Wyatt’s Fever (Silver Spoon Falls #14)

1. Wyatt

WYATT

Moving to a new town is supposed to be a clean break. New start, new job, new place to hang your hoodie. I pictured unloading the last box, surveying my kingdom of empty pizza boxes and IKEA hex keys feeling a sense of relief. That’s what I envisioned, anyway.

In reality, I’ve spent the last seventy-two hours living on takeout and grunting up and down the steps of my lemon-scented home with all my worldly possessions.

Too bad, that only consists of seven duffel bags, a pile of books I’ve been planning to read, and a mattress with a dip right in the middle.

After finishing up unloading my SUV, I was sore in places I didn’t know I had and smelled like the armpit of a boxer.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon christening my new digs with a much-needed nap instead of digging out my work clothes. So now, I’m driving my blacked-out Tahoe into downtown Silver Spoon Falls wearing a wrinkled shirt and black pants that should’ve been thrown away years ago.

The Sterling Rope is not the eyesore you’d expect from a sex club.

There’s no sign. No red neon lips, no toppled columns of Greco-Roman decadence, not even a single handcuff decal.

Just a cube of dark brick wedged between an artisanal doughnut place and a bank right in the middle of the downtown that looks like it stepped right out of a nineteen fifties Christmas movie.

From the outside, The Sterling Rope looks like a miniaturized federal courthouse, except with better landscaping.

I park behind the building and scan the quiet alley. The only people in sight are a woman walking a rat-sized dog and the lone figure waiting outside the club’s unmarked steel door.

Roman Sterling’s commanding presence is unmistakable. Even from half a block away, I can tell his jet black, three-piece suit with lapels sharp enough to split hair is custom.

His hair is a sophisticated salt-and-pepper color, reminiscent of luxury whiskey advertisements, probably styled by an expensive $200 blow-dry. Damn, running a BDSM empire must be lucrative. Of course, being born with a silver spoon firmly planted between his lips didn’t hurt, either.

I hop out of my SUV and my spine pops like bubble wrap. Roman clocks me, face splitting into a wide, white smile. It’s all jawline and old-world charm, but the handshake he offers could probably bend a horseshoe.

“Wyatt. You look like you slept in those clothes every night for the last three weeks,” his eyes crinkle up at the corners as he laughs.

I give his hand a single, measured squeeze giving his shit right back to him. “Who the fuck wears a three-piece in July?”

He shakes his head, clapping me on the shoulder. “I have important meetings all day long or I’d be wearing jeans and a polo shirt.”

He steps back, scanning my battered jeans and security-issue boots with a smirk. “Didn’t guarding one of the most popular bands in the world pay well?”

“My work uniform is unfortunately packed away in some box I haven’t come across yet.”

He snorts. “Try to find it before you start tomorrow night.”

“I will.” If you squint hard enough, Roman is technically my cousin, but our family tree’s been pruned for maximum plausible deniability and I’m from the side no one really claims. The Sterlings have always had a fondness for money, power, and the kind of taboos that can’t be scrubbed with a confessional.

I, on the other hand, have a fondness for getting paid on time and not getting stabbed by groupies.

Roman pivots toward the building. “You ready to look around?”

“Lead the way.” I follow him to the door.

He swipes a card, and the heavy black steel door clicks open.

I follow him into a vestibule tiled in black marble, the air instantly twenty degrees cooler and perfumed with something expensive.

Beyond the second set of doors, the club’s lobby stretches out in red velvet and shadow, accented by matte black steel and clusters of pendant lighting that could double as medieval torture devices.

The décor is half Parisian supper club, half Satan’s man cave.

It’s impressive, even if my brain is already replaying the time I had to break up a knife fight in the backstage toilet of the Met.

Roman waits for me to take it in, hands folded behind his back like a magician about to pull a live rabbit from his ass. “So, what do you think?”

I run a palm over the curve of a leather sofa. “It’s...cleaner than I expected. No sticky floors.” I’m not really sure what I expected but this isn’t it.

