Forever (2 page)

“Atta girl! You miss the hardbody back there?”
Lorraine was as irrepressible as ever and Amy wondered how Sandra had come to include her in the small circle of friends she’d cultivated since relocating. Sandra was a serious, reserved type. But Lorraine was also a nurse, and apparently blew off steam on a regular basis because of the often depressing things she saw on the neonatal unit. As for Julie and Noreen, ward clerks, both of them, and really nice women, they were always up for a party. Amy was just a hanger on. Until Sandra, she didn’t spend time with women at all, didn’t have girlfriends. But Sandra saved her life.

She decided to answer
Lorraine’s question with another. “You up for hitting Grand Masters after this?”

“Oh, girl. Nasty. Grand Master
s?” Lorraine shrieked it over the sound of the music, then winked comically, her face screwing up, both eyes shutting. She lowered her voice to a dull roar. “You have
those
kind of tendencies? Sure. What the hell? After the pitcher. Somebody order it.”

Amy didn’t know if she really had those tendencies. But the parody of bondage and titillating sexual acts played out at Grand Masters were intriguing, and even though she’d only attended a few times the entire scene got her fantasies going. Sandra’s too, although her friend only grudgingly acknowledged it, saying she preferred her erotic novels. And as far as Amy knew, no man had graced her friend’s bed since Sandra’s ascent from hell.

Noreen and Julie were game for anything, as always. The jug of margaritas arrived and Amy worked her way through her glass in record time, having resolutely ignored the return of Dean Chambray to his table and the subsequent exit of him and his men after a couple of bottles were drained and a few faint protests died away. It appeared his companions weren’t ready to leave, but they kowtowed to him, reinforcing her impression he was very much in charge. The wistful feeling Amy harbored didn’t die away at all, and she felt her lips surreptitiously from time to time.

“You okay?” Sandra blinked owlishly. Always a cheap drunk.

“Uh huh. Just decided to live it up. Thirty’s just around the corner.”

“Hardly. You’re not over the hill yet. But okay. You just looked kinda spooked
, and I wondered…”

“Nah. It’s all good. Drink up. We’re missing most of the shows as it is.” Amy didn’t want to get into a discussion about men with Sandra. That’s how they met, because of a man, and Amy knew how protective her friend was with her.

They finished their drinks and her girls headed to the restrooms while Amy went out to find a cab for five intoxicated women, herself included. Guzzling another margarita on an empty stomach … and with no cake. A minivan taxi pulled up, the light on the roof flashing its availability, and she held it until the other women burst through the door, laughing and calling out. Piling inside, she told the driver their destination and sat back to enjoy the ride. She could easily background search Dean Chambray when she got home, or tomorrow even, but decided she wouldn’t. No point in tormenting herself.

The crowded conditions of the cab, blended with the various perfumes they wore and the alcohol fumes, made the atmosphere close and she watched as the driver inhaled the intoxicating brew. He attempted to make conversation and
Lorraine entertained him with speculation about his “romantic” abilities. God.

****

“Grand Masters? You’re shitting me. Andrea’ll kick my ass.” Randy shook his head. “You’re on your own, boss. But take Enrico, and maybe a couple of the other guys’ll go.”

“I’m not planning to hang around. I just want to see what that big blonde makes of the place.” As soon as the description left his mouth, Dean regretted it. He’d made her sound like a floozy from another era and that woman was anything but.

“The birthday girl? You have “words” with her back there?”

“In the hallway, actually. She blew me off.”

“No shit. That’s a new one for you.” Randy’s tone wasn’t commiserating. There was an undertone of satisfaction Dean understood. He rarely struck out with a woman, and changed them out like his socks. His hunter’s instinct was aroused by one blonde Amy, something unfamiliar and very rare indeed.

“I don’t play games. They put out or not. Their choice. I don’t chase.”

“They put out and then you put them out.
No
chase.” A hint of censure now colored his lieutenant’s tone. Happily married and vocal about it, Randy forgot his own fairly recent man-whore status.

