter’s mother died a couple of months ago. I figured I’d be safe.

  So much for that. My hopes have been dashed to the ground.

  Have they really?

  Can I duck into the bathroom before they catch sight of me? I start to slide off the barstool. I don’t know if it’s the movement that gives me away or if I’m just having the worst streak of luck, but Hunter raises his head at the same time, and our gazes collide.

  Well, crap.

  Hunter lifts his drink in my direction. I grit my teeth. If I don’t go over and say hello, I will look rude and ungracious, and I’ve been taught better than that. Except I don’t want to. They're the last people in the world I want to see.

  And they’re walking toward me, Nolan Wolanski in tow.

  I haven’t seen much of Eric all week. He’s been in the office, of course, but he’s been busy with meetings and has stayed mostly ensconced in his office.

  But I’ve heard from him plenty.

  On Tuesday, we had our one-on-one. I’d been bracing for more barbs, but Eric had been extremely professional. He’d done his homework too—he’d read the email I sent him detailing what I’ve been working on, and he’d had sharp, incisive questions for me. A total contrast with Pierre.

  After our meeting, I’ve been the recipient of a barrage of emails from him. Requests for documents, clarifications on contracts, questions about Xavier’s legal exposure, and so much more.

  At first, I wanted to scream every time an email from him showed up in my inbox, but as the week’s gone on, I
’ve realized he’s not dumb. Okay, fine, I’m aware of how grudging I sound. Eric Kane is pretty damn smart. He’s hit the ground running, he’s competent, and he’s tackling Pierre’s backlog with impressive efficiency.

  I’m not the only one who sees that. The office mood is celebratory. Everyone is overworked, but at the same time, we can finally see a silver lining. The end is in sight.

  John’s the only person who seems unimpressed. No surprise there—John Stone really doesn’t like anyone.

  “Dixie,” Nolan greets me. “It’s a small world. I thought you were in Louisiana.”

  “Mississippi,” I correct him. I like Nolan Wolanski well enough, but he’s one of the guys that Kiera wants to scene with tonight, and she barely knows them. “I moved. How are you, Wolanski?”

  He assesses my tone, realizes the reason for it, and nods in acknowledgment of my concern. “Can’t complain,” he says easily. “You still working for Lockhart & Payne?”

  “No, Xavier Leforte hired me.”

  “That sounds like Xavier.” He gestures to the men flanking him. “Have you met Eric and Hunter? Eric Kane, Hunter Driesse, Dixie Ketcham.”

  My mother was pretty old-school Southern. I mean, she named me Dixie, of all the things. Every summer, while the rest of my friends hung out at the mall, I was sent off to etiquette school. I know how to properly perform introductions, set the table, throw a party, write thank-you notes, and so much more. My teacher, the aptly-named Mrs. Grace, did her job well.

  She would roll over in her grave at my next words. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Eric gives me a smug smirk. “Tell us what you really think, Dixie. Don’t hold back.” His grin widens. “I’m surprised to see you here. What did you call the club the last time we met? Oh right, a place for men with small cocks to boss around women who are too dumb to know better.”

  “I didn’t call her dumb, and you know it,” I snap.

  As soon as those words leave my mouth, I realize Eric’s just baiting me. Thank heavens Nolan didn’t hear—he’s too busy talking to Kiera. I glare at Eric, but before I can say more scathing things, Hunter steps in. “The circumstances of our last meeting were somewhat fraught,” he says with a smile. “Let's start over.” He holds out his hand to me. “Hunter Driesse.”

  Good manners make a belated entrance. “Dixie Ketcham.” I shake his callused hand, and a shiver runs through me at his touch. Oh dear. Not Hunter too. Around the office, I’ve been trying to ignore how aware I am of Eric. I need to schedule a doctor’s appointment—something is wrong with my head.

  Why are Hunter’s hands callused anyway? He’s a psychiatrist who specializes in PTSD. He has a practice in DC, but he also works in the hospital here two days a week. (Yes, I know a lot about Hunter, but it’s not just from creeping on his social media. We have friends in common, and they can’t stop talking about him.)

  “Good to meet you,” he says. He quirks an eyebrow. “Like Eric, I’m somewhat surprised to see you here.”

  It’s not phrased as a question, and I don’t have to answer. I don’t know why I do. “Xavier’s looking for a Chief Operating Officer,” I tell him. “I want the job. I’d be good at it. I’m a strategic thinker, and I pay attention to detail.” Oh God, I sound like I’m in an interview. Has it been so long since I talked to a handsome man that I’ve forgotten how to make conversation? “However, I can be somewhat inflexible in my thinking, and so, I’m here to expose myself to new experiences.”

  Why am I still talking? Shut up, Dix, shut up.

  Eric starts to laugh.

  I am going to kill him, and there’s not a jury in the world that would convict me. “What? You don’t think I have a shot at the job?”

  His mirth subsides. “You have an extremely good shot at it,” he tells me. “It’s just…” He shakes his head ruefully. “Every once in a while, I forget what a keen judge of character Xavier is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He predicted you’d be doing this. Assessing your strengths and weaknesses and taking steps to close the gap.”

