Chapter 17
Mila.
Stepping out of the lift into the car park, I can’t control my grin, or a little chuckle from escaping when I see not one but two hot as fuck men waiting for me.
Frankie’s leaning one shoulder against a matte black Defender, while Sam has his back against it, his arms folded across his chest. Both have their legs crossed at the ankle. Both are wearing jeans. Sam’s are faded, straight, and turned up at the bottom where they meet a pair of unlaced, tan leather boots. Up top, he’s wearing a plain white tee and a brown leather jacket. His hair is pushed back off his face, which is covered in sandy-coloured stubble and a pair of dark sunnies.
Frankie’s jeans are looser, darker, and paired with a pair of grey Converse high tops, a faded grey tee, and a dark blue blazer. His sunnies are up on his head, resting amongst his dark hair. His jaw is also covered in stubble, making it really hard for me to decide whose face I want to ride first. Is there a way I could straddle both of them? I’m sure if there is, they’d know how and be willing to teach me.
I instantly feel inadequate. I’d washed and dried my clothes after Sam dropped me off yesterday, so I’m wearing clean leggings, my white Nikes, and a white tee I found in the wardrobe, covered by an oversized, mint green, denim shacket. Because I’d purchased it in summer and knew it would be too warm to wear in Yirabang, I’d also left that hanging in the wardrobe. It looks good, and the colour makes my eyes pop, but it’s a shacket, not a miracle, and in no way makes me look worthy to be in the company of the pair of gods standing in front of me.
When I reach them, they’re apparently undeterred by my unworthiness, because without a word, they move in, and I’m sandwiched between them.
“You doing better?” Frankie asks against my ear.
“I wasn’t until I saw both of you standing here looking good enough to eat,” I confess.
“Eat, lick, suck, fuck. All of that can be arranged later, but to have the energy to do all of that, I need breakfast,” Sam says before kissing my cheek and moving away.
Fucking hell.
After fightingthrough peak hour Melbourne traffic for half an hour, we’re now seated at a Greek restaurant in Oakleigh, staring at our breakfast menus. Well, the boys are staring at their menus while I can’t stop staring at the boys. They’re wearing glasses. As soon as the menus were set down in front of us and we’d placed our coffee orders with the waitress, they’d both pulled out a pair of readers from their inside pockets and put them on.
Sam’s are round and oversized with black frames. Frankie’s are equally oversized, but rectangular in shape with chunky frames, and fuck me, if I wasn’t fantasising about riding both their faces at once earlier, I’m now doing it wondering how they can keep their glasses on while it happens.
“Whaddya fancy, Mils?” Sam asks as he looks up at me.
“You,” I confess with zero fucks given. “And you.” I nod towards Frankie, who has now looked up to meet my probably lust-filled gaze. “Both of you. I want you to make the tops of my legs sore with that stubble on your jaws, but you’ve got to keep the glasses on while you do it.”
Sam bites down on his bottom lip. Frankie gives me a sideways smile before turning to Sam and nodding.
“You’re right. What you said earlier? You’re right.”
I open my mouth to ask what he’s talking about, but Sam gets there first.
“Told ya. She’s a little witch.”
My mouth drops open. I’m not sure if I’m insulted or I like the idea.
“A sexy little witch, who has both of us under her spell,” Sam continues, and I decide I definitely like it.
“Mila the Sexy Witch,” Frankie states.
I grin.
“Made up your mind?” our waitress asks as she returns.
“Oh, I know what I’m having,” Frankie says.
“My mind’s definitely made up,” Sam adds with a wink.
“I’m ready,” I tell them both, then order an omelette because I couldn’t see straight or focus enough to look at the menu.
After filling our bellies,we’re all enjoying our second coffee when Frankie’s phone vibrates from where he has it set down on the table. The name ‘Bella’ lights up the screen.
“Excuse me, I need to get this,” Frankie says before he stands and answers the call. “Morning, Bells. Hope I didn’t wake you with my message earlier,” I hear him say before exiting the restaurant. I feel Sam’s eyes on me and meet his gaze from across my cup.
