Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I sneak a glance into Connor’s office as Gareth pauses in the hallway to answer a question for a baby-faced young man, who I assume is an intern.
That’s really Shandy’s husband. Wow.
If someone had shown me a lineup of eleven guys, and asked me to guess which one she’d married, the one I’m looking at right now wouldn’t have even ranked in my top ten choices.
He’s talking on his cell phone, huddled over it like he’s whispering. In his own office. Behind a closed door. He looks up and catches me watching him.
I narrow my eyes into what I’m sure must be a piercing stare, one I’m sure he’ll return when he sees Gareth.
I’m clearly leaving the office in the middle of the day with his boss. Who also happens to be his father-in-law. His livelihood currently depends on the man at my back. Connor should probably tread carefully.
I, on the other hand, can throw caution to the wind, which is something I haven’t done in a very long time. Well, prior to yesterday, anyway. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed Jewel the Fool.
She might not be good for responsible times, but she’s been responsible for plenty of good times.
Gareth starts walking again, and I follow him to the elevator. An elderly couple shuffles aside to make room for us when the doors open, and I notice the man is holding a folder emblazoned with the logo of my father’s attorney’s office.
I want to tell them they should entrust their legal affairs to someone more scrupulous, but with my luck, that sleazebag lawyer is probably related to one of them, so I keep my mouth shut. I’ve stirred up enough familial drama for one day.
Not that I have any interest in backing away from Gareth to keep from creating any further family strife for him, but what we do when we leave here will stay between us.
* * *
Excitement sizzles down my spine when he takes the exit that leads to the lake. He’s taking me back to where this all began—to finish what we left undone ten years ago.
My pussy gets wet just imagining what it will feel like to walk back into that house. Warmth settles over my shoulders like fate has dropped a blanket on them.
Of course, we should do this. We have to. Not going back there together would leave loose ends for both of us.
We need to fuck at the lake house to write the ending to that eternal fantasy, but God help me, I know I’m going to be almost-but-not-quite-eighteen again the moment we walk through the front door.
And still-seventeen-year-old Jewel was a mess.
But maybe that’s who I’m meant to be in this scenario. I’m not sure he’s changed much since that night. I’ve gotten a glimpse behind the facade of Mr. B and seen the real Gareth Branson now.
He is absolutely the man I met in that dark kitchen, through and through. My pussy clenches, and I realize that I want it to be exactly like it was back then, to relive it in all its depravity, but see it through this time.
Why does the lake have to be two hours away? I shift uncomfortably in my seat, craving his fingers inside me, his hot breath on my neck, and his raspy voice tickling my ear as he tells me what a good girl I am.
I reach for the volume on the stereo and turn it up so I can hear something other than the throbbing of my pulse.
He takes a strange exit. It’s too soon, and this isn’t the way.
According to the time, we should still be about thirty minutes out from the lake. Unless this is a new shortcut, I may have misjudged his intentions entirely.
My breath catches in my chest, and I’ve never wanted to be wrong so badly in my life. Neither of us has talked much since we left his office, and the nervous energy in his car could fuel a nuclear reactor.
As if he has a radar sensor for my anxiety, he looks over and smiles, takes my hand, and says, “We’re still going there, but I thought maybe we could both use a drink first.”
And just like that, he’s put me at ease. Or as at ease as I can be around him while I’m jonesing to be back in the only kitchen I never think about changing, to let it take us back in time while he does dirty, bad things to me—a wild young girl who thinks she’s far more worldly than she is.
Me, not knowing what I don’t know. Him, experienced and knowing what he’s doing is wrong, but not giving a damn because all he can think about is sinking his mature cock into my tight little taboo pussy.
Jesus, my nails are leaving crescent moons in his soft leather covering door handle, but I can’t unfurl my fingers. A drink could only help right now.
How does he intuit another person’s needs like that? Is it just with me or is he this perceptive with all women?
After he exits, he takes a side street and winds through an industrial park, pulls into a spot near a detached building at the very back.
Every other structure looks the same: beige stone with a glass entrance door and garage bay doors on the same side.
But they’re all attached in sets of four to six, except this lone smaller one.
This one faces a different direction as well. It sits at an angle, a position that shields most of the parking spots near it. The entry faces a greenbelt and the door is steel. No windows. No garage doors.
“This is a bar?” I ask.
“It’s a private club.” He cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt. “But yes, they have alcohol.”
My fingers go slack and fall from the door handle. Gareth didn’t just bring me to a strip club, did he? I mean, I’ve been to a few, but never one in such a strange location. One with no sign.
“What the hell goes on in a club with no sign?”
“Things no one inside wants advertised.”
He says it in that domineering tone that makes me quiver, but right now, it also makes me hesitant to get out of the car.
“We can leave anytime you want, sweet girl. But I think you might like it here.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt because I need to find out what’s inside, and I know he isn’t going to tell me. If I want to know, I’ll have to enter and see it for myself.
