Page 1 of Ryker

Chapter 1

Ryker

Watching people fuck each other’s brains out is boring. It didn’t use to be that way, but after five years of owning a sex club, I can honestly say not much gets me excited anymore.

The Monarch is known for quality service, exceptional experiences, and above all, supreme discretion.

Bottom line: I only cater to the elite.

Don’t kid yourself into thinking this line of work is all whipped cream covered tits and blowjobs. It’s hard work that never ends. I don’t get vacations. I don’t have a social life. Hell, I don’t even have time to sleep most nights.

No amount of money I make now can relieve the tension that’s been my constant companion for over a decade. While most men my age are having fun with their friends, going on vacations, driving to their nine-to-fives with a little wifey to go home to later, I’m in the trenches of the sex industry, forever defending my territory, making sure my club stays top notch, and all members are safe and respectful when they’re within my walls.

This isn’t just a business. It’s a lifestyle. The Hell I’ve made sure to become king of. Between going over invoices, meeting with clients, and researching members to make sure they’re staying on the up and up, the Monarch has a reputation to uphold, and so do I.

It’s not easy to get into my club. It’s even harder to remain in it.

I demand respect and the only way to ensure it is to make everyone obey my motherfucking rules.

One fuck up and I’ll blacklist you. That goes for what you do in my club… and out of it.

“Good evening, Mr. Hudson.”

“How are you tonight, Sophie?” I bring my employee’s hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles like a gentleman always should. Tonight, she’s wearing a black leather one-piece, stiletto thigh high boots, and a gas mask. Last night she was in a pink, furry bunny suit.

“I can’t believe you recognize me under this.” She pulls off her mask and laughs, but it’s a nervous one. Most of my employees are a little scared of me, which I prefer. It keeps them in check and makes them damn good at their jobs because most don’t have another place to go.

Sophie came to me during college, looking for a job. I gave her one cleaning the club, but that didn’t last. She was too curious. Too young. Too talented and quick to learn. Four years later, she’s one of my best entertainers. No one would guess this woman is a rocket scientist by day, and a Fem Domme at night.

“The Butterfly Ceremony is tomorrow night,” she says, like I need the reminder. “Do you want me to come in for it?”

I shake my head. “I thought you had tickets to see Phantom of the Opera.”

Sophie’s bottom lip juts out in a pout. “I tried to score tickets but missed them, so I’m totally open if you need extra bodies to rev the crowd up and make them hungrier.”

Reaching into the breast pocket of my suit, I pull out two tickets and hold them between my fingers. “Oh look. I just happen to have two box seats for the final showing.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh my god, Ryker!” Then she back tracks quickly. “I mean, Mr. Hudson.”

Good girl. Ryker is fine out of the club, but within these walls, I’m Mr. Hudson or Sir. Lifting a brow, I fan the tickets between my fingers. “Still want to work tomorrow night?”

Panic flits in her eyes because she’s not sure what the right answer should be. Sophie’s been pulling more than her weight here lately, and I’d rather she enjoy herself out in the wild than in here. “Have fun,” I say, kissing her cheek. “Bring a friend with you, okay?”

She does too much by herself and I’m worried about her.

“Thank you so much!” Sophie leaps to hug me and stops herself. Clearing her throat, she drops her head and says, “I appreciate this, Mr. Hudson.”

I know she does. “Get back to work.”

Sophie tugs her gas mask back on her face and heads in the opposite direction of me, but I don’t miss the way she fist-bumps the air as she scurries to the elevators. Okay, it’s time to get back to fucking work. Throwing my weight into the heavy double doors of my office, I storm in, ready for the night.

“Good evening, Mr. Hudson.” My best bodyguard, Dmitri, stands behind my desk with his hands clasped, and a four-thousand-dollar tailored suit stretched across his body.

“Who’s on the radar tonight?” I drop into my chair and start scanning the monitors.

Running a tight ship means that nothing, I mean nothing, gets past me and my men in this club. If you make one wrong move, you’re out. No second chances. When you have a room designed to suspend someone in the air with only their body modifications, you can’t afford fuck ups. Same for the bedrooms used for gang bangs and machinery.

“Everyone’s behaving. But it’s early.” It’s six o’clock, which means the Monarch only opened two hours ago. “I thought you had an appointment?”

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