Chapter 3
Ry
As we push through the front entryway, the hum of activity behind the closed door swells.
Workers scatter like ants, setting up bars and tables, putting the finishing touches on the walls and stages.
The energy is electric, frantic, and I can almost taste it on my tongue—sharp, metallic, like blood.
The club is alive. The walls are adorned in teal and blue, fabrics spilling from the ceiling like rivers of silk, twinkling lights woven through like stars caught in a spider’s web.
The walls are dressed in textures that beg to be touched, every detail calculated to seduce and distract.
The effect is both mesmerizing and enchanting, a far cry from the warehouse it once was.
The mezzanine level pulls my attention. It resembles a scene from Arabian Nights; private lounges curtained in semi-sheer veils, shadows flickering behind them like sin on display.
Even closed, the lights throw shadows of whoever’s inside onto the fabric—bodies twisting, moving, putting on a show for anyone who dares to watch.
Erotic as hell. Subversive. A place built for both spectacle and scandal.
Hudson’s men already stalk the level, mapping the space like predators scenting new territory, preparing for their role as security.
On the main level round tables with seating are scattered throughout, providing space for patrons to relax and socialize.
The dance floors are situated on each side of the main stage, strategically placed to ensure that every corner of the club can experience the energy of the dance scene.
The main stage itself is flanked by two minor stages, all adorned with hanging curtains.
Cages are suspended above the stages that can be lowered or retracted to suit the performance.
On the main stage, movement catches my eye.
A performer—long hair tied back, muscles catching the dim light–drops from the ceiling on a sheet of fabric, catching it with one lean, muscled arm.
He moves like smoke, like sin, the strength in every flex making my pulse trip.
He spins with a predator’s grace, his body bending, twisting, teasing the crowd that isn’t here yet.
He’s dressed in nothing more than shorts and a muscle tank, showcasing his toned body.
I know that on the night of the opening, both male and female performers will be in more intricate costumes, which they will gradually shed throughout their performances. It will be an elegant strip show, but a strip show nonetheless.
The performer uses the curtain material to spin gracefully around the stage, his movements fluid and confident. As he lands back on the cage, he lets go of the fabric, gripping the cage behind him. His muscles ripple beneath his skin with every motion.
Even from a distance, it’s clear that he’s aware of his audience. His mouth parts, subtle but enough, and his hips roll like a dare as his eyes lock onto mine. My stomach twists with heat, irritation sparking because I hate how easily I’m distracted by pretty muscles.
Then he lets go, freefalling for a heartbeat that drags me to the edge of panic—until he catches another curtain, smooth as silk. Show-off. My lips twitch.
Hudson’s nudge snaps me back, and I almost growl at the interruption.
Stella, the manager we hired for Devil’s Playground barrels toward us, flushed with stress and adrenaline, eyes wild.
Hudson’s voice stays dry, calm. “Looks like she’s got something to discuss.
” Humor coils under his words, and I have to grit my teeth not to snap.
The woman starts rattling off last-minute updates, efficient and jittery. “Everything’s coming together,” she says, her eyes darting around the room. “We’re just about ready. If there’s anything specific you need, now’s the time to let me know.”
I smile. “It looks amazing so far. How about you give us a progress tour so we can see it all for ourselves? I’d love to get a closer look at the final setup and make sure everything aligns with our vision for the opening.”
The manager’s face brightens, clearly eager to please. “Absolutely, I’d be happy to. Follow me, and I’ll show you around.”
She leads us through the bustling space, pointing out cages, safety measures, bars, lounges, all the little things that keep chaos from spiraling too far.
Gesturing towards the cages suspended above the stage, she starts to go over the safety checks.
“The cages have been thoroughly checked and tested for safety. We’ve ensured that all the rigging is secure, and that the cages can be safely lowered or retracted as needed.
They’ll be inspected every week to ensure they remain in top condition. ”
Her professionalism and attention to detail are reassuring.
