Page 1 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

Chapter One

Jackson

My mood is so sour I can almost taste it. The red lights across the street flicker on, and The Red Bastille’s sign glows. There’s already a growing crowd lining up on the pavement, waiting to go in, both men and women alike. The Red Bastille is a gentleman’s club with an upper-class feel. It might be targeted at men, but that doesn’t stop the ladies tagging along, just as keen to drink, enjoy the music, watch the dancers perform, or experience their first threesome or orgy.

Fucking Sebastian. I wish there was a way to send that little shit out of business. He’s such a fucking pretty boy. With a lithe build, colorful ink over every free inch of skin, and straight black hair cut at that annoying length where the prick is forever flipping it out of his eyes, giving him that dramatic, Emo flair. The women love him. He’s as suave and smooth as silk. Just the right amount of predator and debonair ladies’ man to come across as powerful, but not brutish.

Sebastian Crenshaw. My fucking rival. I should be content. The Dungeon—my gentleman’s club—has its own breed of clientele. Here, we don’t serve cocktails or have glittering disco balls. The Dungeon is all about BDSM. Like me, most of my paying customers are muscular, heavily tattooed in monochromatic designs, and are affiliated with drug cartels and outlaw MC clubs.

The Dungeon is all about leather, black lace, and every dark and fucked-up kink imaginable. Whether it’s leading bitches around on leashes, spanking or flogging asses red, fucking publicly, or enjoying any one of the playrooms on offer. If someone wants it, The Dungeon will happily oblige almost any level of deviancy and debauchery—including breath and edge play. We always have a handful of fully qualified medical staff on premises, just to be safe, because kinks are fun, but ultimately, we want everyone getting home in one piece and still breathing.

The music thrums through my club, and I pour myself a shot of bourbon. I have three staff behind the bar tonight, but I like to make an appearance, and hanging out behind the bar gives me the opportunity to meet customers directly, as well as keep an eye on things. After all, this club is my life. It’s my job to take care of it. I have security, of course, but The Dungeon is my baby.

Slugging back my drink, I lean on the bar, staring out across the street. Sebastian shouldn’t bug me as much as he does. We have mostly different customer bases … but I guess his club has a broader intake than mine does, which means that little shit is practically rolling in cash. He gets the newly legal-aged teenyboppers, as well as the classier customers who enjoy the burlesque entertainment, not to mention the regular sex addicts who frequent any establishment they can.

The Dungeon caters to a very specific taste, and the only people who walk through my doors are those who know the dark and depraved pleasures the world of BDSM has to offer, or they’re interested in finding out. I’m proud to own the premiere BDSM club in the city, but Sebastian just gets on my nerves. Some nights he even saunters over here like he owns the place, flaunting his wealth, using his disarming smirk, and jet-black gaze like weapons of mass destruction.

Everything about him makes me want to grind my teeth and break him in two. His club might rake in more than mine, but I bet that little Emo prick couldn’t last one night in The Dungeon. He’d probably break! I muse. And then, like a bolt of lightning through my soul, a stomach-twisting realization hits me. Fuuuck. I’ve always known that I’m bisexual, at least since my late teens. But when it comes to men, I’m very, very particular. I’ll fuck any hot, vivacious Goth chick with a bit of attitude. Men, however, are an entirely different story. For me, it must be about more than just sex. When I’m with a man it’s about connection and compatibility in the way we complement each other as partners.

I’m attracted to my bloody enemy. God-fucking-damnit. My red-light rival knows just how to push my buttons in all the right ways. I pour myself another drink and slam it down, enjoying the fiery burn as it slides down my throat. How did I miss this for so long? We’ve both been in business for the better part of five years, and though we’ve had our mouthy run-ins, I’ve never thought of Sebastian as anything other than an arrogant little shit. But now? Fuck me. The tension, the fire between us, the rivalry … it’s like all the dots are finally connected and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m into him.

Well, this sucks. You never mix business with pleasure. It always ends in disaster. That’s Business 101. And even if I did want to get to know Sebastian more personally before burying myself balls-deep in his hairless ass, who’s to say he’d even be interested in me? I’m six foot four, I work out, have wavy, shoulder-length bleach-blond hair with dark roots, and live in leather. Spikes, handcuffs, and belts are my regular accessories. The owner of The Red Bastille, meanwhile, spends his life in suits, tight-fighting pants, and turtlenecks.

