2. The Inferno
CHAPTER TWO
THE INFERNO
Orion
My boots thud heavily against the wood floors as I do a final walk-through of my new club. Neil, the builder—an older man in his fifties—waits patiently in the corner of the room.
Though he’d never admit he’s nervous, his feet shuffling every few seconds tells me something entirely different. Despite using him for my other two locations, the Ravage last name still makes people jumpy. Stella, my sister-in-law married to my second-eldest brother, Miles, had done a good job telling everyone how wonderful our family was to anyone who would listen. She’d smoothed over a massive public relations shit show a couple of years ago, but our reputation still tainted almost every aspect of our lives.
“This is great,” I tell Neil as I face him.
He visibly sags and lets out a quick breath, like he was expecting me to say something else.
I’m used to it now, but I hate that my family name still weighs on me, even today.
“Amazing.” He bends down and grabs his work bag. All his workers have left already upon completing the club, and he gives it a once-over. “It’s a strange setup for a bar,” he muses, completely aloof as his eyes wander upstairs before they shoot to the door that leads down to the basement. That’s because it’s not a bar, I think. “But seeing as this is number three, you must know what you’re doing.”
I chuckle. “Or maybe I’ve just gotten lucky thus far.” I glance at the basement door. “This one will be a bit different from the other places.”
“Right. Well, I’ll have Barbara send the bill on Monday. Maybe I’ll take the missus for a night out when it opens.”
I smile and nod, thinking of Neil and his missus here when I unveil the kinkier sides of the club. Who knows what kinds of things they’re into—maybe they’d enjoy it. Being in the lifestyle had taught me that kinksters came in all shapes, sizes, ages, ethnicities, and backgrounds.
“Of course. Have a good weekend, Neil.”
Once I hear the front door close, I do another walk-through of the club, ensuring it’s all set up before I bring the furniture in and start training the staff. I take another quick tour of the upstairs—or what will be known as Paradise . Then I walk down into the dungeon—or what will be known as Purgatory .
The building hasn’t been used since the 1950s, and before that, it was an old lumberyard just on the outskirts of downtown Crestwood, California. Instead of rooms for different kinks, I’d chosen to keep it simple. Those seeking or wanting to give pleasure could go upstairs to Paradise.
And those seeking to receive or administer pain—like me—could go to Purgatory.
It was a choose-your-own-adventure club with the same exclusivity that my brother, Chase, used with The Hunt. Though I wasn’t into the primal kink like he was, I liked the idea of starting small and growing. I don’t want to exclude people, but I also know that running a place like this will mean ensuring everyone—from the employees to the invited guests—stays safe.
From the outside, it will be a nondescript building. The bar itself will be called Inferno. Upon entering, customers must be vetted by the community or personally known to me. Unlike most clubs that require membership and ID, this venue ensures only trusted individuals are allowed in. Once inside, guests are shown through a coat room to the main bar area, where they can choose to go upstairs or downstairs, depending on their mood.
Before I forget, I pull my phone out and the skull balaclava from my back pocket, popping the hood of my sweatshirt over my head when I’m done. Setting my phone on a windowsill, I hit record and walk backward with my arms spread. The recording cuts off after fifteen seconds, and I save the video to upload across all social media channels and type out a caption.
Will you be my good girl and kneel for me? Stay tuned for my next video on communication and safe words.
I triple-check that no identifying factors are in the video before hitting upload. Unlike how select friends and family know about Inferno, no one knows I’m also Starboy1997 across multiple social media channels.
It started as a way to educate people about kink without showing my face and thereby inviting speculation about our family, and over the past few months, the fans have gone a bit rabid. Every time I upload a new video, it’s akin to fanning a flame, but I enjoy it.
Women can be too casual about kink, and my mission is to ensure people stay safe and that it stays consensual for all parties. Aside from enjoying myself, I hope I’m also helping people make safe decisions, educate themselves, and maybe enjoy the view while they learn.
I pull the mask off and stash it in the pocket of my dark jeans before letting my eyes sweep over the place. Grabbing my helmet, I pull the door closed and lock it.
It’s still cold as fuck for March, so I pull my leather jacket and helmet on before unlocking my bike, swinging one leg over the seat, and moving the kickstand up.