“That’s our motto. Discretion, hygiene, and luxury above all. Nobody wants to catch hepatitis from a bondage bench.”

He leads me across the lobby, nodding at a receptionist who’s dressed a little dowdy for a sex club. Roman gives a quick introduction, and she smiles as he leads me away.

As we step into a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, he lowers his voice. “Our clientele expects the best. We cater to a select demographic that values privacy almost as much as its kinks.”

“I’m used to dealing with spoiled rich assholes.” I’ve met quite a few over the ten years I worked touring with Steel Pulse.

“That will come in handy. Almost all our members follow the rules but there’s always a few troublemakers no matter how much you screen.”

The main lounge is dark, empty, and full of the electric charge places get before opening.

A few black booths line one wall facing a stage glowing with discreet footlights.

I catch a glimpse of two staffers prepping the bar, moving with silent efficiency, black gloves and crisp shirts. No wasted motion, no side chatter.

We cut through to a second corridor, and Roman stops in front of a frosted-glass door.

“First stop,” he says, palming open the latch, “is the heart of the operation.”

He gestures me into a room the size of a small classroom and twice as sterile.

A bank of wall monitors dominates the back, each flickering with feeds from every conceivable angle in the club.

At a long counter, two operators in matching polo shirts type and click with the bored vigilance of NASA ground control.

Not a stray hair or loose thread on either of them.

“Jesus,” I mutter, sweeping the room. “You think you’ve got enough security?”

Roman smiles, his lips pulled into a tight line, a hint of tension beneath the surface.

"There’s never enough. You wouldn't believe the threats we get," he says, his voice carrying a mix of exasperation and amusement.

"Blackmail, political activism, your garden-variety psycho.

Just last year, we had an actual priest break in, searching desperately for a parishioner who had strayed from his spiritual path. "

"If you aren't pissing off at least one organized religion, you're doing the whole sex club thing wrong," I quip, a wry smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

Roman gestures toward the array of monitors that flicker with a steady stream of data. "Everything's encrypted. No recording, no archives, unless the law demands it. Privacy is gospel here," he assures, his tone firm and resolute.

One of the operators, a woman with the lithe build and poised stance of an Olympic fencer, flicks her eyes toward me, assessing. Roman acknowledges her with a slight nod as a silent communication passes between them.

“This is Cara, my day-shift supervisor,” he says. “She doesn’t miss a thing.” She ignores us while staring at the large screen in front of her.

The other operator is younger, a kid with a buzzcut and a crisp posture screaming “first job out of college” vibes.

“This is Joran,” Roman claps him on the shoulder as the younger man turns to give me a nervous nod.

Roman leans over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the screen, and points to a specific security feed. “Keep a vigilant watch tonight for our illustrious mayor. I need to know the exact moment he attempts to swipe his membership card.”

“Has he been stirring up trouble?” I inquire, curiosity piqued.

Roman shrugs, a slight frown creasing his brow. “He’s a persistent thorn in my side, and I’m doing my best to minimize any potential risk.”

He turns to me, dropping the CEO voice for the first time. “All this expensive hardware helps but nothing replaces good instinct which is why I hired you to take over as head of security.”

He’s not wrong. In my time running security for Steel Pulse, I saw fans climb twelve-foot fences, crawl through crawlspaces that would suffocate a rat, and—my personal favorite—hide in the luggage compartment of a tour bus for nine hours with nothing but a protein bar and a signed headshot for company.

I got stabbed once in Tulsa by a guy who thought my jacket was “too corporate.” If there’s a rule in personal security, it’s this: paranoia is a full-time job.

Roman gestures again, and I follow him out.

He leads me down a back staircase, each step padded with industrial-grade rubber. We hit the basement, which is about as far from the opulent lobby as you can get. Cement floors. Strip lighting. More doors, most with palm scanners.

He pauses at one, plants his hand on the panel, and the door snicks open with a hiss.

Inside we find more screens, another operator, this one older and dressed in a tactical vest that’s seen real use. On the far wall, an honest-to-god gun locker containing a neat row of sidearms, a couple non-lethals, and what looks like a defibrillator for good measure.

