Page 5 of Steel Trap
“Recovery from what?” Shelton asked. “Oh…silly me.” He blushed.
Teddy snickered. “Later then. I need to nap, then pick out something to wear.”
Hatchet rolled his eyes. “I swear, Orlando is rubbing off on all of us. No one is gonna give a shit what you look like, Teddy.” Hatchet slapped at his somewhat dusty leathers. “By the time we’ve riddenthere we’ll all be covered in crap, anyway. No point in wondering what Smith wants. I’m gonna work on the bike for a while.” He wandered toward the door.
“You wouldn’t really do anything to me at the club, would you, Sir?”
Hatchet smiled at Shelton’s plea. He didn’t object to a public spanking. In fact, Smith would benefit from having his ass warmed in a way that deflated his ego. Daydreaminghappily, Hatchet didn’t hang around to hear Crow’s response.
* * * *
Montgomery Smith stood in his walk-in closet staring at, but not seeing, his extensive selection of high-end clothing.I’m losing my mind. What the hell possessed me to suggest The Scourge as a meeting place?He needed somewhere crowded, where people avoided taking notice of things they shouldn’t, but there were plentyof other choices. Any dive bar on the south side would have done. He was losing his perspective, thanks to Nelson Hatchet. The man drove him to distraction. He’d kept his nerve for more than three years now, avoiding too much contact, maintaining a working relationship with Rogue Hellaby rather than his taciturn second-in-command. Mexico had changed all that.
Every time Smith closed his eyes,he saw Hatchet, proud and naked, all muscles and tats. Hung like a bull elephant and with an attitude to match. He was just as enticing clad in battered leathers, smelling of oil and metal. Four days in his bed had been as much as Smith could stand. Hatchet was far too tempting, so Smith had to maintain his distance. There was still too much work to be done. He needed The Wyverns and their uniqueskills. In just a few years, they’d achieved so much, even if they had been coerced into the service of Mr. Trap. Smith wasn’t looking forward to having to recruit their replacements. Horatio Trap would stick to his word. He was an honorable man, and soon The Wyverns would be free to follow their own paths once more.
Smith blinked, bringing his focus back to pants and shirts. In a place likeThe Scourge, he needed to blend into the scenery and that meant black. Clothes were a costume, part of an elaborate façade. The Wyverns saw him as an overdressed fop because that was what he wanted them to see. He was far more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt. In the end he selected black pants, heavy boots and a plain, collared shirt. The long sleeves would cover the scabbed-over wound on his arm.He stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. He wondered if he could pass as a Dom. It was all a matter of attitude, after all, and he had haughty stares down pat. It was a lie, of course, and that was why Hatchet was so dangerous. The big man exuded confidence and power. Smith would like nothing more than to give up the tight control he kept on his life and hand itover to a certain tattooed biker. Hatchet might not be a Dom like Rogue Hellaby, but he wasn’t the type to bend to another’s will.
The private elevator took Smith from the penthouse of his building to the lobby, where the security guard, alert and focused, gave him a brief nod of recognition. His car, complete with special-forces-trained driver, waited outside. Each of his staff knew where hewas going and what time he was due back, just as they had known his whereabouts the whole time he had stayed with The Wyverns. They had instructions to carry out if he was later returning than the permitted tolerance. The watch around his wrist contained a tracker. There was another in the hollow heel of his boot. He was as prepared as he could be physically—emotionally, he wasn’t so sure.
Smithsigned in to The Scourge at ten minutes before midnight. His name was already on the approved guest list. He accepted the white collar that indicated his status as observing, not playing. The irony didn’t escape him. His whole life felt like a game at times. He fingered the leather around his neck and wondered what impression it would give Nelson Hatchet.
Picking up a chilled bottle of water,Smith leaned against the bar, taking in the scene. The club was busy, the dance floor packed though the thrash metal beat lacked any harmony that Smith could detect. A small stage was being set up for a demonstration. There was a padded bench and a table on which sat a set of shining sounds. Smith winced. He couldn’t imagine getting any pleasure from having something inserted in his dick, but eachto his own. He scanned the room, searching for any sign of Hatchet. A server, wearing a chest harness and leather shorts nudged him, then gestured to the stairs leading to the VIP area on the balcony.
“You’ve been invited upstairs. It’s your lucky night.” Smith glanced upward but he couldn’t see anything beyond the polished brass balcony railing. The server led him to the stairs, letting thebouncer standing next to the barrier know he was allowed to cross.
On the rare occasions Smith had visited the club before, he had never ventured upstairs. Along the mezzanine, a series of booths were occupied by varying numbers of men. He spotted The Wyverns straight away. Shelton straddled Crow’s leather-clad thighs. Their lips were sealed together and both seemed oblivious to anything goingon around them. Teddy and Hatchet were chatting. They stood out because of their size—both big, muscled men. Smith’s gaze was drawn to Hatchet. His leather vest displayed his tattooed arms to good effect and Smith couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel to be wrapped in such strength. He shivered.
“You summoned us.”
Smith jumped at Hatchet’s voice. He hadn’t realized his presence had beennoticed. “I summonedyou,” he corrected, using his haughtiest voice.
“If you wanted to get me on my own,” Hatchet said, leering, “You should have been more specific.” He slipped from the end of the booth. “You look damn good in that collar.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Smith snapped, though his fingers strayed to his throat. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” He gave himself credit for not flinchingwhen Hatchet cupped the nape of his neck, looming close.
“Crow has a private room booked for him and Shelton. We can use it first.”
When Hatchet took his wrist in a firm grip, Smith pulled away, but Hatchet didn’t free him.
“You want to fit in and go unnoticed?” Hatchet said. “Then behave.”
Smith bridled. He wasn’t used to being told what to do by any of The Wyverns and Hatchet’s touch waspreventing him from thinking straight.
“You know it makes sense.” Hatchet was an immoveable object.
Smith gave the slightest of nods then allowed Hatchet to lead him down the stairs to the area housing the private rooms. The dungeon master checked a list then wrote Hatchet’s name against Crow’s booking.
“Room six.”
Hatchet pulled Smith along a corridor that smelled of sweat and sex. He foundhimself eager to follow. Once inside the quiet space of the private room, he didn’t resist when Hatchet pushed him against the wall.
“You’re used to getting your own way, aren’t you?” Hatchet asked. He placed his hands on the wall, either side of Smith’s head, caging him. “But what do you really want, Smith?”
“I…we need to discuss a job,” Smith stuttered, his face heating. He wanted Hatchetto kiss him, to take what he wanted.
“Then discuss it we will.” Hatchet stepped away. “Take a seat.”
Smith surveyed the room for the first time. There was a low bed in the corner, covered by a black rubber sheet. A padded spanking bench stood in a corner and a cargo net was suspended across one wall, adorned with a range of restraints. He swallowed. “I’ll stand.”
