Page 7 of The Devil’s Lair

“Oh, and Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“My phone must be somewhere in the club. Can you find it, then swing by the hospital when you get five. Think I’m in here for a bit of a stretch.”

“Sure thing. I’ll head over there soon as. FYI, the place is crawling with SOCOs.”

I blow out a breath. It’s unsurprising that scenes of crime officers are in attendance, but I could do without the drama. “Brilliant.”

“In other shitty news, about half a dozen journalists are loitering outside the front entrance like a bunch of jerks who don’t take the hint that it’s closing time.”

This day just keeps getting better and better. Ever since I opened The Lair, I’ve kept the club and my involvement in it out of the spotlight. Now, I’m in the full blinding gaze of the media, and I have a sinking feeling it won’t end positively. The fourth son of Charles De Vil owning and frequenting a sex club will go down about as well as a spit-roast pig at a vegan restaurant.

“And the kicks to my fucking nuts just keep on coming.”

“Chill. It’ll blow over. These things always do.”

Not when you’re a De Vil they don’t. “I hope you’re right. Before you go, one last thing.”

“Shoot,” Frank says.

“Find out who invited that wife-beating, abusive piece of shit to my club and rescind their membership. No refunds. They can fuck off.”

He wasn’t a member. I’d never seen him before, and I have a bloody good memory for faces. That means he gained entry on a guest pass. All members get two guest passes comped each month.

One of them is about to discover their actions have consequences.

“Leave it with me.”

The nurse reappears as I cut the call and holds out her hand for her phone. I reluctantly give it back to her. If Frank can’t find Rebecca, I’ll call the Commissioner at the Met, and he’ll tell me where she is.

I close my eyes, but every time I do, Rebecca’s face appears, and responsibility presses down on me. My club is a place of fun, of excitement, of a way to safely explore our individual sexuality. Yet somehow, an abuser slipped through the net.

A too-damn-loud clock on the wall reads ten fifteen. It’ll be hours before Frank arrives with my only contact to the outside world. If I wasn’t so shattered, I’d crawl out of this bed and fetch the damn thing myself. I hate feeling helpless.

I must drift off at some point, because when I next open my eyes it’s after one, and I need to pee. There’s a door off my hospital room I presume is a bathroom. Gingerly, I peel back the covers, careful not to disturb the cannula in my arm. The hospital gown gapes at the back. I swear the entire medical community has colluded on this as a way of entertaining themselves in what, frankly, must be a depressing fucking job most of the time. Fortunately, no one is here to witness my bare arse peeking through the gap in the material.

Gripping onto the pole, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. My knees wobble. I manage to keep upright and take a step⁠—

“Fuck!”

My shoulder jars as it hits the floor. I lie there, panting and cursing. This is a fucking joke. If that bastard wasn’t dead, I’d wait until I was fully recovered, then murder him with my bare hands.

The door flies open, and in rushes Florence. That’s unlikely to be her name, but I’m too fucking tired to come up with something a little less cliché.

“Mr. De Vil. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Thought the floor would be more comfortable than the bed.” I flash her a well-practiced grin to detract from flashing my arse.

“You have a buzzer for a reason.” She hooks her arm through mine and, in a move I’m guessing she’s performed a thousand times, plops me back onto the bed.

“Well, this isn’t emasculating at all.”

“You are recovering from surgery. Masculinity has nothing to do with it. What were you doing out of bed?”

“I need to pee.”

“I’ll fetch you a bedpan.”