Maybe we’re too different? I wonder. I look like a fucking biker, and he looks like he could be the next 007. What if he likes—I cut myself off mid-thought. I’m not going to get myself caught up in knots over this guy, no matter how beautiful he looks in my mind bent over a cage as I eat out his ass. He hasn’t made a move in all this time, so why should I?

He obviously has his priorities sorted with The Red Bastille, and I should focus on mine—The Dungeon. That’s not to say I can’t have my fantasies… Abandoning my tumbler in the sink behind the bar, I take my leave and head for my private office on the second floor. I have a mind to beat one out before things really start picking up in the club. So, whether that pretty little shit would like it or not, for the next five minutes, he’s going to be my fantasy bitch.

Chapter Two

Sebastian

The night is ramping up and The Red Bastille is a hive of music, pageantry, liquor, and sex. My club offers something a little more refined than most. With burlesque and stripper shows, live music, and private themed rooms, it attracts people from all walks of life. You’re as likely to see an elderly couple come in for the burlesque, as you are a new sex-mad couple keen to explore their limits. It creates a uniquely appealing environment—one where everyone feels safe to enjoy themselves.

Twirling my cane, I saunter through the crowd, dipping my hat, and laughing along to the same old jokes. My scene might be a little more punk and metal, truth be told, but I’m a businessman, and I run The Red Bastille for the people and for profit. Though I’d never admit it, I’d much rather visit a club like the one across the road—The Dungeon.

The owner is my rival in a manner of speaking, but it’s all a charade. All for fun. Jackson Maguire is a great big beast of a man. Heavily inked, with the body of a fucking gladiator, shoulder-length permanently scruffy beach-blond hair, and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen… I enjoy raising his ire. He’s damn sexy when he’s worked up and all that animalistic growliness comes out to play.

I consider myself an alpha male, but of a different breed than the glorious god that is Jackson. Where he’s muscle and brute power, I’m suave and manipulative. Some would define me as a Switch, which is perhaps even more accurate. I always get what I want, even if it means submission. Even to the point where the other party involved thinks it was their idea all along.

The power play is what I enjoy most. The back and forth, the tension, the flexing of wit. I just wish The Dungeon master could see how interested I actually am. What I wouldn’t give to be ridden by that beast. To feel him pummel my prostate into oblivion would be the greatest of sins and wickedest of pleasures. I’m not ashamed to like what I do. Man or woman, ultimately it doesn’t matter. Humanity was made for loving, and I’ll enjoy whomever I want, whenever I want.

Taking a colorful cocktail from a waitress’s silver platter as she walks by, I slam it down, replacing the empty glass on the bar. Perhaps I should pay The Dungeon a visit? I wonder, with a sly grin. While I like to make an appearance at my own club, my presence isn’t required. I have a hierarchy of management that always has everything under control. From replacing the urinal cakes in the bathrooms, to stocking the bar, to paying the entertainers, to organizing physical security on premises, it’s all orchestrated to perfection. I just need to enjoy myself. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Sauntering out of The Red Bastille and into the cool night, I breathe in deep and sigh. This is going to be ridiculously entertaining. I can hardly wait! When the street is clear, I cross, blowing kisses and winking to all the ladies still waiting to get into my club as I go. I step up onto the pavement directly outside The Dungeon. There’s no line here, no crowd of eager and excited patrons looking forward to a night of drinks and entertainment.

No, very few people indeed even use the front door. It’s mostly for show. All the regulars and hard-core party people enter from the alleyway behind The Dungeon. It’s more private and has a dirtier and nastier appeal. But you know what? I’m me. I’m fucking fabulous and I have no shame. I’m going to stroll in these front doors and make a scene, because why the fuck not? I can’t wait to see the look on Jackson’s face. It’s going to be priceless.

Cane in hand, I push the doors inward like I own the place. A deep, throbbing base washes over me, as a sensual and erotic wordless vocal melody sends a shiver through me. “Love it. Love the vibe,” I say to myself. As I drink in the dark beauty of Jackson’s establishment, I smirk. This is definitely me. Flicking my hair from my eyes, I casually take the stairs down to the bar and slide onto a stool.

“What can I get for you, Mr. Crenshaw?” asks one of the bar staff.

“How about something tall, tattooed, and with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen?” I answer.

The young woman bites her lip and her eyes sparkle. “Mr. Maguire is in his office,” she answers. “Would you like me to see if he’ll come down?”

I wink. “No, thank you, doll. I think I’ll surprise him,” I say rising from the stool.

“Ah, we’re supposed to let him know if he has visitors,” she calls after me, a little look of panic on her features.

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