True North (Compass series Book 4) (8 page)

“Look, Slade. I know you’re nervous, and I don’t blame you. But think about it this way. Sex scandals rock Washington all the time. Mistresses and call girls coming forward, homophobes getting caught with their dicks stuck through glory holes, secret families coming to light.”

I can think of at least one example of each of those scenarios. Not to mention the nuclear fallout and a hellscape littered with ruined careers. This is not making me feel any better, but my heavy glare doesn’t seem to affect him at all.

“When’s the last time you heard about a high-powered lobbyist who’s into being used as a human toilet? Or a senator whose idea of a good time on a Saturday night is using her partner as a pin-cushion? How about a high-ranking military official who likes nothing better than to be diapered and bottle-fed?”

“I—”

“You haven’t. And I guarantee it’s not because those people don’t exist.” Rey opens the car door and slips out, bending over so his head and torso fill the doorframe. “Or do they?”

He winks at me before he straightens and hip-checks the door closed. I grit my teeth and run a hand through my hair, irritation and anxiety making me fidgety. Rey likes to mess with me. Which, on the one hand, pisses me off. On the other, there aren’t a whole lot of people who would dare to and a little friendly ribbing makes me feel more like a person instead of a block of stone.

So I grudgingly open the door and push out of the low-slung car, hurrying a little to fall in beside the man who holds the key.

*

The façade of
the Black House isn’t remarkable, just another brick-faced building in a neighborhood with middling traffic, but the inside of the club is nicer than I’d thought it would be, given how most kink clubs get described. Sometimes just a barely finished basement with a few St. Andrew’s crosses and a mattress in the corner. Shudder-inducing. Not this one, though. Dark green walls and black-and-white checkerboard tile make the entrance look interchangeable with any other Washington club, as does the besuited security guard flanking the door and the uniformed man who takes Rey’s name.

The greeter’s impassive expression is encouraging, although I’d still almost rather run down the Mall with no clothes on than go in here. That would only be exposing my body, after all, and I’m in decent enough shape for a guy of forty-four. Walking through this door, though, is like putting my innermost thoughts and desires on display, admitting
I’m a freak like you
. It’s enough to bring vomit into my throat.

It’s been bad enough the few times I’ve been able to have sessions with Rey over the past couple of months, either at his home or in his hotel room when we’ve happened to be in the same city for work. This, though, with its exponentially higher potential to turn into a career-ruining clusterfuck, is even worse.

Rey’s already stepped through the door so I follow. Though I feel like a small child clinging to his mother’s skirts, I tell myself I don’t look that way. We’re just friends. Well-dressed, powerful friends, hanging out at the kink club on a Tuesday, looking for some people to smack around and humiliate. As you do.

The décor once we’ve stepped through the looking glass is much the same, dark walls trimmed out with wood, checkerboard floors. But there’s no way in holy hell that this place could ever be mistaken for any other kind of club. Not with the sight before my eyes.

I haven’t seen so many naked or nearly naked bodies in so many shapes and sizes since… No, never. Never have I seen this. And the people who are clothed range from the stereotypical full-blown leather get-up to jeans and T-shirts to a couple other suits. And there are some people who look distinctly otherworldly. Like out of
Star Wars
or some other sci-fi universe. I swear to god I see a Spock on a leash being led around by an Uhura, but they disappear around a corner too fast for me to be entirely sure.

A nudge to my elbow makes me realize my mouth is hanging open and I shut it.

“It’s fine to look, but try not to stare. I know you don’t want to be treated like a neophyte, so don’t act like one. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people.”

I follow Rey as he weaves through the room, getting stopped by people as we go. Some he introduces me to, some not. I can’t quite tell how he makes the distinction. Is it me or is it them?

Finally he ambles over to a small knot of people who are chatting in a back corner. There’s a brawny man in a black…what could only be called utility kilt and leather vest. He’s petting the head of a slim redheaded boy kneeling almost naked at his side and chatting with a woman wearing a latex bustier and spiked heels—literally, spiked heels. There are metal spikes coming out the back. There’s a flogger clipped to her belt, and god love whoever came up with fetish gear because her breasts are magnificent.

They all turn when Rey approaches, and their faces break out into smiles. So Rey Walter is beloved here too. What does he, have a fandom?

He kisses the woman’s cheek and shakes the man’s hand, and—after obtaining permission with a “May I?”—leans down and ruffles the boy’s hair, scratching him behind the ears and saying, “Good boy, Scooter.”

Scooter?

I am trying so, so hard to look as cool as Rey does, but it’s next to impossible when there is a grown man kneeling on the ground, being petted like a dog, and if I’m a judge of these things, enjoying it. Although if I picture him as a woman instead, in black satin lingerie instead of leather shorts, crowned with a pair of sweet cat ears and nuzzling at my thigh? At the very least, my dick understands the appeal.

Rey gives Scooter a few more pets before standing and gesturing to me. “This is Hale. First-timer here.”

Hale. What I’d picked as my scene name. When Rey had asked me, I’d stumbled. I’d wanted to pick something that sounded cool, but not like I was trying too hard. Something I wouldn’t regret in a few months, something I wouldn’t mind answering to. Something I wouldn’t forget. So I’d picked the name of my hometown. Nowhere, West Virginia, smack in the middle of Appalachia. I couldn’t wait to get out when I was a kid, and I haven’t gone back since my parents died. My father wouldn’t blame me. He never wanted to get stuck there either. But falling in love will make a person do some messed-up stuff, especially if babies are involved.

