Chapter 13
Callum
Dallas rises up, twisting the young Mrs. Dupuis around and fixing his hand back between her legs. He grips her hip in one hand, and we both watch her ass roll back and forth like a wave as she hooks a leg around the pole.
My ankle rests over the top of one knee as I lean back in the leather chair, watching him stare at her curves and her skin and her long fucking hair.
I don’t harden my jaw. I don’t glare. I don’t fidget or struggle to breathe. There’s nothing to indicate that everything in my chest feels like it’s on a hot grill or that the tip of a knife is sinking through one side of my throat to the other.
I know what he likes, and I know what he’s been doing the last four years.
I knew what to expect tonight, because if nothing else, he’d rub it in my face how beautiful he finds women and how good he is with them.
There’s no denying how good he is, period.
I blink, letting my eyes float over his body, the shirt just tight enough where it stretches around his shoulder blades as he gets her off.
The black tie and collar grip his neck, accentuating his Adam’s apple and jugular vein, his black hair still hugging the tips of his ears and his temples, because he won’t go out of his way for a better haircut.
Lowering my eyes to his ass, I quickly avert them again. He’s such a fucking dog, strutting around town, but that may be the one thing no one else has touched since me.
Picking up my phone off the table, I tap out a text to Officer Grady.
Dallas is in. One of his brothers will be close.
I’m surprised Macon let him come in here at all, knowing anything could happen. We could make him disappear right here and now.
Without a doubt, Iron or Trace is hidden somewhere on the golf course, alert and waiting.
Keeping an eye on all routes to the storehouse, Grady says.
I shoot him a thumbs-up.
He’ll keep an eye out for Dallas, too, and whichever brothers are outside to rescue him. It won’t be long.
In the meantime, I need to figure out how Macon is getting his money. If Dallas knows, he won’t be stupid enough to tell me, but he’ll get careless once he thinks he has complete control.
Mrs. Dupuis’s moans escalate, and when I lift my eyes, Dallas’s forehead rests on top of her scalp as her neck arches back with her orgasm. Remaining still, he lets her ride, staring down at her ass and breathing hard.
Micah and Jerome sit somewhere off to my left, and I feel their eyes, but in a moment, even they disappear from the room.
Everything does.
He did the same thing one summer, here in the Fox Hill locker room. He had finished tending the grounds with his brothers, and I’d finished a round of golf with Clay and my friends, and he’d snuck in after my shower to give me a hand job. His hand down my jeans, his forehead pressed to mine…
I’d been so pissed, but it didn’t take long to give into it and push the fear aside. I would’ve crawled on my hands and knees to him if he’d asked me. I was a stupid kid.
The woman cries, finally coming, and he kisses her head. Tugging her panties back up, he whispers something in her ear and then backs away.
Grabbing his coat, he walks over and tosses it on the chair across from me. An attendant approaches him with a tray of hot towels. He takes one, wiping off his hands, then his arm.
“Was it a breach of etiquette,” he asks me, “playing without my host?”
I watch him toss the cloth back onto the table, the attendant quickly clearing it away as he rolls his sleeve back down. The black fabric covers his thick forearms, and as he pulls on his jacket, I realize he almost looks like he fits in. He should have a watch on, though.
“That’s a nice suit,” I reply instead. “You look good in it.”
His gaze falters, and I rise, pulling down my vest. “First rule of actually belonging in this town,” I tell him, “anything you do is okay as long as you’re the one doing it.”
Nothing is a breach of etiquette for those who set the pace.
Caroline Coldwell strolls past, and he catches her eye.
She brushes her fingers down his arm. “You look good in clothes.”
Tossing a wink, she bites the straw of her cocktail and spins back around.
He pays her no mind, turning back to me, and I almost laugh. Fuck, he’s pathetic. Just gives it to anyone, doesn’t he?
I should’ve expected that we’d run into a few of his hookups in here.
Fixing his jacket, he jerks his chin to his right. “Jerome Watson,” he says. “Who’s the other one?”
We’re not here to have friendly conversations.
“I want to show you something,” I tell him.
Walking away, I lead him to a door, pushing it open for him.
He hesitates but walks through, and I follow, closing us in darkness again.
A long hallway stretches ahead, a few people standing at the two-way mirrors that line all of the alcoves on the other side of the wall. Holding out my hand, I invite him to go first.
Following his slow steps, I pass by Judson Stephens as he watches a woman on a table getting railed by one guy with another in her mouth. Their moans and grunts spill out of the speaker just below the mirror.