“You wanna tell me about the meltdown you had while on the phone to Frankie earlier?” he asks.
“Not really,” I tell him honestly. “But I don’t suppose that’s an option, is it?”
“We can leave it if you really don’t wanna talk about it.” He shrugs.
“Is that why you’re here? Did he get straight on the phone and say…”—I make my voice deep and give my best Frankie impersonation—“fuck me, she’s lost the plot, and I can’t deal with this shit on my own.” I sip my coffee, put down my cup, and slouch back in my seat like a petulant teenager because I’m both paranoid and pissed off that the pair of them have been talking about me.
Sam says nothing, though, so I continue.
“And now you’re here, giving sexy psychologist vibes in your glasses, trying to get to the bottom of my latest emotional outburst?”
“This one right now, or the one you had earlier?”
“Fuck off.”
“Grow up.”
My brows shoot up my forehead because he’s just called me out and I like it.
I’ve been married for years but have never had this kind of interaction with my husband. He dishes out his orders, his rules, and like a Stepford wife, feeling hollow inside, I just follow. But this back and forth, the banter, and the fact they show interest in me, my thoughts, feelings, and emotions makes me feel alive.
“I’m sorry,” I say on a sigh. “I’m not used to anyone giving a fuck. I need to learn to regulate my emotions when I’m talking about them and not throw thirteen-year-old girl type tanties.”
“Throw what you like, we’re here for it. Just an FYI, though, he called after he spoke to you because he was worried.” He pauses, drains his cup, sets it down, then leans back into his seat with much more grace than I did. “And you need to get used to us giving a fuck and asking how you’re travelling, because we’re gonna check in and we’re gonna ask, probably to the point of annoying you,” he says with a shrug. “So, you gonna tell me?”
“Logan called this morning. It’s the first time he’s called since dropping me off on Monday.” I watch as Sam shakes his head while raking his top teeth over the corner of his bottom lip. “He told me he was in Queensland and wouldn’t be able to make it back for my appointment at the fracture clinic this arvo. He asked if I could get myself there.”
“He’s a piece of fucking work.”
“Then,” I add on a sigh, “he said he’d try and make it back for the weekend, because, ya know, he wants to try and stick his dirty dick in me and implant his devil’s spawn. I told him I was on my period, it was heavy, and I was having cramps, yada yada. So he said he wouldn’t bother.”
“He’s not in Queensland.”
“What?”
“He’s not in Queensland. Frankie has an entire team watching him. He’s mostly been in Albury with the side piece.”
I know I have absolutely no right to feel any type of way, but I do, and as usual, something sharp stabs at my heart. “Alice?”
“Yeah.”
I’m not jealous. Alice is more than welcome to him. It’s the fact he lied. I know, pot, kettle, and all of that, but it’s the fact he has no idea about my extra material activities and that I’m no longer the dutiful little wifey he always assumed he’d moulded me into. As far as he’s concerned, I’m tucked up in our apartment with a broken wrist that he stood by and watched his own father do. I’m all alone, and he can’t even be bothered to take me to my hospital appointment. Plus, the fact that he left me alone overnight, after the hospital told him not to, with a concussion. He obviously feels absolutely nothing but contempt for me, and I’m now more determined than ever to escape my marriage and face whatever consequences might come my way when I tell him I’m leaving him.
“What are you thinking?” Sam’s question brings me back to the room.
“I don’t want to wait for whatever it is Frankie has planned. I don’t want to go back to him. I want out now.”
Sam nods slowly. “Let’s do that, then. It’s what I’ve wanted since I saw what they’d done to you on Monday.”
“But what do I do? Where do I go?”
“Mils, not this again,” he says on a frustrated sigh. “We’ve got you. Let’s work it all out over the weekend, and then we’ll get you sat down with one of our legal team. We’ll get your mum moved to a different facility, and you can stay with me, with Frankie. We can get you your own place in the city if that’s what you prefer. You can go to mine down on the peninsula, or we have a couple of places up in Queensland. We’ll find you somewhere, and we’ll keep you safe.”