Dean shrugged. “
I’m nothing but honest with them, you know it.”

“But not all of them were skanks
. Some were nice girls.”

“They all knew the score. And I’m done talking.”

“Uh huh, and that’s why you’re heading to that tie ’em up and fuck ’em theatre-production-slash-nightclub. The blonde didn’t understand the
score
?”

Dean throttled an absurd desire to punch Randy in the head. How could he answer the other man when he didn’t understand it himself? He settled for a non committal “
curious.”

“Take Enrico. If your mind is on Blondie you won’t be watching your back. You got that feeling, remember
?”

Indeed. He had a feeling. Hence the impromptu meeting at the bar to put a few things into place while the offices were swept for bugs. The whisper of danger was a cold trickle of warning hovering dead between his shoulder blades. He’d totally forgotten the sensation when he kissed Amy. Not a good thing. He nodded to Randy. He’d take Enrico.

“I’ll drop you at the complex,” he offered.

“I’ll grab a ride with Olsen. I want to see what, if anything, was turned up in the sweep anyhow. See you tomorrow.” Randy turned away.

Dean motioned to Enrico, who obligingly climbed into the passenger seat. A man of few words, he was silent during the drive to the Masters, and Dean was glad not to have to respond to inane conversation. The serious stuff had already been said and he had a more pressing problem. His cock strained at attention behind the coarse weave of his jeans, imprinting on the zipper if not for the silk fabric of his boxers. The big blonde’s absence hadn’t mitigated his arousal one iota. He could still taste her, a mixture of tart lime and hints of sugar. And Amy. He could still feel the press of her generous breasts, the poke of her nipples. And her scent. Fuck. His cock tried to nod frantically within its cloth prison and he nearly groaned out loud.

So she liked the Grand Masters. Mind you, lots of people did. Gorgeous bodies of either gender, a little bondage, a hint of kink, lots to tease and tantalize. He wondered if Amy knew of the rooms in the back of the nightclub. He’d gone a couple of times with adventurous women, under the tutelage of a very experienced Dominant, and learned a thing or two about himself and how to pleasure a woman to extreme heights. But he didn’t need the trappings or the protocol. Dean
enjoyed sex, a lot of it. A good fuck, with nothing to cloud the main event. Long term wasn’t in the cards, and while he liked some of the women he fucked, as much as he got to know them, love wasn’t in the cards, either. Ever. That Amy puzzled him, or rather, his reaction to her did.

Knowing himself well, he decided to take one more kick at the cat, rather than be distracted by memories of that torrid kiss and the stirring of an unfamiliar
... something. He was uncomfortable, and if an “accidental” run in again with Blondie tonight got her into his bed, well, he’d fuck her right out of it, and life would go back to what passed for normal. It struck him that the woman might not even show up, and he and Enrico would be left sitting in a voyeur’s club, hot and bothered, with only each another for company. That didn’t sit at all well, although he could admit to finding some humor in the situation. Overhearing Lorraine’s enthusiastic agreement about going to the Masters didn’t mean they would actually attend. What
was
it about Blondie? He couldn’t have even described her friends with accuracy, and that, too, was outside the norm. He couldn’t afford to miss any nuance.

The city was hopping tonight, the downtown streets crowded with vehicles and foot traffic, and impatience had him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they waited through yet another delayed light. He checked his mirrors automatically, aware Enrico was doing the same, although all headlights looked pretty much the same in the dark. His weapon was tucked away in a compartment beneath his seat, easy to get to, but he wasn’t carrying it into a place like Grand Masters. Amy hadn’t missed much with her covert glances
, and he had no doubt she’d see the outline of a gun. Her ability to observe and unerringly assess should be telling him to keep his distance—he couldn’t afford prescient women—but he felt driven to see her again. However, there was no point in giving her a deeper window into his life when any connection with her was going to be short term, so he’d keep his firepower under the seat.

