Jersey (Cerberus MC Tennessee Chapter #4)

Prologue

Jersey

I'd think many years of working in the shadows and staying on the edge of existence would ensure I grew accustomed to low-lit settings, but more often than not, all it does is give me a headache. It's a combination of my body's insistence to get up early no matter how late I stay up the night before and the pulse of the music flowing through speakers hidden all over the dark room. Whatever is causing the pain is just proof that I'm clearly no longer in my prime, and that might be the hardest pill of all to swallow.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, rolling my head in a circular motion, attempting to ease the tension in my shoulders. My left trapezoid has had a fairly significant burn in it for the last couple of days. Even with everything that's going on around me, I can't seem to stop focusing on it. I don't know if the distraction is from boredom or if the pain is more significant than I want to consider.

"Can I refresh your drink?"

I look up at the woman and although I don't feel it, I give her a simple smile. Flirting comes easily for me, and it always has.

Maybe most men in my situation would get an eyeful. Why else would she be fully naked in a sex club, wearing only a collar attached to a slinky belly chain? She's there to look at. Touching is off the table, but I'd never attempt it. I don't even want to. The lack of temptation I feel is one of the reasons I'm probably the perfect guy for a job like this.

I stopped internalizing how I felt or the lack of feelings I had about women long ago. I know exactly what's wrong with me, why an obviously pretty woman doesn't do a damn thing for me.

Instead of letting my eyes rake down the length of her luscious body, I keep my eyes locked on hers. Just as I assumed it would, the lack of attention to her body causes her more unease than if I had sat here salivating or lusting after her. It's not something she's used to. Her body doesn't distract me, and it seems that's not something she encounters often here.

"I think this one is fine," I tell her with another quick smile as I lift the drink in my hand and make an effort to take a sip. "Thank you."

"Let me know if you need anything," she says before scurrying away, glancing over her shoulder just before slipping into the darkness. Her reaction makes me wonder if she's worried I'll chase after her, despite the rules in place. It makes me wonder if she's often victimized, even though her job description says she won't have to endure such things.

There is no telling what happens to people here against their will, and that's the main reason why I'm sitting on this sofa observing.

My goal tonight is not to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I'm not here for entertainment purposes.

This is work, a job I was handed by my boss, Hemlock, the president of the Gatlinburg chapter of the Cerberus MC. A club I've only been a member of for a few short weeks. I'm sure Hemlock has read my file, but he hasn't cornered me and demanded the details.

I have no plans to offer up information on my past, but Kincaid, the president of the founding chapter of Cerberus back in New Mexico, had to ask the questions when I was being vetted for the organization. Going in, I knew I'd have to discuss every life experience, even the things that happened while I was working for ICE.What I didn't realize was how painful it would be to talk about those things, considering I've avoided that conversation for so long.

I clear my throat and take another sip of my drink, although I feel like slamming it back to numb that part of me that is threatening to come back to life.

I'm here to find signs of trafficked women or determine if people who work at the club might have a less-than-legal side menu that caters to more than just your run-of-the-mill BDSM activities.

We've sat on this club once before, and although we didn't find any trafficking, we were able to get the owner arrested on tax evasion. The club was down for less than a week before someone else bought it and reopened for business.

So here I am once again.

I blow a puff of air past my lips, letting it inflate my cheeks before allowing it to escape. I'm just... bored.

Maybe one of the other guys would have a better time here. I can count several women who would love to try to wipe the sneer off Nyx's face, and I spotted one pixie-like thing who looked like she would give our ginger giant Zeus a run for his money .

With little to no fanfare, I spot a woman being led toward a St. Andrew's cross. There's nothing uncommon about the occurrence. It seems even more uncommon that there hasn't been anyone on the contraption in the two hours I've been sitting here.

What always floors me is the way the woman's eyes are turned downward. The behavior isn't unusual. Most submissives keep their eyes lowered as a requirement by their Dom.

It's the tremble in this woman's hands as she wrings them in front of her that makes me wonder if she's here of her own volition. I understand being pulled from your comfort zone in a place like this, but I can't tell if that's what's going on or if she's participating against her will.