Roman doesn’t bother with introductions this time. “We rotate shifts. Three teams. Nobody works more than a twelve, ever.” He eyes me sidelong. “We learned the hard way.”

I don’t need to ask. Burnout is a given in this field and no one wants to deal with that shit.

He walks me through the the entire security setup with four panic buttons, two in public, two hidden in the staff-only zones. There are biometric locks on all storage and access points and an alarm system that pings directly to a private response contractor before it even wakes up the local cops.

I can’t help myself. “Fuck. You’re ready for just about anything.”

“It pays to be prepared.” He moves us through a side door into a narrow passage. Every fifteen feet, another security camera blinks at us letting me know every angle is covered.

We emerge into a loading area where two staffers are unloading what I’m ninety-nine percent sure is a shipment of sex toys, judging by the box art. The woman in charge barks at the guy, who drops a crate and fumbles to pick it up, red-faced. Roman just watches, amused.

“Have you started missing tour life?” he asks, suddenly nostalgic. “The chaos, the bullshit, the noise?”

I shake my head flashing back in my mind to my last night with Steel Pulse.

During the show, a fight broke out in the pit sending three people to the hospital, a group of women in matching bras climbed the lighting rig to flash the band, and the goddamn lead singer decided to crowd-surf naked.

I had to leap offstage and catch him, midair, while dodging a hailstorm of joints and sweaty bralettes.

“Not really,” I say. “I hated living my life waiting for the train wreck you know is coming.”

He nods, as if he expected that answer.

Up another set of stairs, we hit the kitchen.

Not the greasy spoon operation I’d expected, but a chef’s wet dream.

I glance around at the gleaming steel appliances and racks of expensive wine bottles.

There’s a guy in whites slicing up strawberries and I’m not sure if he notices us, or just doesn’t care.

“We cross train all our staff,” Roman says, gesturing around. “No single point of failure. Everyone can step in to help in an emergency. Even the chef knows the panic code.”

I nod, impressed despite myself. “Good.”

He must read my face, because he throws an arm around my shoulders and steers me into a smallish, black paneled office. There’s no sign, just a frosted window and a heavy door.

“This is your office,” he says. “Settle in and let me know if you have any questions.”

I lean against the desk. “I just have one question for you.” He stares at me with a raised eyebrow as I ask. “How do you keep all this under control?”

Roman sits on the edge of my desk. “Same way you did it with the rock band. Set the rules. Enforce the rules. Don’t play favorites.”

He leans forward, suddenly intense. “We don’t tolerate assholes or the kind of people who think they can buy their way out of consequences. Every staff member, every club member and every goddamn guest knows the rules and agrees to follow them. No second chances.”

He stands and moves to the file cabinet, withdrawing a slim folder. He tosses it on the desk.

“Everything you need to know is in here. Read it, memorize it. We don’t advertise for this position, Wyatt because I have to trust my Head of Security above all else.”

He watches me, waiting.

I sit behind the desk and pick up the folder. I thumb through a few pages seeing there’s an employment contract for me to sign, a list of emergency procedures and a sample member contract.

The usual. I flip it shut and stare back at him. “Seems pretty cut and dry.” And a whole lot better than dragging Nels Riche, the Steel Pulse lead singer, out of a club with vomit staining his torn shirt.

Roman strides over to the door with a deliberate pace, his commanding presence filling the small office. “There’s one more thing,” he pauses, turning to fix me with a cutting smirk. “Your welcome gift is a free membership to the club.”

The idea of joining the club hadn’t even crossed my mind, but now it hangs heavy in the air. I lean back, rubbing my bottom lip, weighing my options carefully. “I appreciate it, but I’m not interested right now.” I need to find my footing before I consider anything else.

His grin widens. “You say that now, but just wait until you’ve had a chance to dive into the scene. Then we’ll talk.”

As he exits, the door closes with a definitive click. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize this is going to be one hell of a gig.