Chapter Three

Finley

A clatter in the kitchen startled Finley and he dropped his toothbrush into the sink.

"Max? What are you—" He swallowed, shaking his head.

There was no one but him at his new place. Nearly two years passed since he'd lost his son and yet every sound still tricked his brain into thinking Max returned from his trip unharmed. He missed the chaos the boy had brought into his life, for seventeen years.

Every day since then, he missed teasing Max with silly jokes over breakfast, sending him to school when he was just a child, then talking to him about his attraction to a girl, or ironing his shirt for a school disco. The various little details of Max's growing up were Finley's most precious memories. Working for the mafia and running the distillery for years had given Finley the means to take his son on regular city breaks and even holidays abroad. Finley could never be away from work too long, but the responsibility came with money, so he'd never complained. Thanks to his job, Max could attend the private school on the island. The remoteness of the island amped the exclusivity of the school, and Max attended with kids of movie stars and rich people who needed a quiet place to hide their kids.

The time had passed quickly and the cute curly-haired redhead with big green eyes had become a lanky teenager. Between Max's puberty hormones and Finley's constant overwork, they'd argued constantly, but at the end of the day, they'd found the time to watch The Office together. With pain in his heart, Finley had been mentally preparing himself for Max leaving the house, finding a partner, and wanting a life of his own.

Instead Max's life had been cut short by a gang of teens attacking the truck Max had been in.

Since then, Finley had learnt that grief manifested itself in various ways. At first, he'd thrown himself back into work at the distillery, occupying every waking hour with orders and barrels. The gaps in his knowledge—the ways Max had helped him with the paperwork—became more apparent as time passed, and it hadn't escaped Don Murphy's keen eye. Finley had hoped the new employee Don had sent would result in a smoother running distillery, but Peyton had done so much more.

Finley had witnessed how the Don's son fell in love with Mat, the heir to the London Mafia's legacy, under the distillery's roof. Together, they showed Finley how starting a new life could lead to finding yourself.

Thanks to years of loyalty, Finley had the guts to ask Don Murphy if he could leave the island. He couldn't disappear off the Mafia's radar completely, but he'd been given the opportunity to work at a place owned by Don's long-time business partner, Szef Zbigniew Kwiatkowski and his wife Jagoda. Finley had taken it, but had asked to be informed if Don ever found out who'd killed his son. Finley had offered to help bring them to justice, whatever that would mean. So far, he hadn't heard anything but he knew incessant asking wouldn't put him in Don's good graces. He didn't want the waiting to be his only reason to live, so he was determined to enjoy the time until then, until it was time for him to join his son.

Finley didn't regret the decision to leave the quiet island in favour of busy London. But his new flat still felt off. It lacked the smell of wood, the sound of a crackling fireplace, the snarky comments of his son. He missed the house he'd helped build with his own hands; a place where he knew every nook and cranny. Most importantly, he missed the home he'd made with his son. Without him, the house had become an empty shell filled with ghosts of memories.

If he wanted to avoid spiralling into a negative headspace again, he had to stick to his plan of leaving the past behind and grabbing fistfuls of his new life.

That was why, after three days at the bar with Lucy, Finley accepted the invitation to go shopping.

Now, he was standing in the heart of London, ticket in hand, waiting for Lucy. He took his phone from his jeans and was about to text her when a hard clap on his shoulder announced her presence.

"Lucy, I thought you'd never—" He swivelled around and his words stuck in his throat when a tall man with short black hair and a familiar smile stood before him.

"It's Latif today," he winked. "Good to see you, Finley."

Lucy was beautiful, but Latif was stunning. In his grey Chinos and patterned shirt, he looked like he was about to go to an art gallery and mingle with posh people.

Finley grinned and followed his friend into the depths of the London Alternative Market. They navigated the stands, passing cock cages, floggers, and a variety of contraptions. Finley made a mental note to set aside some funds and return to splurge more than he could this time. Latif seemed to know everyone, and introduced Finley to vendors selling hand-made colourful dildos, paddles, and some stuff he'd had to research to figure out what they were for. The banter between the sellers created a friendly atmosphere, and by the time they reached the stands with clothing, Finley had met more people and listened to more stories than at a party.

