Page 2 of Redeemed in Crimson
“Scott! Janice! How are you?”
Dean walks in wearing a pair of khaki slacks and a light blue golf shirt, skirting right past me to greet my parents. He definitely doesn’t look like he’s been out golfing all day. It’s scorching hot outside, and while I’m sporting a lovely newsunburn from moving things from the truck, he shows no signs of having been out in the sun.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I finished at the course early and decided to freshen up a little before meeting up with my favorite people,” Dean says, smiling widely.
He shakes my father’s hand and half hugs him, then gives Mom a huge bear hug. A little shoulder squeeze is the only acknowledgment I get after he greets my parents.
Before I can feel too bad for myself, Dean wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer to him. His heavy arm on my sunburn hurts. Ireallywant to ask him to move it, but I can only imagine what my mother would say about that, so I grin like a happy, lovesick girl.
It’s not that I don’t want to touch him at all. It’s just that something seems off. I’m not pleased with him blowing me off this morning to go golf with his buddies, so that could be clouding my judgment. But he never responded to my texts, he’s late to eat dinner with us, and despite him saying he freshened up, he doesn’t look like he just hopped out of the shower. He always lets his dirty-blond hair air dry, so it looks a little damp for an hour or so. But it’s perfectly dry and combed to perfection. So neither has he just come from the course nor has he just “freshened up.”
I have plenty of time to ponder where exactly Dean has been all day throughout the course of our two-hour dinner, during whichzeroof the conversation requires my input. In the past, it bothered me to be excluded from any of the stories being told or plans being made at these dinners, but now, I’m relieved that my mind can wander. Not for the first time, I consider my own hopes and dreams for my life while conversation flows aroundme with plans I have no say in. I zone back in briefly when I hear Dad say, “The Hendersons down the street plan to sell in a few years.”
I look up to see Dean giving me a winning smile. “Well, that would be perfect. Close enough to have built-in babysitters, babe.”
Knowing that saying anything contrary to the “Sloane Master Plan” would be seen as grounds for admittance to a mental facility, I smile and nod, ready to go back to imagining a life where my free will matters.
Finally, after dessert, two rounds of coffee, and my dad leaving an awful tip for a server they ran ragged, we make our way back to the car. Dad and Dean make plans for another round of golf tomorrow morning, leaving Mom and me with plans to go to church alone. The drive back to my apartment takes longer than usual thanks to traffic, and I spend the time gazing out the window while my parents continue talking about what a saint Dean is.
I’m contemplating the pros and cons of being dramatic and throwing myself out of the moving vehicle once traffic clears, if only to ruin my parents’ plans for a few weeks and force them to think about something other than themselves, when a red and black monstrosity of a motorcycle comes to a stop beside our car. It’s beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever taken notice of a bike before—unless it was to listen to my mom go on and on about how dangerous they can be, how only hoodlums ride them, and how I betterneverconsider getting on one myself.
But this is different. Beautiful, huge, and overall intimidating, to be honest. All black and red swirls, designs that look threatening and enticing and sinful. Sitting still intraffic with no end in sight, I commit every detail of this bike to memory, thinking of a world where I could hop on and speed off to do whatever I wanted. I’ve probably been staring, entranced, for a solid five minutes when I first take notice of the rider. A giant black combat boot leads to a long leg, slightly bent…Jesus, how tall is this man?I’m not sure this is a man. This giant machine seems too small for this…creature. Troll? Viking? I have to assume this is a man, but I’ve never seen one this big. It could still be a troll since I can’t see a single inch of skin…until the visor on the troll’s helmet opens, and it looks like a man for sure. And he’s staring right at me.
Chapter two
Fuck, I need to get my dick wet. Tonight. Preferably multiple times. How long has it been? Two weeks? Has it really been two weeks since I fucked anyone? No wonder the fights tonight didn’t do anything to relieve this energy. I just beat three men to a pulp and…nothing. Nothing I do lately seems to calm me down. I’ve spent the past two weeks helping Mom organize Dad’s old office, and all it’s done is solidify the fact that I’m the family fuckup.
It was all going fine until we found his journals. Mom, content to let sleeping dogs lie, wasn't interested in reading them at all. I was going to put them in a storage box and forget about them until I dropped one and saw my name. How does she not care to see what he said? I couldn’t help myself. I’d always been second best. My older brother, Henry, was—is—the perfect son. He did everything he was supposed to do and more. The golden boy. Smart, athletic, classy, kind, perfect. And the perfect brother too. He’s the only reason I’m still here today and was more of a father figure to methan Dad ever was. Then there’s my little sister, Margot, who could also do no wrong. I suppose if you have a baby girl when you're nearing fifty years old with more money than God, you’re required to treat her like a princess. Hell, we all treat her like a princess. How could we not? Okay, so both my siblings are incredible people. I've always wondered why my father’s approval meant so much when everyone else in my family made me feel nothing but love and support.
I thought I was fine after three years of Dad being gone, and years of therapy at Henry’s insistence. But damn, does it make me feel like shit when I read how much of a disappointment I was with all the fighting, drugs, and women. Well, maybe he should’ve been a little concerned, but it still hurts to read. I’m not a complete menace anymore. I cut the drugs out a long time ago, and I used my trust fund to start my own business, a very successful one at that. Granted, it’s a sex club, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that while Dad was alive. It would’ve been just another thing for him to be disappointed in, like the fighting. Well, fuck him because my club is the most successful club in the Southeast, and I’m a damn good fighter.
I’ve just always had this energy that takes extreme measures to burn off. The drugs helped for a bit, but I was losing myself in that. The sex helps for a moment. The fighting helps. Over time, both have had to become more aggressive to get that release.
