The driver turns onto a dark street and I look around anxiously.
So, this doesn’t look like the beginning of a horror film.
“I have to go,” I say, “stay out of Uncle Bastard’s way and I’ll be there soon, I promise.”
“Okay…” she doesn’t sound confident about my assurances, “I love you.”
“I love you, too. We’ll be okay.”
The driver stops in front of a dark building. It’s an old, gothic-style stone six-story. I can’t see any sign of activity.
“Are you sure this is the place?” he asks doubtfully.
I’m not feeling entirely confident either, though I’ve re-read the message enough times to have the address memorized. “Yes,” I nod firmly. Pulling up the app, I added a huge tip. “If I message you, could you make my ride a priority? I’ll double your fare.”
He doesn’t look convinced about dropping me off here, which makes me forgive his awkward flirting banter earlier. “Aye. A’course. Good luck, then?”
I don’t like how he makes it sound like a question. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
The wind whips right through my coat and cashmere dress and I tighten my belt. “Summer in Glasgow. This is summer?” I mutter irritably, crossing the street. I understand cold, wet weather. I’m from Nova Scotia, for god’s sake! But the wind here cuts straight to the bone.
Just like the man I’m about to hire.
Chapter Two
In which we learn that there is no more annoying phrase than, “Don’t you know who I am?”
Lachlan…
“We’re running low on lube. And vodka. You have to stop inviting those Bratva arseholes here.”
Kenna’s standing in front of my desk, looking as irritated as she dares.
“You’re botherin’ me with something as feeble as lube?” I chuckle. “What are you really crabbitabout?”
“It’s Arseni Petrov. It’s hard enough to keep his men in line when they visit, but he’s a feckin’ tool and ya’ know it. He’s down in the Dungeon and his partner isn’t one of our usuals, the Monitor says she looks uncomfortable. He asked her if she wanted to stop the scene with Petrov and she said she was fine. And now that Bratva son of a bitch is whipping her like she’s a side of beef he’s trying to tenderize.”
“Check her contract and make sure she was good with impact play,” I say, standing up and stretching hard enough to hear my shoulders crack. “Feckin’ paperwork. Have the Dungeon Monitor keep an eye on them. If it gets bad, I’ll go down.”
There’s a muted grumble as she leaves. I can’t blame her.
It’s a prime piece of shite who’s running the Petrov Bratva and his men aren’t any better. They know they have to control their worst behavior here and yet still manage to shake up myclub every time they’re in town. This was Cormac’s feckin’ fault. As Chieftain of the MacTavish Clan, he should phase out our partnership with Petrov, we’re not benefiting much from this alliance, anyway. Not when I have to deal with these vodka-swilling feckheads every time they blow into town.
One side of my office is glass, heavily shaded facing the club, and with the view and multiple monitors from every level, it lets me keep an eye on the club without anyone seeing me.
Pity I don’t have a voyeur kink.
There’s a sexy blonde entering the main area on level three, where there’s already an orgy in full swing on the raised platform in the center. She’s trying not to stare at them and almost stumbles on one of the steps leading to the bar but rights herself hurriedly. Not a regular, then. Her mask covers the upper half of her face, and her silver-blonde hair glistens under the low lights, illuminating her and making her skin glow.
A silver mask means she’s here just to watch, but I still see man after man approach her, only to be sent away. She’s nursing her drink, tapping her fingernails on the polished mahogany bar.
The man who tries his luck next is wearing a red and black mask, which means he’s a Dom, and into all the hardcore shite, like blood play and golden showers. The blonde pulls back but he doesn’t have the life-preserving sense to leave her alone.
Cracking my knuckles, I’m in the lift heading down and across the main floor in less than a minute. My hand is on the back of his neck, slamming him face down onto the bar.
“The lady said no. Ya’ dinna leave her alone. Give me one good reason not to feck you up?”
His answer is muffled because his face is buried in the cocktail olives.
