Page 18 of Kept

8 – Ryder

Lingeringintheshadowsis definitely Enzo’s thing.

I happen to find it boring as fuck.

So despite Daddy Mav’s very clear,do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not fuck thisupinstructions, I scoop up a glass of champagne, smiling thankfully at the exhausted-looking waitress with the dark circles under her eyes and grubby pinch marks on her arms, and start to wind my way through the club.

Bass pounds a dull rhythm into the floor beneath my feet, the pulsing vibrations in line with the frantic activity happening around me.

Everywhere I look, people are fucking. Against walls, on the floor, strapped to machines. Groups of two, three, four, every type and shape and size, all of them voracious with their need to be consumed with the feel of a good, hard fuck.

A few people give me the eye, but I shake my head and move on, into a dark purple corridor dotted with lanterns. Against one wall are padded leather benches, most of them filled with moaning, lust-filled fuckery. The other wall is lined with one-way windows, each a voyeur’s wet dream to watch the action happening inside the small rooms on the other side.

I wander down slowly, scanning each room and attempting to look even mildly interested in some of the depraved shit happening inside.

My hand curls around the glass in my hand until it threatens to snap. This is part of the darker side of Club X – that of pain, and blood, and fear.

And whilst I don’t mind a little pain with my pleasure, I’m not a fan of forcing someone into my fantasies.

Muted cries echo out from the discreet headphones dotted strategically close to each window, all the better for the demons watching with slack mouths and evil eyes to hear the begging.

I keep moving, my eyes flitting across each offering and away as soon as I see their faces. One or two have masks, but none are the right build.

Ethan Moore.

He’s supposed to be here, hence my little foray into depravity. But there’s no sign of him.

Sighing, I toss back the remains of my champagne. Another circuit it is.

My eyes catch on the girl in the last room as I move to turn around. Her face is pushed down, hidden from view, her hair scraped back into one of those little nude swimming caps. She’s strapped down, head facing me and her body spread-eagled on an x-style table.

As I pause, a man enters from a door in the back, fully dressed with fucking gloves on, despite the heat. I run through the description in my head. Six-one, slim, clipped auburn hair graying on the edges, squinty little eyes.

Bingo.

Ethan Moore strolls over to the girl, a bag in his hands that he sets down before he begins to stretch.

Spotting one of the security goons looking over, I give him a wink and settle myself into one of the benches, spreading out as though I’m watching a fucking show and making sure the tiny camera in my cufflink is facing the right way.

And Ethan Moore clearly enjoys a show. He pulls something out of the bag, and the girl tries to twist away as he presses something over her head, pushing her skull down harshly into the table. When he steps back, I lean in to get a closer look.

My fingers tap on the arm of the bench.

The girl's now wearing a long as fuck blonde wig.

Looks like someone’s got a Rapunzel kink.

I try not to puke as Moore circles her, but I’m more interested in his body language. His gloves are still on, and he makes a big production of pulling them off, one finger at a time, before he presses his hands down into her skin. His head falls back, sick ecstasy written across it as he starts stroking himself.

I only watch for a moment or two more before the nausea threatens to overwhelm me. I’ve got what I needed – and if Moore is here, then his car will be outside.

When the fresh air hits my face, I take a minute to suck it in, clearing my mind of the vileness from inside and making my way across the darkened parking lot.

It only takes a few minutes to identify Moore’s preferred transport. The cherry-red Lamborghini doesn’t look out of place against the sea of high-end cars, but I glance around anyway as I dig the tracker from my pocket and casually bend down, attaching it.

Thirty seconds later, I nod to the valet doing a circuit. The cherry from his cigarette glows as he shifts uncomfortably, worried I’ll call him out for smoking on duty. “Evening.”

He nods back politely, and we continue on our merry way.

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