That’s why I’m currently trying to figure out exactly how much debauchery I want to get into at the club tonight. I usually have my pick of women coming in, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I own the place. I keep that fact pretty well hidden. I have my pick of women because I’m a fuckingwet dream and I know it. I know I sound like a narcissistic asshole to admit that, but it’s true. I’m six foot five with more muscles than you can count and tattoos that cover every inch of them from the waist up. I’m not the man you take home to Mom. I’m the one you let pound the life out of you at a sex club. That doesn’t mean I don’t respect women. I would never lead anyone to assume I’d be open for more than a fuck. If I ever meet someone outside of the club, I make sure they know my expectations. But hooking up at the club is presumed to be just that, a hookup. And that’s exactly what I plan to do tonight.
I’m lost in my thoughts of the club when I hit what appears to be a giant fucking traffic jam. Normally, I would either lane split or ride down the shoulder to the nearest exit, but Mom has been riding my ass hard about how dangerous this bike is and how she needs me around to give her grandchildren.As if.But considering the fighting and fucking, the least I can do is respect her wishes and be as safe as possible on the bike. I even wear a helmet now. I slow and eventually come to a dead stop, still a fucking ways away from my exit to the club. If anything, this just gives me more of a chance to consider how I’m going to expel this energy racing below my skin like a parasite. Jesus, I’m starting to sound like a philosopher or some shit. Maybe I need a track day, or a weekend in Amsterdam, or someone new.
I’m contemplating whether I think my sobriety can handle Amsterdam or if it would be worth it to test it in a couple of weeks on the anniversary of my sperm donor’s death, when I see her. A sedan has pulled up next to me in traffic, driven by a plain-ass Mr. and Mrs. John and Jane Doe. In theback seat, though, is the most beautiful pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. Also, possibly, the saddest. She’s blankly staring at what appears to be nothing—maybe the taillights of the car in front of me—but she isn’t really seeing them. Shit, definitely the saddest. Just a blank stare, like nothing gives her any pleasure. Maybe she isn’t always like this, and it’s just boring John and Jane in the front seat making her evening horrible.
I’m considering breaking my own rules and lane splitting just to get away from her melancholy gaze when she sees me. Well, not really. It’s like she doesn’t see me at all, and instead all she sees is my bike. Granted, my Ducati is a perfect machine that I’ve had hand-painted and customized to my exact specifications, but I’ve never been so outright ignored. I look back up to see that her eyes have completely changed. Gone is the blank, sad, beige girl stare. Instead, her eyes are alight with beautiful fascination. I might as well be invisible. Perhaps I should step aside so she can have an unobstructed view or offer her some alone time with the bike. Her eyes are almost hungry, like all her problems would be solved if she just got on and rode off. I can empathize. That’s exactly how I feel when I ride.
She finally seems to notice my…leg? Not usually the first thing women notice about me, but okay. Her gaze travels upward, looking almost confused. Like she doesn’t quite know what she’s looking at. As if she hasn’t seen a man before. Or maybe she just hasn’t seen a man my size before, which, if she doesn’t spend her time around professional athletes or mountain men, I guess I understand. It’s almost as if she’s trying to figure out if I even am a man. As her gaze travels up my torso, I decide to go ahead and help her solve her puzzle.
I flip my visor open just as her gaze finally reaches my helmet, and we lock eyes. If I still gambled—which I don’t, because how many addictions does one man need—I would’ve bet that her eyes would be filled with lust. That’s always been what I’ve gotten from women. Not respect, not admiration, not love. Lust. And I’ve been happy to provide satisfaction on that front without any strings attached. But this little enigma trapped in the sad beige sedan looks at me with…curiosity? Wonder? Like she envisioned something else under the helmet and is surprised I’mjusta man. I’m trying to think of the last time any woman looked at me like this, if ever, when traffic eases, and just like that, she’s gone.
I’m still thinking of just how much my enigma’s eyes changed from haunted and hopeless to hopeful and adventurous, all just from looking at my bike, when I finally make it to the club.
Rendezvous is my pride and joy, and I’ve grown it from scratch into the premier sex club in the region over the past two years. I’ve been fortunate to have a great team to help me, and now the day-to-day operations don’t require anywhere near as much energy as they used to. That doesn’t mean I don’t still love to play. If nothing else, I created this club as an outlet for my desires and energy. Walking through our employee entrance is like coming home. Immediately, my floor manager and best friend, Jack, lets me know that two of our regulars who I’ve played with in the past are at the bar, along with a few new women and couples mingling in the lounge.
Passing through the exhibition hall on my way, I feel pride seeing every window filled with the scenes I imagined when I was dreaming up this place. Different options for whatevercould strike someone’s fancy. As I stroll, I wait for the familiar curl of desire to start at the base of my spine, for the urge to join a group or find a willing solo partner for the stress relief I so desperately need tonight. And…nothing? Fuck. This can’t be right. Maybe I took a shot to the head today during one of my fights? No, I know damn well none of those weak-ass punks got even one good shot in.
Deciding to shake off whatever this funk is, I make my way to the lounge to see the new women Jack was talking about. They’re standing together at a high-top table and immediately make eye contact, both looking the kind of perfect that you buy at a plastic surgery office. While the redhead looks like she showed her doctor a picture of a classic pinup model for inspiration, complete with full lips and unbelievable curves, her brunette companion looks like she hasn’t eaten more than a leaf in years. I don’t discriminate. I never have. I like pussy in all shapes and sizes. The more variety, the better. These two might be exactly what I need to get my head back in the game tonight.
“Good evening, ladies. What brings you in tonight? Looking for anything in particular?” I ask even though it’s obvious exactly what they’re here for.
“Oh hello, handsome,” Pinup says. “What would you recommend?”
The brunette’s eyes zero in on mine, and she runs her hand down my chest.