Davis Moretto jerks off in front of another mirror, his wife riding some guy’s face. I can’t see who.
Sliding my hands into my pockets, I whisper, “People who want to be watched play in these rooms.”
We brush past William Garcia. “His wife with his junior partner,” I murmur to Dallas, gesturing to the scene on the other side of the mirror.
Donovan East stands at the next one, and I take a quick glance. “His daughter’s best friend.”
She’s bent over the couch, her husband fucking her right in front of the mirror for anyone to watch them.
We slip behind Renee Stahlman, who’s watching Mr. Stahlman. “She doesn’t like to go down on her husband,” I explain to Dallas quietly. “So she lets him get it here.”
I’m sure this place suits his appetite, but I don’t like anyone in here enough to get turned on. Maybe I’d find it fun with new blood. Liv and Clay? Some of his brothers maybe?
Stopping at the final window, I see the curtains are closed, but we can hear them. I had caught sight of the shelves in the anteroom to see who was here tonight. Of course, she’s always here on a Friday when her husband is out of town.
Dallas approaches the glass, peering through the slit in the curtain as the most velvet Puerto Rican accent carries through the speaker.
“Oh, baby,” she groans.
I stand a few inches from Dallas, watching his face.
His mouth falls, his brow pinches, and he turns to me. “Fuck, is that…”
“Edward Cadena’s wife,” I say.
Not a man anyone wants to fuck with. My own father gives him a very wide berth. They live in Miami most of the time, but she likes the quiet here.
I spy through the curtains with Dallas. “Look closer.”
He moves his head, trying to get all angles.
Once he sees it, he quickly backs away. “Are they fucking insane?” he asks me.
This time, I laugh, because for once, I agree. His son from his first wife sits on the couch, Gabriela sucking his dick.
“And if they do it here,” I muse, “they’re doing it at home.”
Sometimes, it gets this fucked up in here, but it would be too taboo to do anywhere else. As if rules change once we walk through the doors.
I guarantee Edward Cadena doesn’t want his young wife sucking off his twenty-one-year-old son anywhere.
Dallas studies me. “Why are you showing me this?” he asks.
Backing away from the window, I straighten up. “It’s why you wanted in, I assume.” I tilt my head. “Some kind of leverage?”
Of course, Macon is too moral to tell Cadena about his son and his wife. Edward would kill her, and Macon knows that.
But I’m sure he can get some use out of the information.
“Should make my job so much harder,” I point out. “But I’m up for it.”
I’ll get the Bay.
Dallas falls silent, looking everywhere but at me as the wheels in his head turn.
Amusement rumbles in my chest. He has no fucking clue what to do now. He’s so used to choosing the direction and what happens next. He probably thinks I still want him.
“You don’t have to follow me around.” I inhale and start to leave. “Stay and play or be on your way. The car will take you home when you’re ready.”
I walk, hearing him breathe out a laugh. “You don’t want to play with me?”
I spin back around. “Are you kidding?” I walk backward. “Midnight is when it just gets going in here.”
And I see his chin lift as realization hits that he won’t even be around for the real fun.
—
Making my way back out to the club, I lock eyes with Mrs. Coldwell, who’s snaking a leg across her husband’s lap. She holds my gaze, a little smirk curling her lips as she slides a hand between his legs.
If I did her, my father would approve.
And he’d be jealous. I don’t think she’s said yes to many—or any—yet, but it certainly looks like she’s warming to the idea.
I already know about Dallas and his friends making the occasional house call, so I know she and her husband are having fun outside of the Wolfe Room.
It should be her. She’s beautiful, young, and probably clean. Whoever I screw in here, I’d prefer it be someone who hasn’t fucked my father, either.
It’s the watching that’s hard.
I swallow, my heart starting to race at even the thought of it. There are no completely private rooms here, and that’s really the point. A true network of bonds, powered by mutual trust.
I’ve seen so many people have sex. High school parties, frat parties. Shit, Milo could get it on at the post office, if he had to.
I’m not sure I can get into it with eyes on me.
Dallas doesn’t need privacy. As he just proved with Mrs. Dupuis.
He’s comfortable everywhere and with anyone, and nothing unnerves him.
Yet.
Sliding into the booth next to Micah Hearst, Jerome pushes a rocks glass at me.
“I hope you gave him some condoms,” he tells me. “I don’t care if he’s a Marymount teacher or not. He’s still fucking Swamp, and I don’t want their offspring popping up in sporadic affluent mansions as if we don’t know where the little bastards came from.”
I grin. “You’re still bitter about losing to Macon Jaeger.”