The attendant walking with her pulls the robe from her shoulders, and I sit a little taller at the sight of her nipples suddenly peaking when the air in the room hits her skin. Her milky white skin is immediately covered in goosebumps, and the trembling in her hands doubles with her nakedness.

The attendant whispers something in her ear, pointing to the cross, and after listening, she dips her head and steps up to it.

Deft fingers secure her arms and then her legs to the contraption. Before the last buckle can be secured around her right leg, a line has already begun to form.

"Simple touching," I hear the attendant explain to the group. "Fingers only. No penetration. Break these rules and you forfeit your membership."

Those are some very serious rules. I've seen women secured to the cross before, and it was a no-limit situation. This being a sex club, it's odd to even limit someone using their mouth to please her .

I watch as men and women alike circle her, their fingers trailing over her skin, but I don't concentrate on their touches. Rather, I watch her face and the tension in every muscle in her body. I watch the tears roll down her cheeks as if she's being tortured in the worst way.

The tips of her breasts are no longer tight. The apex of her thighs shows no slickened arousal.

This doesn't turn her on, and I'm not certain she's participating in this for that reason.

I stand, finishing off my drink before placing the glass on the side table and walking in that direction. I can't stomach the idea that she's on display and being touched against her will.

With plans to make it all stop, I find myself trapped in her gaze when she lifts her eyes to me.

She is no longer focusing on those with the tips of their fingers on her skin. She seems entranced at the sight of me.

Her lack of response quickly makes the other's attention wane, and before long, she's left alone, those around her going to find something else to do.

I simply stand, not paying any attention to the attendant who has maintained a close distance from her in case they have to step in if someone breaks the rules.

Her throat works on a swallow when I inch closer before pausing again.

This isn't what I'm here for. I'm meant to be watching, observing, and trying to discover if illegal activity is occurring.

Participation isn't part of the job, although it might help make my attendance less suspicious if I actually did something. I know that some types get their thrills by just watching others. Voyeurism is very popular, so I haven't felt the need to lower suspicions.

Now I have to wonder if I'm drawing too much attention to myself. It's a fine line to toe, for sure .

I leave very little distance between the two of us when I step up to her, and to her credit, she never breaks eye contact with me. She seems a lot braver than she did when she walked out here.

I glance up at her tied hands, noticing that rather than a tremble in them, she has them clenched into fists. I can tell by their tightness that her fingernails are going to leave indentions in her palms.

Her breath is ragged, coming out in uneven puffs that force her chest to rise and fall at irregular intervals.

"Are you having fun?" I ask, hands at my sides.

If this woman is a victim of any kind, I'd never participate in something like this.

I would never willingly further someone's victimization.

Her eyes dart away from mine, which answers my question. If she were enjoying herself, she might smile, or her eyes might brighten. This woman is not having a good time.

I step even closer and lean forward so only she can hear my next question.

"Are you here against your will?"

I pull my head back so I can read her face. She doesn't look over my shoulder at the attendant, so I can tell she isn't worried about getting into trouble, but she also doesn't speak.

Her brows furrow, the crease between them deepening to display her confusion, as if it never crossed her mind that such things occurred. It speaks of her ignorance of what the shadows of the world actually contain, but it doesn't explain why she's unhappy that she's strapped to a St. Andrew's cross in a sex club.

I take a full step back, satisfied that, although unhappy, she's a willing participant in this activity.

Knowing it lights something inside of me.

For the first time since approaching her, I allow my eyes to drop, fully taking in her body .

My mouth waters to taste the furled tip of her breast.

My fingers ache to brush across the goosebumps scattered across her torso.

My cock thickens with the need to slide through the growing slickness of her pussy.

My eyes snap back up to hers, narrowing, but before I can question my body's reaction, I sense movement beside me.

"Please step back," the attendant says as she moves forward. She looks at the lady on the cross. "That's an hour. Are you ready to go?"

The woman dips her head without hesitation, and I slink into the shadows, watching as she's released from the cross, helped back into her robe, and led away.

I wait for over an hour, but the woman never reappears into the room. When I leave, I feel grateful that she never showed her face again.

It's been years since I've ever had such a visceral reaction to someone, and that just tells me that whoever she is, she's dangerous and more trouble than I'm willing to get into at this point in my life.