"So are you more of a leather or latex man?" Latif asked, tapping his chin as he perused the vast selection.

"Leather, definitely. It smells so nice." And the snugness on his thighs and ass felt like someone holding him tight. The boost of confidence the ogling patrons at the club gave him was a bonus.

"Mmhm. You're kink leaning already and don't even know it."

"After what I've seen so far at the club, I'm not going to argue with you."

Latif's laugh was rich in a movie-villain way as he reached for a hanger. "Okay, what about these?" He waved a garment on a hanger in front of his face.

"Assless chaps?" Finley imagined the draft. "No. I don't think I'm ready for those." He'd found them hot on other men at the club, but he wasn't ready to hang his big ass out for an entire evening.

"Oh, come on. You're no fun!" Latif groaned, clacking the hangers as he browsed. "These boyshorts, then."

"I don't know." Finley squinted at the skimpy piece of rubber.

"Your thighs would look great in these." Latif waggled his bushy black eyebrows. "With a tank top to match and those tattoos of yours, you'd turn the heads of all the men—" He bit his lip. "Anyone really. Whoever you fancy."

"Gimme that." Finley snatched the shorts and held onto them, turning toward see-through shirts. He couldn't focus on the garments, his mind stuck on Latif's words. "How did you know?"

"About what?" Latif gave him a look of false innocence.

"That I'm not gay. I mean, I—" Finley looked away, his stomach flipping more intensely than during the job interview. He'd been so young when he'd married Maggie, then after the divorce he'd explored his sexuality in secret—with random people he'd met at clubs or pubs on the odd night he'd left the island.

"You don't owe me an explanation. Nor anyone else." Latif stopped browsing and met Finley's gaze. "I mean it."

"Thanks. But I think I'm done hiding and pushing aside who I am. I'm attracted to people, if that makes sense?" Air left Finley's lungs and he found it hard to take more in. He wiped his hands on his jeans and backed into a corner with fabrics and craft materials. No one around paid attention to him but Latif, who approached slowly as if Finley was a spooked animal ready to bolt.

"It does," Latif said and opened his arms. "You can be yourself with me. And at the club."

Finley took a gulp of air and stepped into the offered hug. "I wanted a fresh start," he said in a series of quick breaths. "Thanks for helping me realise it will take much more than a new job."

"Are you looking to forget your old life?" Latif's low voice was so caring, Finley returned the embrace.

"No, just the opposite. But the good memories are now painful, and my previous house and workplace were full of them." He'd been losing his mind cooped up at the distillery, haunted by the ghost of a life he'd never get back.

Latif patted Finley's back then held him at arm's length. "Let's start with some fabulous threads then, hm?"

Three days later, Finley wore his new garments to work under jeans and a shirt, which he stripped off in the changing rooms. Admittedly, the latex shorts hugged him well and were insanely comfortable. However, they were so tight he'd have to stay behind the bar if he got hard again watching people at the club.

Joining Lucy behind the bar, he took in the elaborate black ensemble she was wearing. She was mid-explaining that the frill on her puffy dress was a ‘fairy goth-mother' look when a ruckus started by the entrance.

Instinctively, Finley rushed towards the arguing voices, but Lucy stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You're not a bouncer and it's not even your security day. Sit this one out."

Finley nodded, but moved closer in case he could be of any help.

A guy dressed in full Nazi uniform, complete with a hat and an SS band on his arm, was kicking up a fuss, claiming his clothes were of historical significance. Face red from anger, he was shouting obscenities towards the bouncers, who refused to let him in.

"Don't worry, Finley. We get plenty of those." Lucy sighed, shaking her head. "We are a place of tolerance, so bigots and Nazis can go fuck themselves. ‘Scuse my French."

