Chapter One

Jackson

My mood is so sour I can almost taste it. The red lights across the street flicker on, and The Red Bastille's sign glows. There's already a growing crowd lining up on the pavement, waiting to go in, both men and women alike. The Red Bastille is a gentleman's club with an upper-class feel. It might be targeted at men, but that doesn't stop the ladies tagging along, just as keen to drink, enjoy the music, watch the dancers perform, or experience their first threesome or orgy.

Fucking Sebastian. I wish there was a way to send that little shit out of business. He's such a fucking pretty boy. With a lithe build, colorful ink over every free inch of skin, and straight black hair cut at that annoying length where the prick is forever flipping it out of his eyes, giving him that dramatic, Emo flair. The women love him. He's as suave and smooth as silk. Just the right amount of predator and debonair ladies' man to come across as powerful, but not brutish.

Sebastian Crenshaw. My fucking rival. I should be content. The Dungeon— my gentleman's club—has its own breed of clientele. Here, we don't serve cocktails or have glittering disco balls. The Dungeon is all about BDSM. Like me, most of my paying customers are muscular, heavily tattooed in monochromatic designs, and are affiliated with drug cartels and outlaw MC clubs.

The Dungeon is all about leather, black lace, and every dark and fucked-up kink imaginable. Whether it's leading bitches around on leashes, spanking or flogging asses red, fucking publicly, or enjoying any one of the playrooms on offer. If someone wants it, The Dungeon will happily oblige almost any level of deviancy and debauchery—including breath and edge play. We always have a handful of fully qualified medical staff on premises, just to be safe, because kinks are fun, but ultimately, we want everyone getting home in one piece and still breathing.

The music thrums through my club, and I pour myself a shot of bourbon. I have three staff behind the bar tonight, but I like to make an appearance, and hanging out behind the bar gives me the opportunity to meet customers directly, as well as keep an eye on things. After all, this club is my life. It's my job to take care of it. I have security, of course, but The Dungeon is my baby.

Slugging back my drink, I lean on the bar, staring out across the street. Sebastian shouldn't bug me as much as he does. We have mostly different customer bases … but I guess his club has a broader intake than mine does, which means that little shit is practically rolling in cash. He gets the newly legal-aged teenyboppers, as well as the classier customers who enjoy the burlesque entertainment, not to mention the regular sex addicts who frequent any establishment they can.

The Dungeon caters to a very specific taste, and the only people who walk through my doors are those who know the dark and depraved pleasures the world of BDSM has to offer, or they're interested in finding out. I'm proud to own the premiere BDSM club in the city, but Sebastian just gets on my nerves. Some nights he even saunters over here like he owns the place, flaunting his wealth, using his disarming smirk, and jet-black gaze like weapons of mass destruction.

Everything about him makes me want to grind my teeth and break him in two. His club might rake in more than mine, but I bet that little Emo prick couldn't last one night in The Dungeon. He'd probably break! I muse. And then, like a bolt of lightning through my soul, a stomach-twisting realization hits me. Fuuuck. I've always known that I'm bisexual, at least since my late teens. But when it comes to men, I'm very, very particular. I'll fuck any hot, vivacious Goth chick with a bit of attitude. Men, however, are an entirely different story. For me, it must be about more than just sex. When I'm with a man it's about connection and compatibility in the way we complement each other as partners.

I'm attracted to my bloody enemy. God-fucking-damnit. My red-light rival knows just how to push my buttons in all the right ways. I pour myself another drink and slam it down, enjoying the fiery burn as it slides down my throat. How did I miss this for so long? We've both been in business for the better part of five years, and though we've had our mouthy run-ins, I've never thought of Sebastian as anything other than an arrogant little shit. But now? Fuck me. The tension, the fire between us, the rivalry … it's like all the dots are finally connected and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I'm into him.

Well, this sucks. You never mix business with pleasure. It always ends in disaster. That's Business 101. And even if I did want to get to know Sebastian more personally before burying myself balls-deep in his hairless ass, who's to say he'd even be interested in me? I'm six foot four, I work out, have wavy, shoulder-length bleach-blond hair with dark roots, and live in leather. Spikes, handcuffs, and belts are my regular accessories. The owner of The Red Bastille, meanwhile, spends his life in suits, tight-fighting pants, and turtlenecks.

Maybe we're too different? I wonder. I look like a fucking biker, and he looks like he could be the next 007. What if he likes —I cut myself off mid-thought. I'm not going to get myself caught up in knots over this guy, no matter how beautiful he looks in my mind bent over a cage as I eat out his ass. He hasn't made a move in all this time, so why should I?

He obviously has his priorities sorted with The Red Bastille, and I should focus on mine—The Dungeon. That's not to say I can't have my fantasies… Abandoning my tumbler in the sink behind the bar, I take my leave and head for my private office on the second floor. I have a mind to beat one out before things really start picking up in the club. So, whether that pretty little shit would like it or not, for the next five minutes, he's going to be my fantasy bitch.