10
Viper
When I invite Travis and Revnor to join me at Harp’s gentleman’s club, they both have very interesting reactions. Revnor, who actually knew me before we both joined Pray, presses his lips into a thin line that clearly asks me what the fuck I think I’m getting at. Much like he used to when we were both Soles and we were partnered on missions together. He knows me enough to know that going somewhere like a gentlemen’s club is so contradictory to who I actually am that I can only be up to something no good.
He doesn’t say anything about his suspicions, though. Just shrugs and says that if I think this is good to strengthen our comradery for the current mission and the ones Pray may put us on together in the future, why not?
Travis, on the other hand, doesn’t know me. He thinks of me just like everyone else. A former reclusive playboy with too much money and time on his hands, no morals, and no restraint when it comes to my sexual appetite. To him, of course a man like me would habit a place the caters to the sexual appetites, no matter how wild, of the influential and rich patrons invited to it. So when I ask him to join us, it never occurs to him that I know a lot more than I let on. He just thinks I’m tired of all the boring investigating and work and want to celebrate before the job is even done.
If I were my younger self with an uncontrollable temper who took everything personal, I’d be insulted at being so underestimated. I still am, in a way. And when I’m in charge of this business, Travis is going to be in for a very rude fucking awakening. But for right now, it suits my purposes.
Instead of acting insulted, I disregard him. Say that he needs to loosen up and not take everything so seriously. Insinuate that he doesn’t have to worry about his constituents at the place I was taking him. Because they were very discreet with a very exclusive clientele. After a bit of back and forth, including an offhanded comment from him that he preferred to take care of his appetites by other means, he finally relents if it would get me to shut up.
I do. Revnor discreetly raises an eyebrow at me, yet again silently asking me what I was up to.
Harp’s establishment looks unassuming from the outside. And old fucking brick building not quite in the middle of nowhere, but far enough down a road in a fenced off area that no one could just stumble upon it if they weren’t looking for it.
The inside, on the other hand, can only be described as decadent opulence. No expense has been spared to make this place the ideal den of discreet sin and indulgence for all types of appetites, as said in Harp’s own words. Expensive leather furniture that looks meant for a public orgy, decorations in shapes that make it clear that they’re not just for decoration. Chests and glass displays of all kind of toys. Men and woman in all kinds of skimpy outfits ready to serve food, drink, and sex when asked. Only his best trained performers to cater to the appetites of such a prized client like myself and my guests. Also Harp’s words.
I wasn’t able to get the entire establishment to myself. There’s another exclusive client and his party present tonight. Because part of the fun of this is getting to let go of your inhibitions. To cast aside ideals of what is thought to be publicly decent or indecent. And how would we get that experience if we didn’t get to mingle with other guests? Once again, Harp’s words.
He introduces us to them. I don’t care to remember who they are. I’m only here for the purpose of setting Travis up. Already, I’ve informed Harp that we want a mixture of male and female caterers, as he calls them. There’s no way Travis is going to be able to hold himself back if what Cres says is true. Maybe he will in front of everyone else. But he won’t restrain himself in the private suite that Travis is going to retreat to tonight. That took an extraordinarily amount of trouble and time to get cameras set up for the weekend to catch his trysts on camera for future blackmailing use.
Immediately upon walking in, we’re taken to have a seat, served an assortment of alcohol to begin the night, and given two to three men and women to cater to us individually for the night. Just to start. Already, the other party has requested the finest mind altering drugs that Harp has. And throughout the night, we’re allowed to grab onto whatever and whoever may catch our attention that’s available.
Surrounded by people I really don’t trust or like and here to for the singular purpose of setting up a rival to fall in line once our boss is dead, I have to force myself to relax. Force myself to feel and concentrate on the warmth of the hands massaging my shoulders to relax me. The hands unbuttoning my shirt and running up and down the front of my chest.
A few years ago, it might not have been so hard to enjoy the perks of a self-imposed mission like this. To look forward to ending the night with a woman or two or three in my bed.
But not anymore.
The only way I could enjoy this or truly look forward to later tonight would be if Dele was here. Because she’s hopelessly broken me beyond repair. All it would take is a passing glance from her. A look out the corner of her eyes. Filled with defiance and smugness and mischief and challenge. That would be all it took to have my cock hard and ready to fuck her.
We’re not even in a strictly exclusive relationship. I’d certainly kill any man who touched her, whether she allowed it or not. But she wasn’t wrong when she said that she’s as free to sleep with anyone she wants as I would be. And yet I haven’t. Because no woman is Dele. And I won’t tonight. Because none of these women are—
A server in the little French maid outfit comes into the room with appetizers. It’s not the outfit the catches my attention. Because it’s not the most revealing French maid outfit I’ve ever seen. It’s actually modest by comparison. It’s not the way the caterer’s hair is pulled up into a messy bun rather than falling down her back like her other fellow female works, revealing her tantalizing neck and collar bone.
It's the fact that her hair is a familiar color, so dark that it’s almost black. The familiar way a stray, unmanageable lock falls in her face. Those hazel eyes. The loose, relaxed gait of hers so she can be ready at a moment’s notice to dodge and fight if needed.
For a moment, I’m sure I’ve imagined her. For a moment, I’m wondering if I need to ask Harp if my alcohol was laced with something that caused hallucinations. But then she saunters right over to one of the men in the other party, serves him some appetizer, and glances at me out the corner of her eyes.
There’s a smirk playing on her lips. And even from this far, I can see the smugness and mischief in her eyes. The way they challenge me and declare that, yes, she’s here. So what am I going to do about it?