Page 1 of Jersey

Prologue

Jersey

I'd think many years of working in the shadows and staying on the edge of existence would ensure I grew accustomed to low-lit settings, but more often than not, all it does is give me a headache. It's a combination of my body's insistence to get up early no matter how late I stay up the night before and the pulse of the music flowing through speakers hidden all over the dark room. Whatever is causing the pain is just proof that I'm clearly no longer in my prime, and that might be the hardest pill of all to swallow.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, rolling my head in a circular motion, attempting to ease the tension in my shoulders. My left trapezoid has had a fairly significant burn in it for the last couple of days. Even with everything that's going on around me, I can't seem to stop focusing on it. I don't know if the distraction is from boredom or if the pain is more significant than I want to consider.

"Can I refresh your drink?"

I look up at the woman and although I don't feel it, I give her a simple smile. Flirting comes easily for me, and it always has.

Maybe mostmen in my situation would get an eyeful. Why else would she be fully naked in a sex club, wearing only a collar attached to a slinky belly chain? She's there to look at. Touching is off the table, but I'd never attempt it. I don't even want to. The lack of temptation I feel is one of the reasons I'm probably the perfect guy for a job like this.

I stopped internalizing how I felt or the lack of feelings I had about women long ago. I know exactly what's wrong with me, why an obviously pretty woman doesn't do a damn thing for me.

Instead of letting my eyes rake down the length of her luscious body, I keep my eyes locked on hers. Just as I assumed it would, the lack of attention to her body causes her more unease than if I had sat here salivating or lusting after her. It's not something she's used to. Her body doesn't distract me, and it seems that's not something she encounters often here.

"I think this one is fine," I tell her with another quick smile as I lift the drink in my hand and make an effort to take a sip. "Thank you."

"Let me know if you need anything," she says before scurrying away, glancing over her shoulder just before slipping into the darkness. Her reaction makes me wonder if she's worried I'll chase after her, despite the rules in place. It makes me wonder if she's often victimized, even though her job description says she won't have to endure such things.

There is no telling what happens to people here against their will, and that's the main reason why I'm sitting on this sofa observing.

My goal tonight is not to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I'm not here for entertainment purposes.

This is work, a job I was handed by my boss, Hemlock, the president of the Gatlinburg chapter of the Cerberus MC. A club I've only been a member of for a few short weeks. I'm sure Hemlock has read my file, but he hasn't cornered me and demanded the details.

I have no plans to offer up information on my past, but Kincaid, the president of the founding chapter of Cerberus back in New Mexico, had to ask the questions when I was being vetted for the organization. Going in, I knew I'd have to discuss every life experience, even the things that happened while I was working for ICE.What I didn't realize was how painful it would be to talk about those things, considering I've avoided that conversation for so long.

I clear my throat and take another sip of my drink, although I feel like slamming it back to numb that part of me that is threatening to come back to life.

I'm here to find signs of trafficked women or determine if people who work at the club might have a less-than-legal side menu that caters to more than just your run-of-the-mill BDSM activities.

We've sat on this club once before, and although we didn't find any trafficking, we were able to get the owner arrested on tax evasion. The club was down for less than a week before someone else bought it and reopened for business.

So here I am once again.

I blow a puff of air past my lips, letting it inflate my cheeks before allowing it to escape. I'm just... bored.

Maybe one of the other guys would have a better time here. I can count several women who would love to try to wipe the sneer off Nyx's face, and I spotted one pixie-like thing who looked like she would give our ginger giant Zeus a run for his money.

With little to no fanfare, I spot a woman being led toward a St. Andrew's cross. There's nothing uncommon about the occurrence. It seems even more uncommon that there hasn't been anyone on the contraption in the two hours I've been sitting here.

What always floors me is the way the woman's eyes are turned downward. The behavior isn't unusual. Most submissives keep their eyes lowered as a requirement by their Dom.

It's the tremble in this woman's hands as she wrings them in front of her that makes me wonder if she's here of her own volition. I understand being pulled from your comfort zone in a place like this, but I can't tell if that's what's going on or if she's participating against her will.

The attendant walking with her pulls the robe from her shoulders, and I sit a little taller at the sight of her nipples suddenly peaking when the air in the room hits her skin. Her milky white skin is immediately covered in goosebumps, and the trembling in her hands doubles with her nakedness.

The attendant whispers something in her ear, pointing to the cross, and after listening, she dips her head and steps up to it.

Deft fingers secure her arms and then her legs to the contraption. Before the last buckle can be secured around her right leg, a line has already begun to form.

"Simple touching," I hear the attendant explain to the group. "Fingers only. No penetration. Break these rules and you forfeit your membership."

Those are some very serious rules. I've seen women secured to the cross before, and it was a no-limit situation. This being a sex club, it's odd to even limit someone using their mouth to please her.

I watch as men and women alike circle her, their fingers trailing over her skin, but I don't concentrate on their touches. Rather, I watch her face and the tension in every muscle in her body. I watch the tears roll down her cheeks as if she's being tortured in the worst way.

---