Chapter 6
Alec eased through Devil’s Pointe’s security gates just past midnight.
The jam of vehicles in the lot told him most of the membership was in attendance—or close to it.
If not for the reserved spots in front of the guesthouse, his company-issued Durango would’ve been parked on the street.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Saturday was the club’s busiest night, and things rarely wound down before two.
When he opened his door, a strong whiff of asphalt hit him. A closer look revealed no lines painted on the new blacktop, which explained the parking chaos—cars and SUVs angled every which way. Getting everyone out at the end of the night without a scratch or a ding would take a miracle.
Before heading to the main house, he took the stairs to the security office above the garage. Russell Elander, one of the new guys—quiet, around forty, ex-military like a lot of the others—sat at the desk, his eyes shifting between ten live feeds covering the property.
“Anything happening tonight?” Alec asked, letting out a long, tired breath as he dropped into the second chair.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Russ replied, still scanning the monitors.
Alec grunted. “It’ll liven up when everyone tries to leave. Have you seen the parking lot? It’s a nightmare.”
“Dev isn’t happy,” Russ said, tapping the main gate feed, the lot visible beyond it. “The paving contractor was supposed to finish the striping before tonight.”
“Someone’s going to have to direct traffic, or nobody moves.”
“Lucky for me, I’m on duty in here until the last member’s out.”
Alec’s stomach rumbled loudly. “Have the vultures picked the buffet clean? I’m starved.”
“You took a long side trip for grub. Didn’t you sign off the McKenzie case an hour ago?”
“Yeah, but I was told there was shrimp, meatballs, and those spicy Southwest egg rolls. I couldn’t face a protein shake at home after that.”
“You might snag a crumb or two, but you’d better hurry.” Russ nodded at the monitor on the far end. “The caterers are packing up as we speak. Before you go, can you spare thirty seconds for me to take a leak?”
He didn’t wait for an answer before he was out of his chair and striding down the short hall to the facilities.
“Sure,” Alec drawled. “After eight hours of surveillance where the highlight was the subject letting his dog out to piss, I’m fresh as a daisy.”
Tailing cheating spouses ranked as Alec’s second-least favorite part of the job.
His mandatory biweekly control-room shift at headquarters downtown was worse.
Between around-the-clock surveillance cases—sometimes two and three at a time—and running security at Devil’s Pointe two nights a week, everyone had to do their time at the monitors.
Some didn’t mind—Alec did. Staring at video feeds for hours was duller than watching paint dry.
When he returned to work after his head injury, he’d gotten his fill of it for four weeks straight.
“Yet here I am—again,” he grumbled. Sliding his chair over, he began scanning. Boring or not, it was the job, and what the clients paid for.
At least at the club, a few feeds offered some action.
Couples soaked in the hot tub and pool. Jesse had a sub strung up by her wrists from a tree out on the playground.
The other play areas were mostly quiet. He quickly scanned the perimeter cameras and saw the two guards making rounds.
Next, he homed in on the patio, where he’d much rather be, and the parking lot where the catering crew was loading their vans.
Amid the black-and-white uniformed staff, a slender figure with waist-length dark hair caught his eye. He sat forward, zooming in. With no moon and minimal lighting in the parking area—this was Dev’s private home, not a Publix, after all—he couldn’t make out her face.
His pulse kicked up. What were the odds Emily would show up at Devil’s Pointe, of all places?
Eight years living with a promise to Ethan had trained him not to let hope get ahead of the evidence.
Still, the possibility tightened his chest. If the universe was throwing him a bone, he wasn’t about to look the other way.
Russ took a helluva lot longer than thirty seconds. By the time the bathroom door reopened, Alec was already headed for the exit.
“You need to get that low flow checked, old man,” he called over his shoulder.
“Kiss my ass, Yarborough. I’ve got a few years on you, not a century,” Russ grumbled. “Nothing wrong with my plumbing that less coffee and fewer of these surveillance shifts won’t cure.”
Ah yes. Another less-than-enthusiastic fan of the command center in their ranks.
Alec was down the stairs and out into the lot in seconds—just in time to watch the last van clear the gate.
“Dammit,” he bit out as the taillights disappeared and the metal gates clanged shut. He lingered in the dark, telling himself it couldn’t be her. Finally, he headed toward the rear of the house.
