Chapter 3

Kathleen

Idon't know what the hell happened. I swear to God, I had my shit together this morning when I left home. I double-checked my bag to make sure that the papers I needed were there. My father called to make sure I didn't forget anything. Even Annie had doubles of everything, and she couldn't find a damned thing!

I'm so embarrassed. In no way am I usually this disorganized. You should have felt my pulse when I realized I didn't have those pictures. Those stupid pictures that I found on my dining table when I got home. Just lying there, mocking me, the woman who is supposed to be in control and on top of everything.

The moment I saw those blasted papers on my table, I started crying. Not full-on sobbing, but there were definitely tears of frustration that I haven't felt since I finished my last degree and pulled sixteen-hour days to make sure I graduated as well as I did. Sleep? What sleep?

I can't tell you how much of a failure I feel like right now. The Mathisons were counting on me. My father was counting on me to pull this off without a hitch. Not only did I botch it, but now I've been given a pity retry. Two weeks from now I will be presenting these images to the goddamn council to get their approval. I'm not sure we need it, legally. The Ace may be a historical cornerstone of the community, but the property is privately owned and the Anderssens can sell it to anyone they want. But I understand. The Mathisons understand. Everyone's reputation with the community is on the line. Community members we want to continue to do business with.

Shit, will I even be able to do that?

I can't think like this. It's a Friday night, and I need to unwind. So after a glass of wine at home to get me started, I text my friend Eve and tell her to meet me at Midnight, the perfect place to unwind.

Get drunk and unwind.

I love Midnight. It's not just a sex club. It's a place to live your lifestyle without the fear of shame or retribution. There's an unspoken rule – actually, you sign a paper swearing to follow it – that you don't expose anybody there. So if I saw, say, Ira Mathison snorting blow and fucking a woman on a table, I'm not allowed to tell anyone about it. Like, you know, a reporter.

I mention that because a couple of years ago there was this gal who brought in blow and fucked someone. The blow got him in big trouble with the establishment. Sort of illegal, you know. The fucking? Oh, that's common. From the moment you walk into the main room past a thousand bouncers and security guards, it's a free-for-all.

Mostly, though, it's a bunch of drinking with friends and business associates. Dominants and submissives hook up, but aside from the exhibitionists, things are taken home or into private rooms. The club provides implements in case you forgot yours at home. Isn't that nice?

I like the club because I feel like I can be myself. I can relax here, especially with my friend Eve, who is a queer Domme like me.

"You need another one of these," she says, holding up our empty shot glasses. She flags a server dressed in a tight leather skirt and a shiny tube top. Soon, Eve and I are taking another shot. I don't know what it is, but it burns my esophagus and numbs my brain. I've already told her about what happened today, and holy shit am I glad I have someone to unload on right now… and someone to load me up with alcohol.

I don't want to get drunk. What I want is sex. That's the high I prefer.

Pretty sure that Eve is here to get plastered. She's in grad school and taking it seriously so she can be like me and join her family's business… and grad school is no joke. I don't envy her. Like I said, the last time I cried like I did today was when I was in school. Eve doesn't cry, though. She gets shitfaced.

"This is great." I turn down one more shot, but she gets another, downing it in one gulp before relaxing in her chair with a cigar. All right, I admit it. She's damn hot, especially when she's throwing her weight around and acting like a bigger bigshot than me. Personality-wise, that's how Eve Warner is. Butchy, commanding, and not afraid to get in someone's face if they give her shit for who she is. I like her not because we're similar in age, but because she's hilarious and knows how to make a girl feel better after a shit day at work.

"The Anderssens will forget about it soon enough, Kat." She's the only one who can get away with calling me that. "They know you're good for it. As long as you don't blow the public presentation, they won't give a shit. Everyone knows they wanna sell that place. Even my sister thought about buying it until she heard the Mathisons were lifting their legs on that hydrant."

"Thanks for the visual." I sigh. "You don't get it, though. It was so embarrassing. I don't know how I left those papers on my table like that. I must have taken them out when looking for something else."

"Probably. When you get nervous, you can be forgetful."

"Aren't most people?"

Eve shrugs, lining up our empty shot glasses and counting them. Over half of them are hers because that woman can hold her liquor. Not me. I'm flushed after two shots and that glass of wine. Think I'll order a martini to nurse for a while."

"I know what you need." Eve wags her finger. "You need a honey for tonight."

Well, duh, why does she think we're here? We could get a drink anywhere. I could've driven to her place if I wanted to shoot the breeze and drink. Instead, we're at Midnight because this is where people like us come if we want to take out our problems the BDSM way.

The place is crawling with men and women. Most of them, whether they Dom or sub, aren't bad to look at. The dominants wear their cut suits and slinky dresses made of fine Italian materials. You can smell their cologne from a mile away, and it smells amazing. Their hair is pristine. Some of them are here with their lovers. I can see Jem Mercier and her long-term girlfriend Gwenyth. They're having dinner with another couple, but from my vantage point up on the balcony, I see Gwenyth's hand making a run for Jem's crotch beneath the table.

There are a few other people I recognize from the rich world of the elite I was born into. Stock traders, bankers, businessmen, politicians, movie stars, pretty much anyone with the pedigree or paychecks to qualify for a place like this. Midnight takes its safety and confidentiality seriously. You're not getting in unless you have multiple zeros at the end of your bank account. Basically, not unless you've got some serious prestige to lose if word gets out. Collateral damage.

