“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.
Ten years in the lifestyle had taught Alec not to judge: hetero, same-sex, poly—attraction and kink were personal. Still, certain kinks—even after ten years—pushed at his comfort zone. Take Mistress Betty, who was using her sub as a footrest. Leaning forward, she set her glass between the man’s shoulder blades with a warning.
