Page 3 of Room One Hundred and Eleven

“What makes you think I’m a good fit for…whatever this is?” I tip my head.

“You need to relax. You’re chill with Riley and Melody, which means you know what we’re about—the kind of relationships we have—and you haven’t run away yet. You could use someone to make your life easier. Plus, you’re impulsive as fuck.” Gunner taps his pen against his lips. “Yes, you’re perfect.”

“Impulsive?”Should I be offended by that?

“Yeah. For sure. You took the role here without asking nearly enough questions.” Kane frowns. “Hell, I bet Fitch that an innocent girl like you would bail on your first shift.”

“I’m not a quitter.” I laugh. “Besides, I’m open-minded enough to see that no one is here against their will. They’re all getting plenty out of participating in theactivities. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Okay, it had been shocking at first.

Not exactly your ordinary workplace.

Moans flood the hallways, echo around the shared spaces, and seep out from beneath the doors to private rooms every night. It’s something that haunts what little shuteye I do manage to get between formal lessons in anatomy, which have nothing on the things I’ve learned in this job.

Everyone else seems to be able to tap into their passionate side.

Melody. Riley. My bosses. All the guests at the club…

Everyone but me.

I’ve never had any hands-on experience. It must be tattooed on my forehead or something.

“And anyway, how did you know I’m a virgin?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“I didn’t for sure, until you just confirmed it.” Kane’s grin is wicked. He looks to Gunner and nods once, dislodging a few strands of his onyx hair so they tumble over his forehead. “You’re right. She’s the one they want.”

Gunner sets the fancy pen on his opulent desk, handcrafted from exotic wood. The surface is polished so I can see his reflection as he slides an envelope from the long drawer that hovers above his lap.

It’s burgundy, larger than a postcard, and sealed with gold wax.

The circle is filled with two cursive letters: CS.

“What’s that?” Melody leans forward for a better look, but Gunner hands the beautiful stationery to me instead.

It’s thick and heavier than I expected as it lands in my palm. If I was dramatic, I might think the weight of destiny caused the distinct thud that ripples through my metacarpals.

I rub my thumbs over the fine paper. Black calligraphy swirls across the front side of the envelope. Beautiful and carefully scribed, it reads:Be Our Guest.

“Open it!” Riley is as eager as Mel.

“You’re sure?” I ask Gunner. The desire to rip it open wars with my unwillingness to ruin something so gorgeous and, okay, some apprehension. Whatever I’m holding feels like it could have the power to change everything.

Am I ready for that?

“Absolutely.” He wiggles his fingers at the envelope. “Go ahead. It’s for you.”

Maybe Kane’s right. My better sense doesn’t stand a chance. Wax crumbles beneath the pressure of one of my neat oval nails.

A trifold of fancy embossed cardstock tempts me to lift the flaps. The creamy vellum inside lends the script dancing across it a sacred quality. “We cordially invite you to join us at Club Sin: Seattle for a weekend you’ll never forget.”

A matte photograph peeks through from behind the translucent sheet. It features an elaborate black door with the number 111 centered on it in gold.

Behind the formal invitation is a stack of pages on Club Sin letterhead. These are typed in tiny font, lines all jammed together on the smaller-than-standard pages. Words pour over the sheaves in a tight stream of text I have no hope of focusing on with my bleary vision.

“What’s this?” I wonder aloud.

“A contract,” Fitch answers.

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