Page 95 of Princes of Carnage

I glance down at her, my brows drawing together. I haven’t heard of the place she’s referring to, but I assume it’s another sex club of some kind. I had no idea she’d frequented establishments like that, and for a split second, my focus is completely shot as I imagine her in a dark room, being fucked by a masked stranger. The image both pisses me off and turns me on, and I grit my teeth, forcing it out of my head.

“Come on,” I tell Quinn, putting my hand on her lower back again and leading her toward the bar. “Maybe the bartender will be able to tell us how we can get an audience with Vincent.”

This area of the club is more open than some of the previous sections we made our way through, and although tables and booths line the walls, the space is dominated by a stage in the middle of the floor. A group of people are gathered around it, looking on as a couple puts on a show.

There are several pieces of furniture arrayed on the stage, including a bed, a large x-shaped cross, and a wooden bench. The woman is bent over the bench, facing the thick of the audience while the man behind her plows into her, fucking her hard and fast. Her moans are loud over the low thrum of the music, and when I look closer, I can see that she’s got a collar around her neck that’s clipped to a ring on the bench she’s bent over.

Her moan turns into a throaty scream of pleasure as the man behind her gives her ass a hard slap. I can hear him spanking her a few more times as Quinn and I reach the bar, but I tune out the sounds of their fucking as I lift my chin to get the bartender’s attention.

He’s dressed in a suit, with slicked back hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and he sets a couple of drinks on a tray for one of the waitresses before he makes his way toward us.

“What can I get for you?” he asks.

“We need to speak to Vincent Locke,” I tell him, deciding there’s no point in beating around the bush.

The bartender’s eyes flick from me to one of the guards stationed at the perimeter of the room, and I get the sense that the average patron of this place doesn’t march in and demand an audience with the owner. He’s probably evaluating whether he needs to perceive us as threats or call for reinforcement.

“We have some business we need to discuss with him, that’s all,” I say, holding up a hand. “He’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

The bartender chuckles, clearly deciding we’re not an immediate threat. “You’re not the first person to tell me that, you know. But unfortunately, no one speaks to Mr. Locke without an invitation. Do you have one?”

Fuck. I shake my head as another patron edges up to the bar beside me, jostling me a little. “We had an invitation to the club, but beyond that… no.”

The bartender shrugs. “Then there’s your answer.”

“How would we get an invitation to speak to him?” I press.

He shrugs again, stepping away from me to deal with the newcomer who just arrived at the bar—a clear signal that this conversation is over.

Frustrated, I turn to Quinn to ask her what she thinks our next move should be. But when I glance to my right, my heart stops.

Quinn is gone.

What the fuck?

Protective panic rises in me on a surge of adrenaline, flooding my veins so fast that I’m practically vibrating. I don’t know what the fuck happened, or where she could’ve gone. She was right by my side when we approached the bar.

Quickly, I scan the room, searching for a hint of her teal colored hair. At first, I don’t see her, but then a cluster of people nearby move closer to the stage, and as the crowd parts, I catch sight of her.

Something loosens in my chest at that, but my sigh of relief dies in my throat when I realize she’s not alone.

She’s surrounded by three men, each of them nearly as big as I am.

30

QUINN

“So fucking pretty.”

One of the men who yanked me away from the bar leers at me from behind his mask, reaching out to toy with a lock of my hair. I slap his hand away, and he and his two friends just laugh.

My heart pounds hard in my chest, rattling my ribs with each heavy thud. The crowd is thickest close to the bar, and people were jostling against me as I stood beside Atlas, listening to him question the bartender. I got pushed away from him for a second, and the next thing I knew, three sets of hands were on me, three men looming around me.

“She’s a real spitfire, Caleb,” the tallest one warns. “Careful when you fuck her, she might bite.”

“Nah.” The man named Caleb licks his lips. “She knows better than to do something like that here, don’t you, honey? There are rules, and she knows better than to break them.”

“I’m sure she does.” The third man chuckles, a cruel sound. “But just in case she forgot, let’s give her a little reminder.”

---