Page 11 of Beneath the Surface

“You’re… uh… committed to the look,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “Where’s your flowing cape?”

He laughed, a low, warm sound that eased some of her nerves. “I left it at home. Didn’t want to overdo it.”

Isobel snorted. “Too late.”

Brad’s eyes swept over her, taking in her outfit with a slow, appreciative gaze that made her skin tingle. “You look incredible,” he said softly, the teasing edge in his voice replaced by something deeper—something real.

She swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. “Thanks,” she managed, slipping past him toward his car. “Let’s get this over with.”

The drive to Hot Shots was quiet but charged. Brad’s confidence seemed unshakable, but Isobel’s mind was spinning. She knew about clubs like this in theory—places that operated without rules, where indulgence reigned supreme. But knowing and experiencing were two very different things.

When they arrived, the neon sign above the door pulsed in garish pink and red. “HOT SHOTS” was scrawled in bold, flickering letters, casting the street below in a lurid glow. A line of people snaked around the block, some dressed to the nines, others barely dressed at all.

Brad placed a hand on her back as they bypassed the line, his touch warm and steady. “You okay?” He leaned close enough for her to feel the silk of his shirt brush her arm.

She nodded, though her stomach churned. “I think so.”

Inside, the club was a cacophony of sound, light, and heat. Throbbing bass shook the floor, and multicolored lights sliced through the darkness, illuminating flashes of skin, glitter, and leather. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something muskier that Isobel couldn’t quite name.

Her eyes widened as she took in the scene. People danced wildly, their bodies pressed together in ways that bordered onobscene. In the corner, a woman clad in nothing but chains was draped over a plush velvet chair, laughing as a man knelt at her feet. On a raised platform, a pair of men were locked in a passionate, almost primal embrace, their movements raw and unrestrained.

And then there was the sound—the unmistakable, unabashed noise of people giving in to their basest desires. Moans, cries, and laughter mingled with the music, creating a symphony of hedonism that left Isobel’s cheeks burning.

“Brad,” she whispered, clutching his arm as they moved deeper into the crowd. “This is… this is a lot.”

He looked down at her, his expression serious but gentle. “I told you what to expect,” he said, his hand steady on her lower back. “Do you want to leave?”

She shook her head, though her heart was racing. “No. I just… I don’t know if I belong here.”

“You belong,” Brad said firmly, guiding her toward a quieter corner of the club where the shadows offered a small reprieve. “You’re curious. That’s enough.” His eyes met hers, dark and unyielding. “I think you need to see where your client’s mother and her boyfriend play.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she was speechless. The vulnerability in his voice, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered left her reeling.

“I’m nervous, Brad,” she admitted, her voice barely audible over the music.

“I know,” his hand tightened on her back, “but I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe with me.”

The promise in his words was like an anchor in the chaos around her. And though her anxiety didn’t dissipate entirely, it softened, replaced by a flicker of something else. Trust.

“I’m trusting you,” she said, her voice firmer now.

He nodded. “Then stay close. The night is just beginning.”

Brad’s hand remained steady on her back as they roamed deeper into the club, leaving behind the throbbing mass of bodies on the main floor. As they descended into the lower level, the noise softened, but the atmosphere thickened. Isobel’s senses were overwhelmed by the dizzying mix of perfume, cologne, and a smoky sweetness that clung to the air, almost masking the raw scent of sweat and sex.

They reached a narrow hallway illuminated by dim red lights, casting shadows that clung to the walls and seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. Small doors lined the hallway, some cracked open to reveal glimpses of what lay beyond, while others were closed. Brad kept a firm hold on her, guiding her past each door like a shield, but her eyes couldn’t help drifting to the sights within.

Behind one door, a woman lounged on a plush chaise, her body draped in glistening silver chains, her hands tied loosely above her head. Her movements were languid, but her gaze was glassy, unfocused—an unmistakable sign of intoxication. Two men flanked her, both shirtless and gleaming with sweat, their gestures more possessive than attentive. One of them whispered something in her ear, but she didn’t react.

In another room, a crowd had gathered around a central stage. A man and a woman, both masked, performed an act that should have been a dance of power and submission, but it lacked rhythm or care. The man’s grip on her wrist was bruising, his movements erratic as if he’d had too much to drink. Her pained expressions were fleeting, quickly masked by a forced smile whenever the audience cheered.

Laughter, moans, and gasps mingled in the corridor, creating a twisted ambiance of indulgence and voyeurism. But beneath the surface, Isobel could sense something off—a nervous edge to the laughter, a hollow quality to the pleasure.

Her stomach turned as she passed another open door. Inside, two figures were intertwined on a low couch, their movements feverish and careless. The man wasn’t wearing a condom, and the woman, though participating, didn’t seem fully present. Empty glasses and discarded bottles littered the room, the faint smell of alcohol mingling with the smoke in the air. The scene felt rushed, disconnected, as though consent had been a fleeting thought, long forgotten.

“This… this is what I expected,” Isobel murmured, glancing up at Brad. Her voice shook, the words almost drowned by the muffled sounds spilling from the rooms.

Brad’s jaw was set, his gaze fixed ahead as he led her farther down the corridor. “I know. But it’s not what it pretends to be,” he replied, his tone almost disdainful. “This place, it’s a playground for people who want no rules, no responsibility. It’s nothing like the real lifestyle.”

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