As soon asI arrive at Club Empire, an attendant offers to take my coat. I gave in and wore the coat Rex gifted me. It’s long and warm. I decline to take it off, wanting the extra layer of armor.
“This way.” The attendant guides me to the top floor, to a private club area available only to platinum members. “I’ll let Mr. St. James know you’re here.”
The bar is empty except for a couple murmuring to each other in a far booth. I walk forward into a cloud of woodsy cologne. It smells like Rex in here. Maybe that’s just a scent they pump through the vents.
Or maybe it’s because he’s here frequently. He is part owner, after all.
Has he been here recently? Has he been scening with another submissive?
Jealousy hits me like razor blades in my bloodstream, shocking and painful. I’ve been assuming I’m the only one he’s scening with, but he is a member of a sex club, and we’re not in a relationship.
I assumed I was the only one he was stalking, too, but he has more than enough resources to surveil a small country. I could be one of many.
The thought makes me dig my nails into my palms. But I won’t get mad. I’ll get even.
I ease onto a barstool and tug down my hip-hugging leather skirt. “I’d like a glass of merlot,” I tell the bartender.
“Certainly.” She bobs her head, giving me a view of the snake tattoos winding around a bright red mohawk.
I have a thought and lean over the bar. “Wait. Can I put the purchase on my membership tab?”
The bartender looks surprised but covers it. “Of course. We don’t accept any other form of payment.”
“In that case, I’d like a glass of whiskey. Top shelf.”
She grins. “I have a twenty-four-year-old scotch, aged in white oak. Goes for about nine hundred dollars a bottle.”
“Perfect.” Rex can afford it.
I settle in with my drink to wait.
* * *
Rex
Ivan dropsme off at Empire, and I head straight for the upper rooms that hold the offices. “Where’s St. James?” I ask Henri.
“Downstairs. In a private room.”
I don’t have to ask which one. I know exactly what St. James is up to.
He’s in my favorite play room, the one I’ve used with Inara.
I burst in, breathing like a racehorse. St. James is standing with his back to the door. The room is empty of anyone but him. She’s not here. Yet.
St. James barely turns his head to acknowledge me. Typical power play. He’s got a drink in his hand, and he takes a sip. He knows I’m angry, and he’s showing he’s unconcerned.
I don’t greet him. I act as if he’s not here and walk over to the liquor cabinet. The bastard has helped himself to my whiskey, draining one of the bottles to the dregs.
I study the label. “This single malt has been in the Roy cellars for over twenty years, and you guzzled it like soda.”
“I had to mix it with soda, actually, to get it down.”
I set down the bottle with a thunk. “I’ve killed for less.”
“Is that why you rushed in here? To make sure I’m drinking your liquor properly?”
Even his voice grates on me. He grew up on the streets, but now he sounds like a cultured snob. Overcompensating. I avoid making fun of his origins. He can hold back his reactions about most things, but if someone trips his trigger, it’s like a nuclear bomb.