  “Oh.” That’s why he was laughing? Once again, Dix, you’ve jumped to conclusions.

  I take a deep, steadying breath. I have to know if I stand a chance. “Is what happened the last time we met at the club going to be a deal-breaker? Because if I’m going to give it my all, I need to know I have a fair shot.”

  Eric shakes his head. “To paraphrase the Las Vegas tourism board, what happens at Club M stays at Club M. Xavier is my friend. I will help him hire the best person for the job. What you do outside of work doesn't concern me.” He tilts his head. “Unless you make a habit out of kicking puppies or something.” He gives me a smile that’s so charming that my breath catches. “Don't kick puppies.”

  “Got it,” I quip. “Animal abuse is frowned upon.”

  “You’re at the club to expose yourself to new experiences,” Hunter says. “What does that mean, exactly? Are you here to watch people have sex, or are you thinking of participating?” His eyes rest on me, his gaze thoughtful and intrigued. “Do you want to go to one of the private rooms and explore your desires?”

  I gasp. I flush beet red, and I fight the urge to run away. This is so different from my usual interactions with men. Not that I’ve had any of those recently. So far, every time I’ve had sex, it just happens. There’s no talking about it. Nobody I’ve been with has ever asked me what I wanted out of the experience. We sort of fell into bed and did it.

  But I’m in a sex club, and Hunter’s question is a valid one. I stay where I am, determined to act as worldly as these men. “I didn’t really have a plan for the evening,” I confess. “I didn’t think it all the way through.” I wipe my palms on my skirt. “I suppose that participation would be the ultimate goal. Probably.”

  I must sound more nervous than I realize. Eric laughs shortly. “You look like we’re planning to drag you to the center stage,” he says. “Relax. The monitors must have gone over the rules with you. Everything that goes on here is consensual.” He drains the rest of his drink and turns to the bartender for another.

  I gulp down the last of the wine in my glass. Hunter puts his hand on my wrist. “If you want to play tonight, it’s a one-drink maximum,” he murmurs, his voice deep and low.

  “Oh.” Nerves are making me strangely talkative. “I guess I should just have one drink then?”

  What in the name of sanity am I doing? I’m not going to have sex with anyone at the club. That’s not what I do. That’s not who I am.

  Is it?

  Is Hunter attracted to me? What about Eric, who has had plenty of opportunities to walk away but hasn’t? There’s a woman in a skimpy blue dress who’s openly staring at him, but he doesn’t appear to have noticed. Why would they be attracted to me? It doesn’t make sense.

  There’s music now. A jazz band is playing, trumpets and saxophones and a rolling drum undertone that echoes my heartbeat. People are dancing. In a darkened corner, a couple is making out. He’s shirtless, and he’s on his knees, and—oh my God, he’s going down on her. Her head is thrown back, her face suffused with pleasure.

  I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole.

  “You look nervous.” Hunter’s voice is reassuring. “Don’t be. Forget sex. If it’s a step too far, tell me something you can see yourself doing.” He’s still touching me. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, painting heat and fire with each caress. “Could you see yourself kiss a stranger? Would you let me touch you while Eric watches?”

  I swallow hard. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Not at all,” Hunter replies quietly. “Good girls are my personal kryptonite. I want to open them up and see the secret well of depravity inside.” His voice lowers into a warm caress. “Tell me your fantasies, Dixie.”

  Tell me your fantasies, he urges. As if it were that easy to reach for my dreams.

  You’ve done it before. Everyone expected you to marry William, but you didn’t. When it became obvious that h
e didn’t support your desire to be a lawyer, you broke it off. In those days, you hadn’t been afraid.

  I’d been braver when I was twenty-one.

  “You’re wasting your time, Hunter,” Eric cuts in, his voice harsh. “Dixie might be here at the club, but that’s not going to make a damn difference. At the end of the day, what she wants is missionary with the lights dimmed.”

  My mouth falls open. “You absolute ass,” I hiss. Missionary with the lights turned down. Is that what he thinks? “And what, you’re volunteering to show me otherwise?”

  “Fuck, no.” Eric signals the bartender for another drink. “Blushing and virginal does nothing for me.”

  I have never wanted to punch somebody more than I want to punch Eric Kane right now.

  Viking Guy is still watching me. I pivot on my heel and march toward him.

  Fury has me seeing red. I don’t often swear—Mrs. Grace wouldn’t approve—but as far as I’m concerned, Hunter Driesse and Eric Kane can go to hell.

  8

  Hunter

  “What the actual fuck?” I glare at Eric as Dixie stomps away from us. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He winces. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I interrupt impatiently. “Cecelia fucked up your life, fucked with your head, and you got yourself a tattoo that you can stare at whenever you’re feeling sorry for yourself. It’s not me you owe an apology to. It’s her.”

  He’s looking shamefaced. “I know. I’ll fix this.”

  I give him a probing look and then nod. Eric knows he screwed up, and I trust him to do whatever he needs to do to fix this.

  But not now. Right now, Dixie is rightfully furious. If Eric approaches her, it’s akin to tossing a match into the flames.

  Dixie walks up to a man I don’t recognize. She puts her hand on his arm, closes in, and says something to him, an inviting smile on her face.