“It’s been a week. You’ve only known me?—”
“Believe me, I’m well aware. We’re both very aware of how quick this is all moving, but you know what?”
I know it’s probably a rhetorical question, but I ask anyway. “What?”
“If you’re feeling what we are, chances are, the three of us can’t be wrong, so let’s just go with it and see where it takes us.”
My heart feels like it’s stopped beating inside my chest and has started to try and punch its way out. I’m not sure if it’s nerves or excitement at what the future might hold for the three of us.
I nod. My stomach now feels like it’s got its own heartbeat that’s totally out of sync with my real heartbeat as the caffeine from my second coffee hits and accelerates my nerves and excitement.
“Right, you two ready?” Frankie asks, and I’m so lost inside my own head I physically jump.
“Where we going?” I ask, when what I really want to know is who Bella is.
“If I tell ya, I’ll have to kill ya, Mils, and no one wants that.”
Sam and I make eye contact and smile at Frankie’s unusually jokey demeanour.
“What were you doing out there? Meeting with your dealer and getting your fix of happy pills?” Sam asks.
“Fuck you. Just move your arses,” is his only reply.
We pullinto the valet parking area of Chadstone Shopping Mall less that fifteen minutes later, where we’re met by the beautiful Bella—one of the self-proclaimed ‘Fashion Capitals’ personal shoppers.
While the boys take themselves off, I’m escorted to a hair salon, where I experience a wash, treatment, and the best scalp, neck, and shoulder massage of my life, before my hair is blow dried into big, bouncy waves. Just getting my hair done has brightened my day considerably, but it’s made even better when I’m taken to David Jones to get my makeup professionally applied, and I’m loaded up with samples.
That’s when the boys reappear, both of them carrying bags from Armani.
“Look at you,” Frankie says as his eyes roam over my face and hair.
Sam gives a whistle, shakes his head, then winks. “Gorgeous, Mils. With or without the hair and makeup, you’re always fucking gorgeous.”
Warmth spreads through me, and I can’t hide my smile.
We spendthe next couple of hours wandering from shop to shop, where the very efficient Bella has multiple outfits waiting for me to try on. I try on everything from trackies to evening wear, and because of my fresh hair and makeup, and the compliments I get from the boys, I feel like a million dollars in all of it. Despite my protests, everything I say I like, either Sam or Frankie order that it’s purchased immediately with the cost deducted from their account.
I have a wardrobe full of designer clothes back in Yira. Looking good at all times is one of Logan’s many rules, but one of the very few I’ve always been happy to follow. Today, though, having this experience when I was feeling so down, and the fact it was arranged especially to pick me up, as well as the boys having taken time out of their busy schedules to accompany me has my overthinking brain going off on all kinds of tangents.
And one of them is the imposter syndrome tangent I often circle back to. I wasn’t born into this kind of lifestyle, but with coercion, some lies, and manipulation, I’m now living it. That little voice inside my head is always there, and every now and then it whispers, ‘you’re not worthy, you little mongrel.’
When I’m standing on a tailor’s riser, having a full-length, black beaded evening dress that I have no idea when I’ll ever wear, pinned at the hem, it hits me that I’m having a Pretty Woman experience, and my stomach drops, because as much as they tried to glamourise it in the movie, Vivian was a prostitute. That’s when that same little voice reminds me that really, that’s exactly what I am.
I whored myself out to my husband for a better life. Now he’s done with me, I’m basically whoring myself out to the two men waiting outside the alterations room, so they’ll rescue me from whatever fate belies me next.
Looking up from where the seamstress is on her knees in front of me, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and wonder if she knows. If all of the staff at this French-sounding shop in a Melbourne suburb know or think they know what I am to Frankie and Sam. Does Bella know? Has she helped them do this for their other women in the past?
I despise these intrusive thoughts. When I’m alone with the boys, I’m bold and brave, but right now, maybe because it feels like it’s about money and buying me things I once could only dream of affording, imposter syndrome creeps in. Cold and uninvited, it invades my thoughts. Most times, I can ignore it. Sometimes, though, like right now, it’s a struggle, and I hate, hate with a passion how it’s ruining this experience for me.
