Part One
Chapter 1
Nixon
Halloween Night
A slight chill took over the night air as my driver pulled up in front of the club I’d directed him to. This was where I’d always come to find a bit of relief. The darker side of me often came out around the most sinful of holidays. The Dom in me wanted a sub to play with for one night. That’s all I dared to allow myself.
I’d trekked up to Portland, Oregon, to get away from my life in Los Angeles, California, for a speck of time. I didn’t dabble in the BDSM realm at home. I saved that for when I came to the club I’d joined when it first opened a few years back. The Dungeon of Decorum was a place I hadn’t often visited, only coming up once, or sometimes twice, a year.
I only liked to play at being a Dominant; I wasn’t the full-time kind. I had never leased a sub or even paid for more than a night’s pleasure. It was just a way for me to blow off steam once in a while, nothing serious.
When I’d received the invitation to the club’s first annual Halloween Ball, I got the itch to have some BDSM fun and made plans to attend what the invitation assured would be a great time.
A red carpet led me from the car I’d hired to the front door of what looked like a shack. On the outside, that’s all anyone saw. On the inside, the stairs took you underground, to where a massive structure housed a large main room, several smaller more intimate rooms, a host of private rooms, and even private suites for long-term stays.
Walking into the main room, I found a giant banner hanging over the crowd who’d gathered to take part in the eerie festivities. Cloaks covered most of the men’s tuxedos, just as mine did. A plain Lone Ranger-style mask hid my identity. The women were the real stars of the night, decked out in all kinds of sexy, sinister attire.
I must’ve looked a bit overwhelmed by the plethora of willing women, as a man nudged my shoulder. “See any who are to your liking?”
With a nod, I answered his question. “Many are to my liking. This is by far the sexiest Halloween party I’ve ever been invited to.”
“Me too,” the man said then chuckled. “But I’m not here to shop for a new sub; I’ve got me a permanent one now.” He reached out to shake my hand. “Dr. Owen Cantrell.”
As I shook his hand, I recalled hearing that name before—then it struck me. “You’re that plastic surgeon to the stars. Or you were before that reality show ended. I believe it was titled Beverly Hills Reconstruction. I’m based out of Los Angeles too. Nixon Slaughter. I own and operate Champlain Services.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Owen said as he nodded. “It’s an environmental agency.”
To say I was proud of my company was too small a word. That company had taken a lot of time to build and to make a name for itself. After years of hard work, I’d accomplished more than I had ever dreamed. We worked worldwide, and the best part was that we were helping the planet and future generations.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I rocked on my feet, pride overflowing inside of me. “So you’ve heard of my little endeavor?”
“Who hasn’t?” he asked with a grin. “I also read something in the L.A. Times about you and a couple of other guys building some new club downtown. An exclusive one much like the select few nightclubs in Los Vegas. When do you suppose that’ll be opening?”
“We’re hoping to have it open for a New Year’s Eve bash. That’s the target date for the grand opening.” I pulled a business card out of the breast pocket of my jacket and handed it to Owen. “Here’s my number. Give me a call, and I’ll set you and a date up for that, on the house.”
He pocketed the card and clapped me on the back. “Cool. We’ll be there. Thanks, man.” He pulled out a card of his own and gave it to me. “And if you know of anyone who needs my services, you give them my number. And let them know if they say you referred them, they’ll get a ten percent discount.”
I put away his card as I said, “Will do, partner.”
A woman with long, silky black hair, wearing a barely-there teddy and a giant mask with peacock feathers, came to Owen’s side. He put his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. “Allow me to introduce you to the woman who’ll be my date at your grand opening. This is Petra, my wife.”
She extended a long, slender hand and I took it, delivering a kiss to the top of it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Petra. I’m Nixon Slaughter. I look forward to seeing you both at my nightclub on New Year’s Eve. You’ll be my honored guests.”
“Oh,” she looked at her husband. “That club, I read about it.” Her dark eyes turned to mine. “Have you come up with a name for it yet? Last I read, you and your partners hadn’t.”
Shaking my head, I shoved my hands back into my pockets. “No, we’re at an impasse. But we’ll come up with something soon—just as soon as we can figure out how to get Gannon Forester to stop shooting down all of our ideas.”
Petra’s eyes lit up as she said, “How about Club Exclusive? You know, because it’s catering to an exclusive branch of society, the ultra-wealthy?”
“I’ll run it by my partners.” Our attention was then taken by someone who’d gotten to the mic on the main stage.
“Happy Halloween, everybody!” the Master of Ceremonies called out.
Thunderous applause boomed throughout the large room. Owen gave me a nod, and he and his wife moved forward to get closer to the stage. I stood back, watching the crowd move in. I wasn’t too keen on being in the midst of a crowd. I liked to be near an exit most times—it was an odd little quirk of mine. Getting trampled in a panicked frenzy was a bit of a phobia I had.
Thankfully, staying on the fringes of any crowd kept me sane. A waiter came by with a tray of assorted cocktails. I picked up a clear drink that had some cherries floating in it. When I took a little taste, I found it was minty and fresh.
Looking back at the stage, I found four people lining up on it. One man and three women—all wearing red cloaks—were getting into position. Chains fell from the rafters, and more men came onto the stage to string the women up.
Playing with ropes and chains wasn’t a thing I’d ever done. Not that I wouldn’t like to someday, but I just didn’t have the know-how to put all that stuff up in a space. And I couldn’t have a room at home, the way a lot of Doms did. My parents visited from their home in Texas and stayed with me about three or four times a year. They’d usually stay for a week each time, and Mom was a nosy little woman. I’d never get away with having a red room of pain in my place.
Not to mention, Malibu beach houses weren’t quite the place to practice things that had women screaming. The cops would be called, that was a given.
So I was left with dabbling with my little fetish in another place. A few people knew my sinister secret. My partners, and my best friend, Shanna. My partners thought it was badass. Shanna thought it was freakish and that I’d get over it one day and grow the hell up.
Shanna and I had been friends back in our tiny hometown of Pettus, Texas. When I came out to L.A., she got mad at me for leaving her all alone in the boring town. After I’d established myself, I gave in to her pleas and let her come out and live at my place until she was able to stand on her own two feet. A thing she did pretty rapidly. It was when she was living with me that she found out about my little secret.
I’d brought a woman home with me one night during the first week Shanna was there. I’d forgotten she was there, to be honest. I was spanking the woman, and she was moaning—a lot—and begging me to hit her harder. Shanna knocked on the bedroom door and yelled at me to come out and talk to her. Which I did, reluctantly sending the woman home as Shanna berated me for my unforgivable behavior. She told me Fifty Shades sucked and anyone who followed such a mindless plot was a goddamned fool, a thing she knew I wasn’t.
I was expecting another berating and a long sermon to come from her when I returned home from this trip. I’d managed to duck out of town before she could catch me and try to stop me from going to Portland—knowing what I did whenever I traveled there.
“Excuse me, please,” came a soft voice as a woman touched my arm to get me to take a step to one side, allowing her to move into the crowd.
She only made it a few steps in front of me before the outer wall of people stopped her forward progression. Even from behind she was alluring.
Long legs, covered in torn black fishnet stockings, ended in a pair of red heels. A black bodice clung to her curves; her round ass gave way to a dip in her back, displayed by a panel of see-thru black lace splitting the silky material right down the middle.
She wore her hair in a long dark braid that she had pulled over her left shoulder. When she turned around, clearly annoyed that she couldn’t see anything from where she was, her blue eyes met mine.
Lifting my drink to her, I said, “Hey.”
Hey? Really? How lame am I?