It’s half past noon, so I have an hour to get downtown, and as I gun the throttle, my bike sends me flying down the main street in Crestwood. My fingers are already frozen through, so I grab the leather gloves stashed inside the bike at the next light.
By the time I get downtown and park my bike, it’s five minutes to two. I take the stairs two at a time as I wave at the Stardust Playhouse security, sliding through a back door and taking a hallway to one of the box seats overlooking the stage. There are twenty seats up here, and I purchased all of them for the entire season.
Though it’s only been a little over a week, I haven’t missed a single day of Layla’s performance.
Pulling my hood over my head, I lean back as the lights dim and the ballet begins. At this point, I could write a book about the ballet since I’ve seen it over a hundred times. The show starts with Prince Siegfried planning his twenty-first birthday with a royal ball. Soon after, his mother tells him he must choose a woman to marry, and he unhappily tells her he’d rather marry for love. He goes out into the forest with his new bow and arrow, where he sees a group of swans on a nearby lake.
This is where I sit up straighter—leaning forward over the balcony as Layla appears. She stands up to full height, turning from a Swan Queen into a woman named Odette. My whole body warms at the sight of her in a white bodice and tutu, her pale skin glistening and maneuvering in a way that transfixes me every time. She dances with Siegfried, and despite knowing the male dancer’s husband, I still feel envious of how he touches Layla—how his hands grip her waist and how he looks at her like she’s the only person in the world.
Layla’s tiara sparkles as she turns and turns—a pirouette, if my research is correct. I don’t know much about ballet, but I’ve been trying to learn because I can’t resist the urge to know everything about her. Even though she told me all those years ago to leave her alone. But that was an impossible ask. She’ll never know how close I’ve actually stayed. Always on the sidelines.
The music swells, captivating everyone in the audience.
I still can’t hear a Tchaikovsky piece without thinking of Layla.
My favorite part of the ballet begins next. Layla comes out in a black costume instead of a white one. She’s now the evil Odile, and I watch as she confidently seduces Siegfried. Fuck, she has no idea how entrancing she is. When she plays Odette, she’s shy and docile. But when Odile comes out? She’s bold, unyielding, and steps into that role easily.
I take a deep breath and sit back. Only a few more minutes are left of the show, and I can’t risk being seen by her when they do the curtain call. However, I can’t seem to take my eyes off her even though I know this part by heart. It’s where she dances her final dance with Siegfried—dressed in all white once again.
It’s the happy ending.
The one part that makes me dread returning to my real life since the woman dancing this part wants nothing to do with me in real life. For these two hours, I can pretend she’s dancing for me just like she used to. The secret smiles, the searching eyes… for ten years, she danced for me. It was platonic back then, but I still felt connected to her.
Plus, when she’s on stage, she’s not stiff and robotic like she so often is around me. She’s in her element, and I get to witness the real Layla again—temporarily, at least.
I think of our encounter at Scott’s house a few weeks ago. I haven’t seen her since except to watch her ballet performances, and on the days she has off or there’s no performance scheduled, I feel it.
My whole body feels off—and I get irritable, antsy, and argumentative.
I need her like I used to need alcohol. One vice for another, yet I’m not sure which is worse.
My old obsession with alcohol.
And now my obsession with my stepsister.
Step sister.
We grew up together, so I know I shouldn’t house these fantasies for her.
It can never happen, and I’ve come to terms with that, but it doesn’t dull the obsession.
If anything, it makes me want her more.
And this obsession isn’t new. I’ve craved her for years. Mostly from afar, but I wanted her even back when she didn’t hate my guts.
The sound of clapping stirs me out of my stupor, and I quickly turn and walk out of the box just as Layla and Siegfried hold hands and smile out into the audience.
I take the stairs two at a time to beat the crowd and am on my bike two minutes later. Waiting in a nearby alley for Layla’s white BMW to pull out, I pull my gloves on and grit my jaw against the cool breeze. I hate that she always walks to her car by herself, especially considering she has overzealous fans due to what she does. Carrying pepper spray won’t do much if she’s physically overpowered.
If I don’t watch out for her, who will?
I’m the only one here, though—so what does that make me?
