Page 51 of The Club

SIXTEEN

Rafael

As much as I love the sex club part of Lush, I love the nightclub too. This whole place is fundamentally me. Building it was like taking all the parts of myself and reorganizing them. Lush is beautiful and luxurious, filthy and depraved. It allows those things to exist together. It makes sense of them. It makes me not alone in them.

What else was I going to do with my father’s money? He and my mother died for it.

I don’t know whether my father realized that he was encroaching on one of the big Italian territories with his cocaine business, but he pissed off the wrong people.

I don’t think I’d ever seen him cry before my mother’s mangled body hit the floor. I wasn’t crying at that point. I was just staring from where they’d tied me up. I didn’t understand, then, what they were saying to my father about selling me to the Collector, about how valuable a twelve-year-old boy with such a pretty face would be.

It’s strange how I can picture so many of the men’s faces from the later years, but I can’t picture his. I recall his voice, though, telling me that he wasn’t going to place me right away, that I was special, that he wanted to train me first.

By the time he “placed” me at the Island, I was indeed well trained. I didn’t like pain, not back then. That came later. So I was very good at the Island, where men from all over the world, each of them connected through the international crime structure of the Society, came to play.

Noah wasn’t happy that I chose to use my father’s money to build Lush. He wanted me to apply to the Juilliard. He thought music could save me.

But he had already saved as much of me as could be saved. The rest of me, all the broken pieces, just need somewhere to exist. So I made Lush.

I could never have spent my life playing piano in cold, remote performance halls. I would rather play here in the nightclub like I’m doing tonight.

I’m not calm. I’m never calm, at least not under the surface. But I am stable enough to keep the music right for the swanky vibe of Lush on a Saturday night.

I’m actually enjoying it, especially now that Dominic is here.

The nightclub has a complex, staggered layout. The stage, where I’m playing at the glossy grand piano, backs up to the mezzanine entrance. Stairs lead down on either side, bringing new arrivals around the stage into the club. Throughout the open space, short flights of steps lead to couches and tables on the various levels with their low, curved walls. The walls undulate, creating more niches, all of it overseen by the slightly elevated, well-stocked, and utterly fabulous bar directly across the room from the stage.

Dominic is there on one of the stools, but he’s sitting with his back to the bar. I know he’s watching me, but I don’t look at him. It’s more enjoyable just to feel his attention.

I wonder what interests him. The blues inspired music? My body in the black leather pants and silver corset vest over a black shirt? My face? My movement? Can he tell that I have a prostate massager in my ass?

Its long base lies along my taint to prod the underside of my balls. I’m hard, of course. Does he see it?

I can’t resist glancing at him. My fingers almost stumble as my eyes connect with his. Even from across the room, even witha mere glance, his intensity crashes into me like a tidal wave. God, he’s beautiful.

I love how he dresses. Subtly. Expensively. Darkly. I love how those clothes move with his powerful body. I love how they complement the darkness of his hair and eyes, putting all the light on his gorgeous face and powerful, cruel hands.

His eyes leave me. Surprised and not at all pleased, I follow his gaze.

Shit.

Dante just walked in through the private staff door.

Dante stops dead. His eyes are locked on Dominic. They move briefly to Tristan, checking on his fuck toy or boyfriend or whatever he is behind the bar. Tristan, busy making a drink, hasn’t yet noticed the brewing shitstorm. He looks up finally. He jumps when he spots Dante.

As Dante starts walking toward Dominic, I play my piece a quick close and hit the button for the sound system. Sultry music flows out from the speakers as I head toward the impending chaos. I’m all for a good fight—but not in my nightclub.

Dante, of course, doesn’t give a shit about that because he’s incapable of giving a shit about other people’s things. He’s always been like that, the selfish prick. He takes whatever he wants. He does whatever he wants.

Underneath his veneer of calm, he’s every bit as psychotic and depraved as the rest of us.

And yet he’s still Noah’s fucking golden boy.

I arrive the instant Dominic stands for the confrontation. I slide between the two men, facing Dante.

He’s as gorgeous as Dominic and nearly as sadistic. I face him because he’s more controlled. He chooses, coldly and deliberately, how to channel his anger.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Dante demands.

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