CHAPTER TWO
Cameron
As I leaned back against the bar and watched the innocent-looking girl in the gold mask and pearls weave her way through the crowd of sex fiends, I hoped… no, I prayed, that she was heading for me.
I needed some good luck in my life.
It’d been another red-letter day at the Brice estate, with Fox News saying I was down in the polls, my mother getting drunk on gin and tonics before dinner with a dining room full of stockbrokers while hounding me about when I might propose to Bernadette. On top of that, my father was telling me that if I didn’t meet with some damn lobbyists from PETA tomorrow, I’d never be able to count on the environmental vote after the way I’d screwed the yellow-horned toad by allowing that development to be built on swampland.
Truthfully, I didn’t fucking care about PETA or toads, and honestly, I didn’t give two flying fucks about the vote right then, either. The election was six months away, and all I’d been doing was traveling from town to town in Pennsylvania on the campaign trail, not knowing where I was or what the hell I represented or whose ass I was supposed to be kissing. Sometimes I just wanted a night to breathe.
Thus, this foray out into the wilds of Camden.
I’d been coming to places like The Black Room for a little over a year, with no actual clue of what I’d been looking for. Escape, I supposed. It started with me researching places online, and by the time I found Camden, I’d been to every one in New Jersey. Whenever my most trusted chauffer was on shift, I’d ask him to take me out. George, who I trusted implicitly since he’d been with the Brice family since before I was born, loved to drive at night. I’d give him the directions, but I’d always have him park far enough away that he never really knew what I was up to.
At first, I went because I loved the taboo nature of it — the way people would be wild and crazy out in the open, fucking each other with wild abandon, with only a mask to separate them from reality. It was so different from the buttoned-up, conservative world I was forced to be a part of. I came to watch, occasionally participate.
But by Camden, I hadn’t participated in months. By then, it was almost boring. I’d been becoming desensitized to it, always wanting more, hotter, crazier, wilder.
After a while, I’d found myself not feeling anything. Wondering what the point was.
But the second she walked in, I took in the first real, honest breath I’d managed in over a year.
When she walked in, I felt the blood pulsing through my veins again.
She didn’t belong there. But my prayers were answered when she finally sidled up next to me and rested her elbow on the bar. She looked a little desperate, like she wanted someone to save her.
“Hi,” she said, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. “You look bored.”
Although my dick was pulsing, I looked over at her, giving her a noncommittal glance. “I am. Are you about to change that?”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a flask of my favorite Macallan 25, then lifted my mask slightly to take a swig. I’d filled it from the crystal decanter in the limo. I held it out to her.
She jumped on it desperately, as if she could use the drink, and took a sip. “Scotch,” she mused, seeming a little more relaxed. “Mmm. That’s smooth.”
I nodded. “It should be. You know scotch?”
“Some. You seemed like a scotch type. It’s got to be expensive.”
I crossed my arms. “Very.”
She held out a hand. “I’m Cassandra.”
“The great prophetess, huh?” I took her thin, manicured fingers in mine. “So what does the future hold for us?”
She shrugged, a slow smile spreading across her face, revealing slightly crooked bottom teeth. It made her all the more beautiful. The people in clubs like this one had visible scars, emotional or physical, but some were better at hiding them than others. I knew women like the one she was attempting to imitate because I’d dated them all my life, Bernadette being the latest in a long line of well-bred debutantes. But this woman wasn’t quite hitting the mark.
Her pearls were clearly imitation. Though her pale pink cashmere sweater, a shade darker than her skin, was something a grandmother would wear, it showcased her ample curves, and I could see the faint outline of her nipples through the thin fabric. Her skirt was too short, baring legs so long and lean that she must’ve been a dancer. Her shoes were cheap, fuck-me heels that were the constant in clubs. She had a ponytail of sunshine-yellow hair that was begging to be yanked on. At that moment, I wanted to take it and pull her to me, to defile those full pink lips of hers, to make her obey.
“I’m Apollo,” I told her, the permanent sly grin on the mask hiding my real grin from the outside world. Every club I went to, I used another name, just in case. It helped to keep things under wraps, which I needed to do. “What brings you here tonight, Cassandra?”
She smiled. “I want some fun.”
I couldn’t tell for sure because the music was blasting, the air hazy with smoke, and I’d been drinking all the way over from Philly so I was half past trashed, but she seemed nervous. “What kind?”
Then she did the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. She drew a corner of her bottom lip under her teeth. “What do you mean?”
I let out a slow exhalation of breath. “Have you been here before?” I asked as she pulled her bag close to her side as if she were afraid someone would try to lift it from her.
Her nose wrinkled as she inhaled, slow and steady. “Is it obvious?”
I drew her closer to me, trailing a hand down her soft pink sweater, not stopping until I reached her ass. God, she felt like heaven, all soft and sweet and innocent. Not a debutante, clearly, but not meant for this club, either. Where did she belong? She had to know that was why every eye in the place was on her. They all wanted to corrupt her. And hell, I wanted to as well, but part of me wanted to capture it, bottle it, and never let it go. “You’re too sweet for this place,” I told her, running a finger along her pearls.
“Looks can be deceiving.” She raised her chin in defiance. “And I want to have fun.”
“There are many ways to have fun here, Cassandra. It all depends on what makes you tick. And what gets you off,” I told her, slow and seductively, my mouth so close to her ear that I could nip at the luscious pink lobe. “What gets you off?”
She swallowed and looked away, gnawing on her lip again. “I don’t know. What about you?”
She was clearly not in her element, which was why I’d gradually become so bored with places like The Black Room. Everyone else wanted to be there. But Cassandra? She was innocent and wide-eyed, and… appeared to want to be anywhere else but here.
And fuck. I’d only just met her, and I already knew I wanted her. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. As a rule, things I wanted, I usually got. They came easily to me. And Cassandra? I knew I would have her.
“For one thing, long blonde ponytails.” I tugged on hers until she moaned.
She grinned, the corner of her mouth turning up in a sexy smirk. “Oh, really?”
I offered her another drink from my flask, and she took a larger gulp this time. My cock pulsed again as I watched her swallow. I leaned over, inhaling the candy-sweet scent of her perfume, and pressed my lips to her ear. “Let me take you upstairs and show you what else.”
I could barely see her eyes under the mask, but I could tell when they widened. Her body tensed like a rod. Though I knew she was surprised by the invitation, I also knew that, before she said a word, she would say yes.
She leaned into me, brushing her nipples against my chest, and nodded.
Forcing myself to move at a pace that wouldn’t give away my eagerness, I pushed away from the bar, took her hand in mine, and led her to the stairs.