About an hour later, the white SUV drives out of the parking garage, and I wait a few seconds before following her through downtown, three cars behind her so she doesn’t know it’s me. I don’t typically follow her like this, but today’s a special occasion. Zoe let it slip during our weekly munch—a meetup for people in the lifestyle—that Layla has a hot date tonight. I couldn’t ask where or with whom without arousing suspicion from Layla’s best friend, so I decided to find out for myself.
I was grateful for Zoe’s intelligence. She’d gotten married to Liam, my eldest brother, last year. We were close before they got together, seeing as the two of us were oftentimes in the same friend groups due to being into kink. She’s the reason I know so much about Layla’s life, and I willingly inhale every crumb and morsel she gives me about my stepsister.
Just after seven, Layla pulls into the valet line for The Angry Squirrel, a high-end restaurant in Santa Monica. Traffic was horrendous the entire drive over, and based on the way she scurries into the restaurant, I’d say she’s late.
I am very interested in seeing who she’s meeting.
Parking my bike a couple of blocks away, I lock my helmet up and pocket the keys, casually walking up to the host stand and skimming the restaurant. Layla is seated in the back, and across from her is some blond guy in a suit. I roll my eyes and turn to face the hostess.
“I don’t have a reservation, but I’ll give you a thousand dollars in cash if you seat me in one of the seats in the back,” I murmur, leaning in close to her and pointing at seats behind Layla. She won’t see me unless she turns around and actively looks for me.
The hostess’s eyes go wide as recognition sweeps over her features. “Of course. This way, Mr. Ravage.”
The one time I can use my name to my advantage.
Smirking, I follow her to the table and sit down facing Layla’s table, pulling the cash out of my wallet and discreetly handing it to the hostess before she walks away.
A female server asks if I’d like water or anything to drink.
And just like every other time I’m asked, I resist the urge to say, “Double whiskey, neat.”
Instead, I politely smile and say, “Sparkling water. Thank you.”
She returns a few minutes later with a large bottle of Aqua Panna. “What brings you to The Angry Squirrel, Mr. Ravage?” she asks while pouring.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I tell her quickly. The longer she’s here, the higher the chance Layla will get curious and look behind her. I need to be discreet and blend in.
“Can I please get some bread when you get a chance?” I ask.
The server nods. “Certainly. Whatever you want,” she practically breathes, lashes fluttering. After a second of uncomfortable eye contact, she turns and walks away, and I sigh in relief.
While waiting, I slowly sip my sparkling water and watch my stepsister flirt with a stranger. A complete imbecile, if I’m being honest. His smile is goofy, and his hair is too perfectly coiffed to be taken seriously. My eyes narrow when she laughs at something he says because I know her well enough to know that that laugh was forced. I let my eyes drag over her tailored cream-colored trousers, matching vest, and blazer. The way her hair is still pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head tells me she didn’t have time to wash it. Her glasses sit perched on her nose. Her hands are clasped together on her lap, and she hasn’t touched her wine.
Of course she hasn’t. She hates wine, you asshole. Tsk, tsk.
Who is this guy, anyway? I bet he ordered the wine without asking her what she prefers.
When the server comes back with the bread, I thank her. When she doesn’t immediately move to leave, I lean forward slightly and give her a flirtatious smile.
“Can you please send a cosmopolitan to the woman in the cream blazer? Belvedere vodka if you have it. Don’t tell them I sent it,” I tell her, winking.
The least her date can do is provide a drink she’ll enjoy.
She nods, brows furrowed. That probably wasn’t what she expected me to say.
“Of course, Mr. Ravage.”
She scurries off, and I continue to watch Layla.
Her date won’t stop talking. She can’t seem to get a word in—not that she’s trying. No, she’s too polite for that. At the end of the night, she’ll thank him politely and probably never speak to him again. From what Zoe tells me, Layla has trouble connecting to her dates and hardly ever goes on a second date. My pride and arrogance both fucking love that fact, and I sit back and smile as a runner walks over to their table and sets the cosmo down in front of Layla.
Just as her spine stiffens, I pull a menu up and hold it in front of my face in case she turns around. It’s not like she’ll know I sent it—but she might suspect it and look around. When a minute has passed, I lower the menu slowly and smirk as I watch her sip the drink I sent her.
Just as I’m about to order, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Pulling it out, I see that it’s a +33 number.
My father.
I hit the talk button. “Hi,” I say, voice low and rumbling.