True enough, three security guys escorted the angry bloke out with little to no gentleness.

"Okay, the circus is over." Lucy snapped her fingers, and the gawkers turned towards the bar.

"I've been a good girl!" a petite lady said quickly, then looked around with wide eyes.

A man approached her from the side, kissing her cheek. "That wasn't me. I'm here baby, and you've been very good." His chuckle was low and full of affection as he pulled her close. She smiled at him sweetly and hid her face in his chest.

"Two gin and tonics, please," the man said, and slid his card on the bar.

Finley prepared them while Lucy took payment. They fell into a rhythm, serving the patrons with efficiency and engaging in small talk that put a blush on Finley's cheeks more than once.

A bald man with dystopian goggles on his head approached the counter in a wheelchair, and Finley leaned over to let out an appreciative whistle at the sight. The metal chains adorning the wheels clanked as he moved closer. The bar lights illuminated the spikes on the sides and leather straps holding it all together. Coupled with the man's heavy boots with buckles, he could have ridden straight into the set of Mad Max.

"Nice ride," Finley said, eyeing the details and fantastic paintwork.

"Thanks. My wife helped me turn it into this beauty." He put his hands on the wheels and twirled in a circle.

"Sweet! I'm Finley, I'm new here."

"I know because I'm not. I've been coming here for almost a decade." He chuckled. "Name's Liam."

"Can I get you anything, Liam?"

"Jack and Coke, and two fingers of Malibu. I'll take them right away." From the pocket of his artistically battered jacket, he retrieved a card and touched it to the reader.

Finley made the drinks and walked around the bar to the man.

"Here." Liam fiddled with his armrest and slid out two holders, perfect for the glasses Finley had brought.

"Enjoy."

"Thanks, mate. See you around."

Finley returned to his spot behind the bar just as Lucy came back from delivering an order to the VIP lounge.

"Ah, you've met Liam." Lucy arranged a row of shots as if expecting someone soon. "He and his wife are regulars. You'll know who is who soon enough." She patted Finley's shoulder then paused.

The chest harness Finley wore left most of his back uncovered and he knew the second Lucy's inquisitive nature would win. The dual sets of dates marked the two beginnings and two ends—the events that had shaped Finley's life the most. Even for someone who didn't know his story, it must have been clear what the dates meant.

A birth and a death.

"Your shoulder blade tattoos…" Lucy's hand fell. "I'm sorry. Who—" Lucy pursed her lips and met Finley's gaze. "You know you can talk to me, right? Anytime."

Finley nodded. "It's a long story. Maybe some other time." He cleared his throat as his chest constricted with the ghost of a past so painful it was still very much in the present.

Lucy squeezed Finley's forearm, bringing him comfort with the simple, yet supportive gesture, then turned to straighten the bottles behind the bar.

Finley excused himself to the bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water and sat on a closed toilet lid in a stall. His friends from the island had attempted to talk to him and engage in social activities after the tragedy that happened nearly two years ago. He'd tried to continue his life running the distillery like he'd done for seventeen years, but it had been too hard. Mary, the self-proclaimed mother to the small island community, had suggested he should talk to a professional. They'd been friends for over a decade and he had a difficult time mentioning his family in her presence, so how the fuck could he unload his trauma to a psychologist? He couldn't change anything, anyway.

This new job was a blessing in a way that distracted him from thinking. Until now. His next shift would be on the floor and he'd be watching a scene up close. Maybe he should book a session with Master Kage after all? Push his body and mind further than he ever had and see who came out on the other side.

To make the best use of the break, he took a leak, washed his hands and headed back. Hopefully, with the busy atmosphere and chatty customers, he'd shove his memories aside and focus on the present.

Sure enough, patrons queued to get drinks before the session on the main stage started.

"You all right?" Lucy asked, taking her gaze off the cocktail she was preparing to glance at Finley.

"Yeah. All good, thanks. Let me help." He took out drink glasses and froze.