Rey introduces me to the man and the woman. He calls them Tangent and Zelda, and I shake their hands. When he introduces me to Scooter, I’m not even sure what to do.

“You can give him a pet if you like,” volunteers Tangent. “He won’t bite. Probably.”

Then they laugh. All of them. At me. At my ridiculously shocked face. Including Scooter. Something inside me snaps. Not in a going-postal way, but in a tension-breaking way. This is all so crazy, and if I want to get through this night without having a nervous breakdown, I’ve got to let go. Not something I’m an expert in, but I’ll give it my best shot.

Scooter, obliging boy that he is, takes pity on me and holds out a hand, offering a firmer shake than I might expect. “It’s true. I only bite when asked.”

I smile because it’s all too absurd. “Good to know.”

We talk to them for a while. It’s mostly small talk about upcoming kink events, workshops they’ve been to, new toys they have. I try to contribute, but mostly I nod. I’m distracted. There are muted cries and muffled impacts in the background din, but after an hour or so, I feel like I’m at a cocktail party. A cocktail party with no alcohol and a very strange dress code, but a surprisingly enjoyable one. I find myself actually taking pleasure in these people’s company.

I don’t get to do that often.

Maybe it’s because no one’s talking about work, but I find my own thoughts of everything waiting on my desk slipping away. It’s hard to concentrate on spreadsheets and reports and bills and votes when the person next to you is talking about picking out a violet wand attachment the same way someone at the grocery store might talk about their preferred brand of cereal. I find it strangely soothing. Because if the sky’s suddenly orange and water flows up, what the fuck am I supposed to do about that? Nothing. I should sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

Rey excuses us after about an hour, saying he’s going to show me around. Outside the two main rooms, the club isn’t that big, but there’s a hallway in the back that extends for quite a ways, lined with doors. A few open, most closed.

“I heard Spider’s here. The man is a genius with rope, maybe the best rigger I know. You’ve never shown a particular interest in rope, but this is worth seeing regardless. He’s half the reason I stop in DC.”

The sounds have gotten louder, sounds I want to stop and decipher, see if I can’t tell what’s going on behind those closed doors. Although I’m sure that’s frowned upon. If people want an audience, they leave the doors open.

There are doors open.

We’re nearing the end of the hallway when something catches my eye. Something shiny and fiery and bouncing like a rubber ball.

“Rey!”

A blonde woman dressed in a red patent leather corset, skirt, and matching heels bounds out of one of the doors and throws herself at Rey. I’m a few steps behind him and
damn
. How do I get Rey’s job? Because it sure as hell seems a lot more fun than mine. Scantily clad women literally throw themselves at him.

Everyone else who’s greeted him has been received enthusiastically, but for some reason, he’s standing stock still, his eyes gone wide, and he’s staring at the opposite wall. Something has Rey Walter flustered? No way. I’ve got to be reading this wrong. But seriously, the guy looks like he’s seen a ghost.

Slowly, his hands come up and he returns the woman’s embrace, tightening his grip until it looks like he’s crushing her, but instead of squealing, she sighs. She kicks up one of her heels, drawing attention to the seam that runs up the back of her black, thigh-high stockings. The tops hug her legs, pale skin interrupted by a garter that fastens onto the nylon with a cherry.

Little trashy, but in a crazy-hot way.

I would very much like an introduction to this woman. As soon as Rey’s finished fondling her at any rate. He’s loosened his hold, but tucked her head onto his shoulder. I can’t see her face, but I can see her breasts pushed against his chest as he pets her hair. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks uncertain.

But that can’t possibly be true. He’s always got his shit together, unlike the rest of us. Finally, he releases the woman and takes her hand as they part, looking directly at me from under his heavy brows. Given the intensity of his expression, it feels like he’s trying to send a message directly to my brain. But if that were true, wouldn’t he just do it? Seriously, the guy has special powers.

“Hale, I’d like you to meet Sprite.”

My gaze migrates to the woman, and at first I see teased blonde hair pulled on top of her head, followed by heavy black-lined eyes with lashes so long and thick they’ve got to be fake, especially on someone as fair as she is. That’s when my heart leaps out of my chest, up through my throat, and out onto the floor where it ceases to beat.

I know the eyes framed with black. I know the pert nose and slightly too-wide mouth underneath. I know the creamy expanse of neck that slides into delicate collarbones and, yeah, the breasts that spill out the top of her corset. Except, fuck me, I’ve never seen them like that.

I know all of them because I’m staring straight into the face—okay, the cleavage—of my ex-wife.

‡

“P
ressly.” As I
drag my gaze up to her face, her name spills out of my mouth without my permission, the syllables drawn out over the slipslide of those double esses. Fuck. I’m not supposed to say her name. “Sorry. Sprite.”

Sprite? Little fun fairy? I suppose that fits. She does look like fun. In that outfit. What the hell?

Rey glares at me.

“I said sorry. I was just surprised.”

Pressly’s gone an unnatural shade of pale. She’s standing there in her figure-hugging clothes, her slickly bright-red mouth hanging open, showing the top row of her white teeth. Deer-in-headlights is not Pressly’s style.