“Orion,” my dad says weakly. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal?” Typical. Straight to business.
No how are you or questions about my life.
“Do you mean the proposal in which you defy the boundaries my brothers have clearly set? No, I haven’t.”
“Did you tell them my predicament?” he asks, voice cool and businesslike.
“They are aware of the diagnosis,” I practically growl.
He’s quiet for a moment, and I have to hold my tongue so I don’t say anything cruel. Like all the other times he calls me, I wonder why I even bother to pick up the phone.
“And they’re aware that I’m simply trying to divide my assets before it’s too late? Miles especially should be thinking about the future of his daughter.”
I grind my teeth together. He’s so fucking manipulative. Being the only son who still speaks to him means I’ve become the mediator. Miles used to until our father screwed Stella’s father over financially. Chase, Liam, and Kai—my other brothers—all vowed to cut contact as adults, and to be honest, I don’t blame them. Now that he’s dying, he thinks he has a right to weasel his way back into their lives despite them having very clear, very valid reasons for their estrangement. I was too young to comprehend the harmful things that happened growing up at Ravage Castle, plus I ended up moving in with Layla and Scott at fourteen. By that point, my mother and brothers had taken it upon themselves to shield me from the worst of it in the years prior.
I often contemplated cutting contact with him to support my brothers, but then he got sick, and the youngest-child guilt took over, so here we are.
“I’m sure Beatrix will be taken care of,” I answer, speaking of Miles and Stella’s daughter and his only grandchild. “She does have four doting uncles—myself included—and a plethora of aunts.”
Plus, our mother made sure my brothers and I had access to our trust funds before she left him. None of us had any interest in his wealth—the art and cars, mostly—that he wanted to leave to us upon his death. We’d been more than financially independent from him for almost two decades. It was just an excuse; a massive guilt-trip from a father who never bothered to arrive for us or put our best interests first.
“And what about you? Have you found a suitable wife yet, or are you still lusting after Scott’s daughter?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Of course it is. I was the same way with your mother, mind you. She resisted me for years until I finally wore her down.”
The bread I’d chewed on turns to lead in my stomach. Like many things having to do with my parents and my childhood, I didn’t know that about their relationship. I was young when the problems began, and my older brothers protected me from almost everything that happened.
“And then she left you,” I add, wanting to drive the point home.
“Of course she did. I never let her breathe. I never let her have her own life. I was always watching her. I was obsessed with her. Despite the fact that she left me for someone else, and even though she’s gone, I will always love her.” He’s quiet for a few seconds as my heart pounds. Layla laughs at something her moron date says across the room, and then my father says something that turns my blood to ice. “You remind me of myself. Rebellious. Determined. Business-savvy. You can’t tell me it’s a coincidence that your mother was a ballet dancer too?—”
“Right. Well, Dad, goodbye.” I hit the end button before he can get another word in, swallowing a couple of times to tamp the bile down.
I never let her breathe. I never let her have her own life. I was always watching her. I was obsessed with her.
I can hardly breathe as I look at Layla across the restaurant. Squeezing my eyes shut, I run a hand over my face. Why is it that he always unnerves me and knows just what to say to get me to question everything I’ve ever done?
Seven years ago, when Layla told me she never wanted to see me again, it was easy not to take her words to heart. We still lived under one roof, and despite moving out shortly after our argument, I still saw her regularly at Scott’s house. There were dinners and family functions, and my brothers had always been mindful of including their stepsister in anything important—despite hardly knowing her. When our mother remarried, I was the only one still living at home, so we became the closest.
When Layla started dancing for the Los Angeles Ballet and then more recently Pacific Ballet Company, I used it as an excuse to support her from afar. But as my drinking got worse, it became an unhealthy obsession. She pulled away—started dating, stopped going to Scott’s when I was there—and stopped talking to me altogether. She bought the house in Los Feliz down the street from Scott, and our lives stopped intersecting so much.
I tried moving out.
I tried staying away from family functions I knew she’d be at.
I tried—for years, I made an earnest attempt at staying away.
But I couldn’t do it.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I needed a way to be around her.
And now, I don’t give a shit if I’m too obsessed.
Because she’s mine.
It takes me a minute to realize the server has been asking me a question for several seconds.