My nose tingles, my jaw clenches, and I feel too warm, but eventually, I manage to swallow down my emotions and focus instead on how beautiful the dress is. Composing myself, I draw in a breath and take in all of the intricate details that have gone into the design.
The top half is made of black velvet. The shoulders are fairly wide, and the neckline of the bodice plunges all the way down to the waist, making it look like it’s made from two separate halves of material. The skirt is completely sheer, made up of black beads sewn onto a delicately meshed fabric. Beneath it is a straight, slightly less sheer, dove grey under skirt. It’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.
Bella appears with a pair of dove grey, ankle strap, suede heels. With the dress pinned and the shoes on, I step out from behind the curtain to face Frankie and Sam, who are both on their phones. I stand silently and watch them, and it’s only when Bella moves out from behind me that they look up.
Frankie stands, then sits down.
“Mils,” Sam whispers, but it’s a loud whisper—one we all hear. One that I feel right down to the marrow of my bones.
“Don’t make me cry,” I blurt. “You’ll ruin my makeup.”
“You look stunning, Mils. Fucking beautiful,” Frankie, again standing up, says.
“I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything so beautiful,” I admit, spreading my palms over the delicate fabric of the skirt and looking down at myself.
“I don’t think anything has ever looked more beautiful,” Sam adds.
“I just asked that you don’t make me cry.” I tilt my head to the side, smiling. “I don’t know when or where I’m ever going to wear it.”
“Wear it when you serve Logan with divorce papers next week,” Sam suggests.
“Next week?” Frankie questions, the smile he was wearing now replaced by a frown.
“Change of plan. We’ll tell you later,” Sam says.
“It was just me having another one of my moments while you were on the phone earlier. We can wait and do it your way if that’s what?—”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Frankie interrupts.
Great, now he’s cracked the shits. I glare at Sam, who shrugs.
“Right, we need to get a wriggle on. I have an appointment at three-thirty, remember?”
“Another change of plan,” Sam says. “I got you an appointment at a private hospital here in Melbourne. We’ll go straight there from here. It’s only twenty minutes away.”
I look between them. “Do you two not have real jobs? Is organising my life now all that you do?”
“We haven’t been sitting out here scrolling through TikToks, Mils. While you’ve been getting…”
“The Pretty Woman treatment?” I shouldn’t have said it, but I did because I’m destructive like that.
Frankie’s eye twitches. Sam’s jaw ticks.
“What the fuck?” Frankie hisses.
“Is that really what you think?” Sam asks quietly, and I feel awful.
Bella and Martine, the seamstress, disappear, leaving me standing in front of the boys, hip cocked, arms folded across my chest in a typically defensive Mila pose.
“Is that really what you think this is?” Sam asks.
“No, not really, but it has crossed my mind.”
“I just wanted to do something nice. You sounded so fucking miserable this morning,” Frankie tells me.
I feel awful. Absolutely fucking awful.
“Yeah, that self-regulating before you speak definitely needs some work, Mils,” Sam adds.
“I know, I’m aware.” I close my eyes. “Today has been amazing—perfect. I can’t thank you enough. Please forgive me. My thoughts just runaway with me, then spill out of my mouth. Is that self-sabotage? Is it because I think I don’t deserve any of this, so I try and ruin it? I don’t know, but I’m truly sorry for what I said.”
“What are we gonna do with you?” Frankie asks. Shaking his head, he steps forward and takes my hand. “Show us the back.”
With my hand in his, I twirl around and show them the backless feature of the dress. From my waist to my shoulders is bare, while just three rows of beads matching those in the skirt drape from one side to the other.
“All these new clothes and nowhere to go,” I state, wanting to move on from my earlier crass comment and lighten the mood. “I want to get dressed up and go dancing.”
“Mood swing much? You just did a complete one-eighty there, Mils,” Sam says with a headshake.
“Dude, get fucking used to it,” I reply.
