My father and my sister didn’t know I continued to belong. Neither would be pleased, though it would be Dad, as usual, whose displeasure would be communicated in a way that I would have no choice but to desist doing something he did not like.

But in my life where I had very little I enjoyed and absolutely nothing I looked forward to, the club served a variety of purposes.

It was a secret defiance to my father, and even my mother, the former who would be furious if he knew I went there, the latter would be horrified.

It was also mine.

Mine.

Georgie didn’t go there. Dad didn’t. None of our men went for fear of Dad’s (or Georgie’s) displeasure. And certainly none of my legitimate colleagues or acquaintances went there.

So I could go and not run into anyone who encroached in my life.

A life that was less of a life and more of a world.

I understood there was a real world. I knew it existed beyond the bounds of the world in which I lived. But the boundaries of my world, or more aptly put, the bonds, meant it seemed alien to me. There but not there. On the cusp of my existence but as unattainable as Mars.

This meant the club—what I did there, what I saw, what it made me feel, the time I spent, everything there—was mine. Just mine.

I didn’t have that. Not in any other part of my life. In truth, my father had only just four years ago stopped approving every clothing and accessory item I bought to wear in the pursuit of Shade business. Although I was now free to clothe myself, that freedom was significantly lacking in every other aspect of my life.

Further, I liked watching. There were some scenes that did nothing for me, like the current one playing out. There were other times nothing caught my attention.

And there were times when a scene or a player did catch my attention.

But the bottom line was that the club still was a place I could be that was my own. I could enjoy a drink, relax, and for a few hours be away from everything and just be…me.

And if there was a scene I liked, it would set me up for much more pleasurable things later.

Of course, I was giving myself these pleasurable things. But pleasure was pleasure and I didn’t have a lot of that either so I was happy to take what I could get.

As the cunnilingus was unfortunately reciprocated, making the scene last longer than expected, I discovered I didn’t have much email and therefore enjoyed the mindlessness of several games of solitaire on my phone when the dimness of the window and the lack of sounds caught my notice.

I looked to the window to see they’d darkened it in preparation for the next scene just as I heard the door behind me open.

I sighed.

I preferred a private salon simply because it was private. I knew many used those salons for a variety of purposes, alone or bringing a partner or partners. But when we’d owned protection, I was made aware they had cameras everywhere, including in the viewing rooms. This was for security purposes and VIPs were assured that staff very much understood discretion and that all tapes were wiped when the club closed at three in the morning (something I knew they did in our time—during Valenzuela’s time, anything could be happening).

I might like to watch but I didn’t fancy anyone watching me.

I also enjoyed prolonging it. If a scene worked and I enjoyed it, waiting to take care of the need it ignited was half the fun.

So that wasn’t why I didn’t wish to have company.

I simply didn’t wish to have company.

I didn’t bother looking over my shoulder. I didn’t care who was arriving but also the person arriving likely wished the same thing.

I heard a pleasantly deep man’s voice say, “Dewar’s. Rocks.”

“Yes, Mr. Grant.”

No noise after that undoubtedly because the carpeting muted him moving to his seat and Ms. Ross would never in a million years make too much noise closing the door behind her.

However, I only vaguely considered those thoughts.

I was still stuck on the pleasant deepness of the man’s voice.

I wanted that. I wanted that to let my mind take flight. I wanted the next scene I viewed to be stirring and to use that voice and my imagination to make some fabulous man up in my head who had a pleasantly deep voice who could do pleasant things to me. Then I would go home and create an even more fabulous fantasy with my hand between my legs.

These thoughts in my head, I heard the swish of fabric that was probably him setting aside a suit jacket, and out of habit at the sound, my head turned left.

I took one look and turned my attention back to my phone.

His voice had a pleasant deepness.

His appearance was so beyond pleasant, it was startling.

I waited, not wishing to be caught looking, and Ms. Ross returned with his drink only moments before the window illuminated for the next scene.

Only then did I allow myself to look at him again.

He had his eyes to the window, the drink to his lips.

I looked away quickly. But this time I’d noticed something so I couldn’t help myself from just as quickly casting another glance his way before I again looked away.

I’d been correct.

It was Nick Sebring.

I focused on my breathing, keeping it calm, my eyes to the window, my attention on my thoughts.

In my business, no, in my world, one made it a point to know men such as the Sebring brothers.

On several occasions, I had met Knight Sebring, a Denver nightclub owner who also provided protection and client vetting for a stable of ladies of the evening.

We had no dealings with Knight. He had a niche and kept to his niche, making it clear he had no interest in expanding his operation outside the women he had under his protection. Unless a client was exceptionally stupid, Knight also had little to no problems with any of his businesses. He lived quiet and extremely comfortably with his partner, Anya, and their two daughters.