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Grant
This club looked like nothing.
So much so, I stood on the cracked sidewalk and double-checked the address on the screen of my phone, confirming I was in the right place.
The elusive blindfold club catered to wealthy clients who had deep pockets and a taste for kink. And the operating front for the illegal brothel was supposedly a high-class, members-only wine club. But the nondescript building before me looked like it contained neither of those.
It didn’t look like it was in use at all.
I’d been expecting an elegant storefront. For months I’d searched for this place, and once I tracked it down, my speculation went wild. How deep did the wine club charade go? Was it like the movies with an elaborate set-up? Where I’d come in, pluck a certain bottle from a case, and trigger a secret passageway which led to the real club?
The black building had a single door with a diamond-shaped window and no awning overhead. There weren’t signs, just the brass street numbers tacked to the side. I stared up at it with a weird sense of disappointment and understanding. It was unremarkable. Exactly what you’d want in this part of Chicago, especially if you were running an illegal operation. It was a place that wouldn’t get a second look.
It was a Friday night and the spring weather was decent, but the street was empty. There weren’t any bars or restaurants within blocks of this establishment. Just warehouses and stores that were closed. I gripped the doorknob and half expected it not to turn.
It did.
I stepped into the room, which wasn’t much bigger than a closet. Or perhaps it felt that way because I was big and took up a lot of space, and the security guy sitting on the stool was even bigger than I was.
He stood and gave me a polite smile, one that seemed rehearsed, as he sized me up. His shoulders pulled back as his posture straightened, making him look bigger still. He wanted me to know he thought he could take me if the situation called for it.
He was underestimating me, though. I was a forward for the Lions, Chicago’s semi-professional rugby team, and I was the best prop they’d had in years. I was the perfect combination of big, fast, and reckless.
His gaze noted my suit, and there was a subtle nod. I’d gotten a call from the club owner earlier this week and was told the club rules were “dress to impress.”
The security guy was dressed in all black, and his fitted t-shirt was stretched so tight over his muscle-bound chest, it looked like the seams would rip apart if he sneezed. He wore a low-profile communication earpiece that I only noticed because he looked down at the leather-bound portfolio in his hand.
“Name?” he said.
“Webber,” I lied.
He scanned the list, shut the portfolio with a snap, and pressed a finger to his ear. “Mr. Green has arrived.”
My expression must have been confusion because he shrugged.
“You’re a new client.” He said it like that should have been obvious.
I was green with newness, but I also felt that way with unease. I’d bent the truth before to get what I needed for a story, but I’d never truly gone undercover. No amount of research could be done to know how the people here would react if they found out I wasn’t who I said I was. How likely was it this place was involved with the mob?
I was reckless but usually not stupid. That was how badly I wanted to break this story—I was willing to put everything on the line.
The next door was similar to the first, except the window was replaced with a diamond-shaped logo. The security guard motioned to it. “Julius will meet you at the bar.”
A soft buzz rang out as the lock deactivated, beckoning me inside. I pushed the door open and stepped into the next room.
It kept with the theme of not being what I expected. The room was set up like a fancy lounge. Plush couches to the left and a bar to the right, complete with a bartender. Two-thirds of the rails behind him held bottles of wine. Maybe the tall, slender guy behind the bar was actually a sommelier.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said. He placed his hands on the bar and leaned subtly forward. “Would you care for something to drink?”
My mouth was parched, but alcohol seemed like a bad idea. I needed to stay sharp and remember every detail I could. “No, thanks.”
“You sure? It’s complimentary.”
What the hell, I was thirsty. “Water?”
If it was a strange request, the bartender didn’t show it. “Of course.”
As he grabbed a glass and filled it with ice, the door at the back of the room swung open. The man who came in was built just like me. Tall, wide with broad shoulders. His suit, which was probably custom, fit much better than mine and subtly announced he was a wall of muscle. His head was shaved smooth, and his dark skin gleamed.
He strode toward me, a hand outstretched. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Webber. I’m Julius King.”
Even without his introduction I would have recognized his deep voice from our phone call earlier in the week. “Thanks for inviting me.”
His handshake was strong but not overbearing. “I came down from my office, because I like to have a conversation with new members. Get to know them before they go on back.”
The bartender set the glass of water down in front of me, and although Julius didn’t say anything, I could feel him mentally taking notes about my choice. Men came here to have a good time and spent a lot of money while doing it. Was the bar here to help clients relax, or lower their inhibitions to get them to part with more cash?
“What kind of girls do you like?” Julius’s straightforward question made my chest tighten, and my hesitation must have spurred him to continue. “There something in particular you’re interested in?”
I forced myself to act natural, even when I felt anything but. “No, just the ordinary stuff.”
My answer set off alarm bells, and Julius’s expression shifted to a guarded one. “You’ll have to explain why you’re here, then.”