“We’ve got an old school disco night at the club tonight. You can dance there if you want,” Frankie suggests.
Sam’s entire body jolts like he’s been struck, and his brows pull down into a frown.
“I’m not so sure that’s…” His eyes come to me. “You up for that? You wanna come to the club tonight?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I told you I want to go.”
His eyes slice to Frankie, then back to me. “Fine, we should probably show our faces anyway. But if that’s where we’re going tonight, we need to make another stop and get you something else to wear. None of this will do.”
After my appointmentat the fracture clinic, where I’m re-X-rayed, given some exercises to do, and told everything is healing well, we end up down a side street in Saint Kilda at a tiny little store selling all kinds of club wear: leather outfits, bondage stuff, whips, chains, and crotchless, nipple-less get ups.
I don’t want to flash my bits in public, but I also don’t want to look out of place, so I let the boys guide me. They choose a black leather dress. It has a high neck, but a slash across the chest exposes my cleavage and the top half of my breasts. The sleeves are cut racer style at both the front and back, and the bottom half is made up of two panels, leaving the sides of my legs, hips, and most of my arse cheeks completely exposed, so I opt for a black leather thong to wear underneath, just to feel a little less exposed. We pair this with over the knee, spike-heeled, black leather boots, and long gloves to hide the cast on my lower arm. Deciding I want to remain incognito—at least right now, I think I do—I choose an elaborate mask. It’s made up of black beads that rest on my head like a crown. A row of beads sit on my forehead between my eyes, and rows of black rhinestone tassels drop down like a veil, leaving just my eyes exposed. It’s stunning.
By the time we get back to Frankie’s, I’m exhausted, but also buzzing with nervous excitement. All of our purchases from the day have been delivered and are waiting in my bedroom when I walk in.
Frankie’s building is a lot more upmarket than mine. It’s mostly residential, with owner occupiers living here. He has a full-time concierge and security, whereas our building is mostly rented, short stay apartments, or owners who only visit occasionally. There’s a key code to get in the front doors, a swipe card for the lifts, and a number to call if you have any problems. No concierge, no security.
We dropped Sam at home, but he’ll be here later so we can all go to the club together. Being careful not to get my hair wet or ruin my makeup, I take a very quick shower, then head down to the kitchen in my robe to find some food. I find Frankie there pouring himself a drink.
“You want something?” he asks.
“Yes, please, but I was actually looking for some food.”
“We’ll eat at the club. It won’t get busy till much later, so we’ve got plenty of time.”
“You have a restaurant in the club?”
“We have a couple. There’s casual dining at Virtue, and something a little more decadent at Vice. They’re both fantastic. Some clients only come to eat, maybe dance in the main club, and never take part in anything else we have to offer, which is fine. There’s no pressure to do anything you don’t want to at our place.”
He pulls a bag of veggie chips from a cupboard, and a dip from the fridge. He empties the chips into a bowl and takes the lid off the hummus. Sliding them both towards me, he then proceeds to pull a bottle of Prosecco from a built-in chiller drawer under the stone benchtop. I remain silent for a moment as I digest what he’s just said, along with the chips I’m shoving into my mouth. According to my watch, I did over twelve thousand steps at the mall today. I haven’t eaten since my omelette, and I’m now ravenous.
“What’s it called?” I ask as he slides my drink towards me. I know what his club’s called because I Googled it. Then I panic because I think I might’ve told him last weekend that I Googled it. “I love these glasses,” I add as a distraction when I pick up the matte black, stemless flute.
“Thanks, Vizio.”
“Vizio? What’s it mean?”
“Vice in Italian.”
“Ah, it’s good. Not sleazy. I like it.”
“Glad you approve. I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but our club is high end. There’s nothing sleazy about it. Our members are screened. No guests unless we’re given at least a week’s notice and we’ve had time to screen them. All personal belongings are left in your locker, which is key coded, so no need to carry a key. No phones, no smart watches. Every person in the club is issued with their own unique smart band. It’s encrypted with their membership details, their payment details, which means we can track where they’ve been in the club, what they eat, how much they’ve drunk. We have strict rules on alcohol and can cut anybody off at any time. We also have a zero-drug policy.”