On the sidewalk between the house and the maze, he ran into Lorenzo “Ren” Clement, their newest hire, recruited from the FBI out of Boston.
“Leaving so soon?” Alec asked. “The night is still young.”
“That may be, but the skip I just got a lead on doesn’t seem to care.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Tallahassee.”
Alec clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s better than the Everglades or Tim-buk-fucking-tu.”
“Truer words...”
Ren moved past him then stopped and turned back. “You should know. A sub named Ashlynn has been asking about you tonight. Seemed pretty intent on tracking you down.”
“Fucking hell,” Alec groaned, shoulders slumping with fatigue that had nothing to do with the long day of work.
He’d scened with her twice, weeks ago, promising nothing more than the flogging they’d negotiated. The first time had been satisfying, but the second was a mistake. Ever since, she’d expected more.
Ren gave him a quick chin lift. “Figured as much. Which is why I mentioned it.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Let me guess—she won’t take no for an answer?”
“She wants a dom of her own. That isn’t me. I made that clear on the front end.”
“Talk to Dev. I’m sure he can come up with someone. Maybe Rayland.”
“The attorney? He’s got a long-term sub.”
Ren shook his head and chuckled. “You need to get here more, my friend. I’m new but know the roster. Rayland’s sub moved out west months ago to be close to family. He wasn’t inclined to go with her, what with a law practice here.”
“Tough break.”
“Maybe Ashlynn would be better with an older dominant. From what I saw, she plays the brat when it suits her. If that fails, there are others.”
“Excellent suggestion. I’ll mention it to Dev.”
“Anytime. I’m just sorry I won’t be around for the taming. Good night.”
Alec watched until Ren disappeared into the darkness. Like Russ, he was a good hire. Dev had a good eye for people who fit at work and at the club.
He debated grabbing something from a drive-through on his way home or staying and possibly having to deal with the aforementioned brat. He chose the latter. If he couldn’t handle Ashlynn on his worst day, he didn’t deserve to call himself a dom.
Although, when he reached the patio and Ashlynn was nowhere in sight, he couldn’t deny being relieved.
The vultures had done a good job picking over the buffet, and the hot apps left with the caterers, but they’d put the leftovers on ice—sliced meats and cheeses, the requisite chicken salad croissants, and a few seafood roll-ups.
He filled a plate and grabbed a beer from the bar then collapsed onto a patio couch to commune with his kinky comrades.
Members often lingered after the play areas closed, especially on Saturday nights. Most were friends who enjoyed each other’s company in and out of the club.
As he wolfed down his food and sucked down his beer, not realizing how thirsty he was until the first swig, he listened to the surrounding chatter.
None of it was club-related, as one might expect.
He learned the Marlins had lost in twelve innings, heard about a member’s successful deep-sea fishing expedition, and tuned out two men locked in a political debate.
None of it interested him after a long-ass day—until the mention of mermaids caught his attention.
“I suggested dolphins, but they wanted half-naked mermaids, of all things.”
“Naked ice sculptures at a public event? You’re kidding, right?”
“No joke. The organizer asked for a nautical theme, which isn’t uncommon.
The guest of honor fancied himself the second coming of Jacques Cousteau—or some such nonsense—just because he owns a yacht.
Anyway, I made a perfectly lovely plan with anchors and navy stripes.
Cliché, sure, but tasteful. Then came the last-minute request for a champagne-spewing fish fountain and ice mermaids cavorting with sailors. ”
“What did you do?” one of her rapt listeners asked.
“I said no, of course. I have a reputation to maintain and draw the line at ice porn. He had to settle for frozen dolphins, a regular champagne fountain, blue-and-white striped cocktail napkins, and a mermaid cake with strategically placed clam shells.” She paused, and Alec imagined her rolling her eyes.
“I’ve done similar for a six-year-old girl’s birthday party.
You would’ve had to see it to believe it. ”
Alec had recently sampled mermaid cake and watched a frozen dolphin melt. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
“The things I do for rich eccentrics, but it pays the bills,” the speaker concluded, as he twisted in his seat to scan the couches behind him.
Regina Richmond—fifty-something, petite, silvery blonde in head-to-toe red leather—sat with two other mistresses, half-naked subs at their feet.