It’s dark inside, but surprisingly well appointed, like walking into a different world.
Dark wooden floors with deep burgundy velvet curtains that soften the hard walls.
There is a reception area behind glass, but no one sits in the chair, probably no need at this time of day.
There is a sign-in kiosk on this side of the partition.
I step up to the screen, but hesitate, not sure I want to document my visit. This could be some sort of private jazz lounge based on the décor so far, but it could also be anything else at all.
Gareth taps in Sapphire. I smile. He knows how to navigate this. After my alias he signs himself in as Viking. My smile widens, but falters as quickly. Is that a friendly jab at my safe word or a warning of what I’m walking into?
Is this. . .?
No, it’s the middle of the day. In the middle of nowhere.
Polished ornate, double wooden doors block us from going any further. Gareth presses enter and a new screen comes up requesting a membership access code. He types GB 4008 in the first space, tabs to the second one and taps out Happy Hour.
A buzzer sounds, and I hear the locking mechanism release the doors.
“If you have a membership, why did you sign in with an alias?”
He steps past me to hold the door open, but before he introduces me to the rest of the club, he holds me in his gaze for a beat. His sailfish eyes are vibrant even in this dim light.
“Those are our names for today’s visit.”
My knees soften, but I accept his invitation to enter, savoring the reassuring warmth of his hand at the small of my back. The interior boasts more velvet, dark wood, and dim light.
Leather booths line the walls, all facing a circular empty stage in the center of the room, a small lamp with a beaded lampshade on every tabletop. There are no other people.
Where are the dancers or musicians or whoever performs here? Where is anyone? Gareth presses me forward.
Another set of double doors leads us into a long hallway that runs the length of the building.
Seven single doors greet us from the back wall.
They’re all painted a glossy cream color and adorned with a small black placard featuring curlicue script, each one flanked by flickering sconces like a scene from a Gilded Age hotel.
Gareth leads me to the middle door and presses a gold button located below the placard.
I read the script: Happy Hour.
A guy who looks like he could do bicep curls using train cars opens the door and announces us. “Viking and Sapphire have joined the party.”
I’ll take that drink now, thanks.
As if she read my mind, a gorgeous pony-tailed brunette wearing lingerie I’d like to steal appears in front of me with a martini. I take the drink and whisper, “Thanks.” She nods and begins unbuttoning my top.
I don’t bother protesting because it’s apparent from the state of undress around me that taking another step fully clothed isn’t an option for me.
Gareth sips his own martini, watching this woman undress me and carefully place my shirt and jeans on a hanger. She has me step out of my sandals and stores all my belongings in a huge armoire in the corner.
I attempt a sip from my glass but gulp instead. Thank goodness sexy underwear is my default because there are three other women in the room, and they all got the memo.
The men remain fully dressed. All they’ve shed is their shoes, neatly resting on a rack like soldiers in formation.
One of the suited men steps toward me and brazenly trails his fingers over the swell of my breast before reaching underneath to feel the weight of it.
The bouncer guarding the door says, “This room is now closed. The party is full.”
Everyone else seems to know exactly what this announcement means. They break away from their partners and start to mingle—which entails a lot more communicating via touch than words. The man in front of me circles my nipple through my lace bra with the pad of his thumb.
“You are exquisite.”
The woman whispers something into Gareth’s ear, steps back, and bites her bottom lip in anticipation of his response. He cocks his head at me. “You good with this?”
I’m not sure what he’s asking me. Am I good with that woman blowing in his ear or this guy groping me? And then it hits me.
It’s both. People are pairing off, and nobody is looking to dance with the one who brung ’em. I’ve had a threesome, more than one. But this is beyond that. This is a room of four couples all swapped out in full view of everyone else. But there are no beds. How does this even work?
Gareth raises his eyebrows. “We can go if you’d rather.”
“Exactly what happens if we stay? Exactly, Gareth.”
“We adjourn to other rooms, some more private, some less. In this case, we would all four go to another room together. I’m not leaving you.”
That makes me feel better, but I’m still not certain I want this. I look at the guy marveling at how hard he’s made my nipple. He is attractive, a little younger than Gareth. Fit. He isn’t unappealing, but this is so far from what I was expecting.
So far from the lake house.
Why did he bring us here?
Is it a message? Don’t get attached.
I went to his office yesterday to fuck him and get over him. But fucking him had a different effect. He knows. This is a layer of protection for us both.
“Yeah,” I say. “Why not?”
We make our formal introductions. The deft hand on my tit belongs to “Damien,” and the lithe legs itching to wrap around Gareth belong to “Athena.” The goddess smiles and takes Gareth by the hand.
We all walk back into the hallway, and everyone but me seems to know exactly which room we’re meant to enter next.
I float along with them, numb. Until the next door opens.
Oh. This room is. . .equipped.