“But you said… The stuff you gave me last week?”
“That’s a client—a club member who supplies me and Sam for personal use. He’s a homeopath. We like a little something every now and then but can’t run the risk of ever getting caught with anything in our possession or in our system. It could mean we lose our licence. Our friend creates plant-based substances that leave the system within hours, and they’re not something you could ever be arrested for if you were found to have them in your system.”
I listen intently, amazed at the minute detail that goes into life as a successful sex club owner.
“But as for what happens at the club, there’s zero tolerance. Obviously we can’t stop clients doing whatever they do before entering our premises, but our security is strict, and our staff know what to look out for if we think someone might be under the influence of anything more than a few drinks.”
“Wow, that’s…”
“A lot. People come to us because our club’s clean, it’s safe, it’s exclusive, it’s discreet, and we offer a multitude of experiences. Like I said, our clients can just dine and dance, or they can take part in the most erotic or debauched experience of their life. Whatever they choose, they’ll be safe, which, nowadays, with so many shady operators out there, is probably the highest on their list of priorities.”
“Has it made you rich?” I question, feeling brave after the Prosecco hits my empty belly hard.
“Very. We’ve used our wealth wisely and invested as silent partners in similar setups to ours around the world. We have an extensive property portfolio, we’ve invested heavily in medicinal cannabis within Australia, as well as other natural remedy companies.”
He pauses, rolls his lips together, and I’m not sure if he’s thinking about what else they’ve done with their wealth, or…
“Something else—something new we started this year,” he continues, “is like an OnlyFans type of experience for our members. So, for those who can’t make it to the club, we have a room where our clients know they’re being filmed, and footage from that one particular room is streamed to the service. It’s an extra on top of a standard membership, which has proved highly lucrative.”
“So, like live porn?” My vagina reacts to my own question.
“Yeah. The room we stream from has an ‘as long as it’s consensual, and safe, anything goes’ rule. Viewers have no idea what they might be getting. It could be vanilla, an orgy, blood play, they don’t know.”
“Wow. How much is membership?”
“Twenty-five thousand a year. Forty for couples.”
“Twenty-five grand? Does Logan pay that?”
“Yep. No discounts. Not even for friends and family.” He tops my glass up.
“I don’t have twenty-five grand,” I admit.
“You’re not a friend or family.” He pauses with the bottle still in his hand.
“What am I?”
“More. Exactly what kind of more, we need to sit down this weekend and work out.”
“We? The three of us?” My cheeks burn, and I don’t know why. We’re a threesome, a thruple, whatever the fuck you want to call us. There are three of us involved, but talking about it has me blushing. Thankfully, the overhead lighting is off, and the under-cabinet lighting on, so hopefully, Frankie doesn’t notice.
“Yeah, but I’m not discussing it now. We’ll wait till Sam’s here, none of us have had a drink, and then we’ll talk. That reminds me, what was he on about earlier when he mentioned you serving Logan with divorce papers next week?”
I let out a loud huff, and I swear my eye twitches. “You know what, I don’t want to talk about it. When we discuss us, we’ll discuss him, because right now, I don’t want him ruining my perfect day and the beautiful buzz I have going on.”
“Fair enough. You wanna go get dressed? Sammie will be back soon.”
I empty my glass and slide it forward for a top up. He raises his brows as he looks from me to my empty glass. “Oh, come on. I’ll be sober by the time I get to your precious club. I won’t breach any of your rules, I promise.”
He tops me up, and I step off the stool, hoping I don’t look as drunk as I feel as I head for my bedroom. When I reach the entry to the hallway, I turn back and look at him.
“Thanks for today. No one has ever done anything like that for me. You made me feel really special.”
Holding his glass in front of his handsome face, he stares at me for a long moment. “You are special, Mila. You just need to realise that.”
I don’t have a response, so, while holding back more tears—this time, the happy kind—I head up the hallway, up the stairs, and to my room.