“We’ve also conducted extensive safety checks on the performance materials,” she adds.
“The curtains, the rigging, and the equipment have all passed thorough safety inspections. I know the goal is to provide an exciting experience while ensuring the performers’ and guests’ safety. ”
We move towards one of the minor stages, where she continues.
“These smaller stages have similar safety measures in place. All the materials used are flame-retardant as I know we have the fire dancing performances also. The dance floors have added non-slip materials, but we have cleaners scheduled for the entire establishment morning after closing to clean and double check for safety.”
At the bar area, she adds, “The bars are ready, with secure shelving and staff trained for any emergencies. The privacy lounges upstairs are also well-prepared, with secure curtains and safe lighting. Each lounge area will be monitored and cleaned as needed. The girls we have set up for those duties will just blend in seamlessly with the other staff and performers.”
Finally, she looks at Hudson as she points out the security stations. “As you know, your team is already familiar with the layout. We’ve got surveillance and patrols set up to ensure everything runs smoothly and no one gets out of hand.”
When she’s done, she scurries off, leaving the club’s thrum around us. I take it all in. It’s perfect. Dangerous. Erotic. Ours.
Hudson leans close, voice low. “I need to brief my team. Don’t go far.”
“I’m stepping out for a smoke,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes before he can give me that lecture look. “Back alley. Close enough I can still feel you breathing down my neck.”
The growl in his chest is low, warning, and it makes me grin as I slip away.
Outside, daylight slams into me. I blink, digging out a cigarette, but freeze when I notice him—the performer. Leaning against the brick wall, smoke curling from his lips, hair copper-blond in the sun, eyes blue fire.
“Got a light?” I ask.
He flicks the ash from his cigarette and holds it out to me. As I light my cigarette with his, he straightens as though he might head back inside.
“You don’t have to leave on my account,” I say with a grin.
He eyes me warily. “I don’t have a death wish.
” His voice is low and raspy, like he has choked on enough smokes for a lifetime even if I would estimate that he is a few years younger than me.
The voice fits the industry he is in, with just enough gravel to it to have an effect on anyone who hears it.
But his words make me pause. “What do you mean?”
“I know who you belong to,” he says, taking back his cigarette with a raised brow. “My life may not mean much, but I’d like to keep it and not get shot for being near the boss’s girl.”
I can’t help but laugh at his bluntness, the sound escaping before I can stop it. His frown deepens, unsure of how to react.
I laugh—sharp, unrestrained. His frown deepens, uncertain. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
He smirks, drags on his cigarette. “You keep telling yourself that.”
The alley thickens with smoke and tension, the moment charged. His gaze roves, lingering, assessing. “Though, you don’t seem the type to be easily kept.”
I tilt my head, lips curving. “And what type is that?”
He shrugs, the smirk still on his face. “The kind who knows their worth and doesn’t let anyone dictate their life.”
The words dig under my skin, too close to truth. I grin, wicked. “Well, you’re not wrong.” I let the silence hang before I ask, “So do you drive or ride?”
He blinks. “Ride. Why?”
“Got your bike here?” I ask, my tone light.
He unzips his shorts pocket, pulls out a key, dangling it with a cocky smirk. “Why, doll, you wanna go for a ride?”
I laugh again, dark and amused, as I saunter closer to him, feeling the tension crackle between us. “Where would I find it if I did?” I drop my tone, making it more suggestive.
He gestures absently toward the carpark end of the alleyway. I smoothly slide the key from his fingers, brushing against him as I do. His lips part, stunned.
“Tell him I gave you no choice when he comes looking,” I purr, voice deliberate, daring.
Fear flashes in his eyes. “Wait—shit—don’t do this to me—”
But I’m already walking away, smoke trailing from my lips, his panic echoing behind me. I should feel bad. I don’t. His words carved too deep.
No one dictates my life.
Not anymore.