According to the graphic, the audience would have the pleasure to witness Mistress Renata in action today and Finley couldn't wait. So his brows flew high in surprise when a familiar figure of a tall man moved towards the bar.

"Master Kage is coming," Lucy sing-songed. "You serve him. Doms can cut the queue."

"Of course they can." Finley snorted, keeping his expression neutral. Hopefully, he succeeded.

Fuck, Master Kage walked like he should have a swarm of photographers following him to get the best angle of his sharp jaw illuminated by the club's lights. Finley wiped his palms on a towel and met the Dom's gaze.

"Two fingers of Shōchū, please," Master Kage said in a smooth, posh accent, and slid gracefully onto the barstool.

Finley nodded once. "On its way." He reached for the bottle with Japanese letters on it and poured the contents into a whisky glass. Lucy had mentioned that the Dom didn't drink alcohol when he worked, but he had no scenes scheduled for today, so that must be the reason for him being here.

"Thanks." Master Kage accepted the glass and swirled the liquid. "You're new here. I didn't catch your name."

"It's Finley. I started last week." And I'm already a fan. He smiled a professional smile. Not a grin of fascination, not at all.

"Kage."

"I know." Fuck. Shut your pie hole, Finley. Next thing, he'd be giggling. His 6 ft 2' height and lumberjack build didn't save Finley from being affected by the suave dominance oozing off Master Kage.

The Dom hid his smirk behind his drink and took a sip, amusement gleaming in his eyes. He turned sideways when the commotion of an excited crowd got the attention of patrons by the bar.

Red lights illuminated the raised platform, along with the bench and implements on it. A young man removed a satin sheet to reveal a set of steel equipment, feathers and paddles on a trolley, and stepped off the scene with his head bowed. The hush that fell over the patrons left only a chorus of murmurs and background music. The anticipation was palpable, but Finley was engrossed in the sharp features of Master Kage's profile, his straight nose, dark eyebrows and slim but shapely lips that parted when he took a sip of his drink.

"You witnessed a scene before in the club, right?" Master Kage's deep voice startled Finley from his stupor.

"Yes. It was my first day when you… I saw you with that young man." Heat filled Finley's cheeks and his belly swooped at the memory of the scene and how furiously he'd wanked when he got home that night. He was a grown man, for fuck's sake, why was he so flustered?

"Did you like it?"

"It was unforgettable." Well, at least he was honest.

"You'll love Mistress Renata. She's brilliant." The Dom's lip quirked into a smile. "Here she comes."

Finley was sure she would be great, but it was the man in front of him who set his body on fire with his mere presence. Sure, he'd been attracted to men before, but it had never been this intense. He was looking at the Dom through the prism of the scene he'd seen and it was messing with his head. He'd better focus on the bar and on the platform in the middle of the room.

A long-legged Domme in a bright purple corset and ball-crushing boots prepared the ropes as she click-clicked her heels on the wooden planks. Her high ponytail swished as she beckoned a woman waiting for her instructions.

The Sub was a voluptuous ebony beauty in a frilly pink teddy barely leaving anything to the imagination. She followed Mistress Renata's orders and soon moaned as the ropes tightened around her wrists and ankles, her body splayed on the bench. With a long whip and a rainbow-coloured butt plug, the Domme made both the audience and the Sub release tiny, erotic noises. When she used the rope to secure a magic wand to the inside of the Sub's thigh, it was only a matter of time before the audience started chanting the numbers of orgasms.

Finley was watching them intently, but his body wasn't on fire quite the same way as it had been the day Master Kage took the stage. Watching made him burn, but only Master Kage had caused him to nearly explode.

Throughout the erotic scene, Finley became more and more convinced that he had to book a session with Master Kage. If only to learn that this whole ordeal was not for him, and the Dom was simply a skilled human, not a God who would awaken even more desires in Finley. Maybe then his dreams would be free of Master Kage. But what if the opposite happened? Was he ready to embrace this side of his sexuality? Nothing was holding him back from finding out.