Page 130 of The Devil's Deceit
I share a few words with my receptionist, Heidi, then move into the club. I nod at a few customers milling around, regulars who joined when I first opened the place a few years ago. As it turns out,The Lairbecame my salvation. Without it I think I’d have gone off the rails by now.
The problem is I don’t know why I am the way I am. Why I feel as though I’m a stranger in my own skin. It’s notas though I had a traumatic childhood. Sure, I lost my eldest sister and my mother in horrific circumstances, but I was only seven at the time, and I don’t really remember much about either of them, other than how my mum smelled.
Of cinnamon, vanilla, and love.
I don’t believe losing them affected me adversely. Dad more than made up for her loss, pouring not just his love into us, but his time and attention. My dad is my hero, and I love him dearly.
I suppose I could go to therapy, but fuck that. I’m not having a stranger poke around inside my head. Works for Xan, but it won’t work for me. I’d spend the time telling inappropriate jokes and avoiding the hard questions. You’ve got to want therapy for it to work, and, well, I don’t.
The scent of furniture polish greets me as I step into my office. A pile of paperwork sits on top of my desk ready for my review and signature. I sink onto the leather chair and get to work. It takes a couple of hours to get through it all, and as the clock edges toward midnight, I drop my pen on my desk and turn my attention to the bank of screens that sit across one wall.
Everyone who joinsThe Lairor is invited by a member has to sign a disclaimer which states their activities, including those in the private rooms, are subject to surveillance by security and management. The rule is there for everyone’s safety, although for a voyeur like me, it’s one of the perks of ownership.
My gaze is drawn to PR3. A woman is face-down, handcuffed to a table, and a guy is railing her from behind, one hand clamped on the back of her neck to hold her in place. There’s no sound, only visuals, but something about thescene feels off. I switch camera views, and the woman’s face fills the screen.
Her eyes are screwed tightly shut, and every time he thrusts into her, she winces. Maybe pain is her kink, but I don’t think so. I’ve watched enough couples going at it over the years to know when there’s a scene playing out, and this isn’t that.
My spine stiffens as I carry on watching. I don’t recognize either of them. They must be here on a guest pass. Definitely not fully paid-up members.
He finishes and pulls out of her. Strolling around the table, he unlocks the handcuffs. The woman pushes herself upright and rubs her wrists, sparing not even a glance at the guy. He starts to dress, and she gingerly picks her way over to a chair where her clothes are, giving me a full view of her back.
Jesus Christ. She’s covered in whip marks, some of them fresh, others faint silver lines. It’s not my business to get involved in strangers’ relationships, nor to judge people’s kinks, but that looks more like abuse to me.
I’m halfway out of my chair when the woman turns around.
“Shit!”
I sprint into the hallway, banging on my head of security’s door. “Frank, we got a situation,” I yell. “PR3.”
I race past startled customers, banging shoulders with a few as I beeline through the communal area; Frank’s pounding footsteps gaining behind me. The door’s locked, but I have a skeleton card. I flash it in front of the locking mechanism, and the sound of a click reaches me. I open the door to absolute fucking carnage.
The stark-naked woman’s arms are out in front of her,and she’s pointing a gun at the half-dressed man. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m there, her gaze locked on the man standing a few feet away, with a startled expression widening his eyes.
“I’m Tobias,” I say as gently as I can.
Frank stands to my left and closes the door to stop any rubberneckers from peering at the unfolding drama.
“Thank fuck,” the guy shouts. “She’s gone fucking crazy.”
I fire a glare in his direction, then turn my attention back to the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Re-Rebecca,” she stammers.
“Rebecca,” the man says, arms stretched out in front of him. “Come on, honey.” Clearly a different tactic than calling her crazy. “You don’t want to do this. What about Isla? You shoot me, and you’re going to prison. You want our daughter to be fatherlessandmotherless?”
“You-you’re amonster,” she whispers. “Enough. I can’t take it anymore.”
My instincts were spot on. This bastard’s abusing her, and from the look of those scars on her back, he’s been doing it for years. Everyone has a breaking point, and she’s reached hers tonight, in my club.
“Rebecca,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady. “How old is Isla?”
Her hands are shaking, but from this range, if she fires, he’s dead for sure. “She-she’s four.”
“A great age.” I take a step forward.
“Don’t come any closer!”
“Okay. Okay.” I hold up my hands. “I’m staying right here. But please, I’m begging you to think of Isla. You don’t want to do this.”