I froze. “What?”
“A good-looking guy like you? You don’t come to my club for ordinary. You probably get ordinary all the time.” He softened. “If you’re nervous, don’t be. Trust me, whatever you want—you aren’t the first guy to ask for it. But I can’t get it for you if you don’t tell me.”
My pulse spiked. Was I going to blow this before I made it inside the actual club? I was going to have to give him something, but it was hard talking about this with a stranger, and I could hear my feminist friend Ruby’s angry voice in my head calling me a pig.
“Blonde,” I said. “Big tits.”
There wasn’t a speck of judgement from him. His tone stayed casual. “Do they need to be real?”
Bloody hell. I felt dirty admitting it. “Yeah.”
He nodded. “What else? Any wish list things?”
My head went blank. “Um . . .”
“Anal? Deep throat?” He scanned me from top to bottom. “Pegging?”
What? “No, I’m not interested in that.” My words came out tight, and with it, the accent I’d been trying so hard to disguise slipped out.
He lifted an eyebrow like he meant no offense. “It’s a power thing. Some of the big guys like being topped by a female half their size.”
Julius was a bigger guy.
He must have read my mind, because a slow smile drifted across his lips. “My girl’s five-two, and she’d look hot as fuck with a strap-on, but it ain’t my thing.” The light expression drained from his face. “Where’re you from?”
The way he shifted the conversation was impressive. I’d come to the club to research, but he was the one currently leading the interview. I picked up my glass of water and took a sip before answering. “Here.”
His eyes sharpened. “No, where’d you grow up? I thought I heard an accent. Australia?”
People sometimes confused my South African accent with an Aussie one. Some even thought I was British. But I’d been living in the Chicagoland area for fourteen years—and as a full-fledged US citizen for the last five—and could mask my accent when I tried hard enough.
I’d had to fill out a mountain of paperwork to get an appointment here, and I wasn’t sure how far down they’d dig into the fake profile I’d given them. I had to avoid any hints at my real identity.
I shrugged. “I grew up here.”
He gave me the same look my friends did when I told them I was fine following my brutal breakup with Morgan. Julius’s dark eyes went heavy with skepticism. I gulped down another drink of water, then redoubled my efforts on sounding as Midwestern American as possible. “So, how does this work? Do I get to pick the girl from, like, a lineup?”
For a moment I wasn’t sure he was going to drop it, but he seemed to blink the distrust away. “No. When we’re done here, you’ll be taken to a room. There’ll be a girl on the table and a menu on the wall of what she’s into. If you like her? Great. The sales assistant will help you with your purchase. If you don’t like that one, keep in mind we have five more rooms.”
“What happens if I go through all them and don’t see anything I like?”
It was as if I’d just spit on the floor of his establishment, Julius looked that offended. “Then I’d say you’re probably too picky.” He softened and laughed. “The girls here are fucking gorgeous, and they got wide tastes.” He grabbed the sides of his suit jacket and tugged so it would sit straight on his shoulders. “No one’s ever gone all six rooms and not found someone they like. Most don’t need to see another room.”
This was my plan, though. I’d collect all the information I could, then claim I wasn’t interested and leave without making a deal.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Julius kept his voice light and conversational, but the undercurrent was there.
“Which one?”
“Why you’re here.”
I forced myself not to break his gaze. I didn’t need to raise his suspicion any further. My pride would take a hit, but I could give him an extremely edited version of the truth. “My girlfriend cheated on me.”
He could probably look intimidating when he wanted, but right now he peered back at me with sincere understanding. It was comforting, like he got it. And the stupid story spilled out of me. “She sent nudes to a bunch of other guys, including ones I worked with. She didn’t cheat on me, like, physically, but—it still fucking sucked.” I wondered if it would have hurt less if her betrayal hadn’t been emotional. “When we were together, she always needed to know she was the prettiest girl in the room.”
Like the wicked queen in Snow White, Morgan had to be the fairest of them all. I’d spent the first year not realizing her jealousy of other women was real. I’d thought she was joking, not knowing she was high-maintenance to the extreme. I’d thought I’d been able to keep up with her constant demand for validation, but apparently, I hadn’t.
Her cheating started small. A pic to the sound guy, she’d said, just to make sure she was still fuckable. Then a cameraman, because she’d liked the way he’d shot her segment. But her appetite for praise grew until she was sending them to every guy on the crew.
Everyone, except me.
Morgan’s insatiable need for attention had humiliated me, and I wasn’t going to just take it. If I could break the story on this blindfold club, the spotlight at Channel Five would veer my direction.
Julius put his hand on my shoulder the same way a teammate would. A brotherly gesture, accompanied by a wide, knowing smile. “You wanna fuck a girl hotter than your ex? Yeah. You’re definitely in the right place.”