Pulling into the crowded lot, he found a space big enough to park his truck, and he and Enrico joined the small group outside the club. The pulsing beat emanating from the partially open door had everyone moving to it, some subtly, others blatantly, the scant illumination doing little to hide the excitement and anticipation on the faces of both genders. The doorman looked their way and his casual stance stiffened. The man gestured to Dean and waved them through, past the hopefuls who’d probably been waiting to enter for hours. Sometimes it helped to be known in this city. Or as someone who’d purchased a block of shares in Masters.

Dean slowed beside the doorman and dropped the word in his ear not to delay the entry of five women, spearheaded by a tall, beautiful blonde. He had no doubt Amy would be in the lead, despite her attempt to be self effacing. Intriguing.

They were shown to a table not far from both the stage and the door, one clearly reserved for VIPs, and Dean tipped his chair back up against the wall, relaxing his body while scanning the room. Enrico swivelled his own chair to give him a better vantage point, but of the crowd. The kid knew better than to leave himself open to distractions, however exotic and tempting, obviously taking his assigned role as bodyguard seriously.

The walls were painted a dull, flat black, and absorbed all available light, taking nothing away from the stage lit in various areas to showcase the activity. Heavy, crimson, velvet drapery panels framed faux windows intermittently applied to the walls with lengths of wrought iron tortured into intricate shapes. Dean knew how erotic those shapes were, having scrutinized them while touring the place and doing a deal with the owners. Sconces set at head height flickered ominously, each table boasting the same flickering light in the shape of a candle, the better to add to the mood. Heavy, baroque chandeliers dripped crystals and gave the patrons and serving staff enough light to negotiate the wide planked floors.

The room was full, tables packed with patrons of all ages, from early twenties to early sixties, maybe older, and the atmosphere was heavy with lust. Sultry eyes on the women, and some of the men, seemingly casual gestures actually designed to entice and showcase the bounty of flesh on display. The air seethed with hormones and Dean could see hands tucked under the tables, the black and red cloth providing a barrier to what he assumed were illicit groping
s.

A well built fellow, his muscles encased in leather, hovered around a nearly naked woman hanging from a hook in the middle of the stage, her toes barely brushing the floor. He was binding her with red rope, and her spotlit face was beatific in expression, lips parted, eyes closed, relaxed. As the man’s hands drifted around her body, Dean could swear he heard her moan despite the pulsing rock music filling the club. Nothing really graphic—he’d seen more of a woman’s body in a strip joint—but the intimacy and the trust she showed, the surrender, were incredibly arousing.

Personal exhibitionism wasn’t Dean’s thing, but he was glad others enjoyed that kink because he got off watching it. He wondered what Amy’s private fantasies were and if one night would be enough to explore them. Didn’t matter. It would have to be one night, with maybe a casual other time or two, depending on if she understood his expectations. Saying no to him earlier was probably just playing hard to get.

Knowing why he didn’t trust women didn’t change it. The old lady’s ravaged face swam into his vision, unbidden, and he impatiently blinked it away. Why was he thinking about
her
? Maybe this urge to hunt down Blondie was a mistake. He didn’t like where his thoughts were going, or the historical shit being stirred up. Dropping the front feet of the chair onto the floor with a thump, Dean made to motion away the waitress heading over to take their order, planning to exit. Then he saw Amy enter the club, hesitating as she did so, body poised to—flee? From his slight vantage point behind the thin body of the waitress, he watched as Amy scanned the room, much the same way he’d done earlier, before stepping aside to allow her friends to pass. Interesting. He forgot all about the fact he’d been about to leave.

The women squeezed around a table offset in a corner, clearly the least appealing of the seating, but the only thing available. “Take two jugs of margaritas to that table in the alcove, the one with the five newcomers,” he ordered the still hovering waitress. “And a couple of beers for us.”

Nodding, her eyes passing over his face and then obviously dropping to his crotch, the server pushed her breasts out before turning to sashay a nicely curved ass away.