“...steak? Or perhaps you’d like to try one of our specials? The mussels are new to the menu, and the lamb is served with couscous and marinated eggplant…”
Her words float in and out of my ears, and my eyes find the back of Layla’s head.
“I’ll have the mussels. Thank you.”
She nods and smiles. “Would you like to keep the menu?”
“Yes, please.”
The next hour passes with me slowly eating my mussels while Layla—to my delight—eats the same dish as me. Her date doesn’t stop talking the entire time, and when I see the server walk back over and ask them about dessert, he shakes his head.
Layla’s spine sinks just barely, and when I look back down at the menu, I see blackout cake served with fresh strawberry ice cream.
Smirking, I make eye contact with the server, and when she comes over, I ask her to send a cake with extra ice cream to their table.
Just like last time, I hold the menu in front of my face when the runner brings the cake to their table, knowing there’s a much higher chance of her thinking I’m here. Especially now that she’s been brought two separate things she didn’t order.
When I lower the menu, Layla eagerly eats the cake and ice cream while her date talks and talks some more. Between bites, she tries to hide her yawns behind a hand. She also spends three minutes inspecting her spoon. He doesn’t notice of course.
Fucking bastard.
She’s probably wishing she was at home reading a book and snuggled up with her cat.
Without thinking, I pull my phone out and text her.
My chest aches when I realize the last time we texted was two years ago when Scott was admitted to the hospital for a suspected stroke. He ended up being fine, but Layla and I had been cordial as we coordinated when to visit him in the hospital and for how long. There had been thousands of times when I wanted to text her.
Damn, I miss her.
These past few years have been painful, knowing that I couldn’t talk to the person I considered my best friend. Not talking to her feels unnatural—like an acute sense of loss. We were always calling and texting before that fateful audition seven years ago.
Not a day passes that I don’t think of texting her.
I don’t think she realizes how desperately I need her. I’m not sure why I feel like today is the day to break the silence, but something about watching this asshole talk over her all night has my mind spinning with fury.
I ordered you an extra scoop.
As soon as I hit send, I pull the menu back in front of my face and angle my body behind a beam so she won’t see me unless she looks. Peeking over the top of the menu, I smile when I see her pull her phone from her purse.
My smile widens when I see the way she stills—how her legs instantly uncross like she’s been discovered. She looks around quickly as her date drones on and on without even realizing she’s not paying attention.
I wait for her to respond, but of course she doesn’t.
Do you think he’ll be hoarse later after all that talking?
This time, she says something to him and stomps to the bathroom, phone in hand. I lean back in my chair and watch three dots appear once before disappearing.
Is she texting me in the bathroom? Did I get under her skin that badly?
You should probably get back to your date. He looks bored.
Layla
Are you watching me?! Are you here?!?!
No. You know what? I don’t care.
Then why’d you run off to the bathroom?
Layla
I had to pee.
Bull. Shit.
Layla
What do you want, Orion?
You?
I blow out a breath before responding.
A “thank you” would be nice.
Layla
Seriously? God, you’re so freaking arrogant.
How was the cosmo?
Layla
Unbelievable. Get a life, Orion.
You are my life , I type out before erasing it. Glancing at the hallway with the bathrooms, I stand and leave enough cash for a 200 percent tip. As I approach Layla’s table, her date eyes me warily.
I’m used to it—the dark hair, tattoos, and muscles tend to make people squirm.
He jerks backward when I place my hands on the white tablecloth and lean in close to his face.
He looks terrified, which only amuses me further.
“There’s a small chance she’ll be nice and give you a second date.” I lean closer and practically snarl my next sentence. “But just so it’s crystal fucking clear: if you so much as touch her tonight, there are worse things than death.”
Her date scowls up at me. “Is that a threat?”
“I don’t make threats.”
Before Layla can catch me, I push off the table and give him a menacing stare. He startles when I throw my hands up, and I chuckle as I walk out of the restaurant.
My phone vibrates a minute later, and I already know who it is.
Layla
Did you scare my date away?
I may have said hello.
Layla
You are such an asshole.
I know.
Layla
Why are you doing this?
He didn’t order you dessert.
Three dots appear and disappear several times, but she doesn’t respond.
I’m still smiling by the time I get on my bike.
Sometimes I miss drinking, but other times, like now, it’s much more fun to be sober.