We understand that. We don't care. We need a place to party and fuck like anyone else.

Those are the dominants, anyway. The submissives come from a very different walk of life. Sure, some of them are rich. Others are people who are working their way up. Others are professional subs who make their living off performances. There are so many dominants in this world that the club encourages subs of lesser means to join and make regular appearances to get laid. It's a great gig if you're poorer and looking for a hot sugar mama or daddy. The club doesn't discriminate. Gay, straight, bi… it's all good as long as you're respectful about it.

There's one I've got my eye on. The woman's svelte in that modelesque way. Probably is a model. She's wearing black underwear, topless, sitting cross-legged on a pillow with her shoulders slightly slouched and a simple collar around her neck. The kind that says she subs but has no permanent partner.

I've got a good feeling. In my loins, that is.

All I want is someone hot to crawl on top of and ride until I forget how much today sucked. I don't even need to whip them unless that's what they want. Maybe that's what I'll put out tonight. "Hey, you," I'll say. "I'll give you great oral if you shut up and let me ride your face too."

Eve follows my gaze down into the main gallery. "Someone wants to get laid," she says. Cigar smoke filters past my nose, but I'm too lost in my fantasies of Ms. Beautiful down there. I bet she's tighter than a taut string in all the right places. "Can't say I blame you. If I weren't cramping like a bitch I'd be out of here already."

Too much information, but that's Eve. "I would ask if it's that obvious, but…"

"You asked me here, didn't you? If you say let's go to Midnight, I assume that you're looking for a hot piece of ass. After hearing about your day? I'm shocked you're not already getting out your crop and smacking some lucky butts down there."

"I need to gather up the energy to do that first."

Eve finishes her cigar and stands, straightening out her suit and checking her impeccable hair with her hands. If I were the type to sleep with my friends, I'd be into someone like her. Eve and I would be a hilariously kinky and troublemaking couple.

"Stick around, Kat. I'll scope out some pretty boys for you, too. In case the girls are all spoken for."

"Not too pretty. I like muscles on mine."

"Should be easy enough to find. Hang tight."

I don't think she's going to find me anyone, but Eve saunters off, half-drunk but putting on the air of sobriety. She needs the alcohol if she's going to survive this club by herself. Although with my luck, she'll find a woman and leave me in the dust. If Eve can sniff out someone willing to get Topped by her, she will find them.

That martini I've been thinking about is mine within five minutes. I attempt to enjoy the peace I now have in an otherwise loud club. Helps that Eve and I got here early and secured our quaint VIP space upstairs. Looking back down into the main gallery, I see a party has started. Business dealings are over. Now people are plastered enough to holler at every makeout session and spanking they see.

More high-profile people are arriving. I focus on a familiar face and soon recognize up-and-coming actress Stephanie May. If you don't know her, she was an indie darling for a few years before a big director cast her in a moderate success. She got a few accolades, and because she's a hot skinny blonde, she gets lots of offers now. There's talk she's going to be in the adaptation for one of those historical rom-coms. Don't ask me which one. The only books I have time to read anymore are business insiders and the occasional erotic short on my tablet. Last time I read anything with substance was, I dunno, Gone Girl? Fuck, what happened in that book?

I can't remember. Partly because the woman holding Stephanie's hand is no one else but Ira Mathison, and I'm trapped between pure surprise and disgust.

Of course, she's dating a young movie starlet. I mean, Ira is a total freakin' player. Everyone knows it. She goes through girlfriends – sometimes more than one at a time – like I go through chocolate when I'm PMSing. I can't keep track of these girls…

…Not that I am, mind you. It's not like I care how many women she parades around, or who she gets photographed with for Page 6. She's one of those people who is super public with her life. Doesn't hide from cameras. Isn't afraid to get up and say something. She's always been that way too. For a while, she was on the student council in high school. Captain of the soccer team. She is a natural leader like that, and nobody was surprised when she started doing so well in her family's company. Why wouldn't she?

I'm the opposite. I didn't run for anything in high school. I barely played sports past some stints at volleyball. Thing is, I was riding the coattails of my parents. There was never any doubt that I would get into the school of my choice – my dad only needed to write the right check if I couldn't get in on my own merits. Don't get me wrong. I got good grades. I applied myself where I felt like it. Only now I have to apply myself harder to prove to myself, my parents, and the business world that this woman can do just as well as anyone else. Then I do shit like I did this morning.

I look away from Ira and her arm candy. They're talking to a few other people, and she's got her arm wrapped around Stephanie May like they're gonna bone any moment. Probably will. Ira is no stranger to the private rooms in the back.

Neither am I. That's beside the point. See, it's okay if I sleep around. It's totally different when she does it.

Don't ask me why. Just… every time I see her with someone, I'm angry. Not on a tirade, but definitely uneasy.

I'm not jealous.

Jealousy would imply I wish I were Stephanie May. Let me tell you, the type of woman who wraps herself up in a dominant's arms, coos in their ear, and begs to be bent over and pummeled right in the pussy? That ain't me. That won't ever be me.

Excuse you, I am not protesting too much!