The next three months pass in relative peace. My nightmares, anxiety, and depression fade little by little as I trudge ahead. Willfully surrender to my new existence.

I call this new life—this new person—London 2.0, which Paris thought was funny until I told her why. The new version of me is skin-deep. Superficial armor fashioned of denial and survival instinct. On the outside, I’m a confident, put-together bartender who earns great tips and makes her customers and coworkers laugh. No one knows about the darkness lurking beneath my skin, in my soul.

London 2.0 also has a budding social life, comprised mostly of breakfast after work with Nate and Steph. They’ve taken me under their collective wing, inserting themselves shamelessly in every aspect of my life—which, according to them, is boring as hell.

When they learn I live in a mostly-empty apartment, they bully me into a day of shopping for secondhand furniture and basics like curtains, bathmats, and silverware. After a drunken, pizza-filled evening of decorating, my apartment still doesn’t look anything like home, but it does have a new set of memories attached to it. Memories that don’t hurt. And my mattress isn’t on the floor anymore.

As expected, Crossroads’s opening was massively successful. In the weeks following its debut, more staff was hired—cocktail waitresses, performance artists, valets for VIP guests. Nightly entertainment—usually a demonstration of safe bondage or play—takes place in the sunken, central area that Nate dubbed the Epicenter of Sin. And although in the early days I was hit on and even propositioned a few times by customers, it soon became common knowledge that the club’s employees aren’t in the lifestyle and are therefore off-limits.

The only hiccup in the club’s short history happened last Thursday night. I wasn’t working, but came in the next day to the aftermath—installation of closed-circuit cameras throughout the club and security personnel to monitor the feeds, as well as a shift to an invitation-only guest list and vetting for all prospective members.

When I finally hear the full details of what happened, it sounds like a horror story. A woman’s safe word was ignored in one of the private rooms. As the curtains were drawn over the viewing window, no one knew anything was amiss until it was almost too late. She was whipped so badly an ambulance was called.

“My God,” I gasp. “Cross found her?”

Nate, Steph, and I are sharing breakfast at a café on Wilshire, all of us having worked until 4:00 a.m. Outside, the sun is just waking, the first touch of dawn coloring the sky.

Nate nods. “I thought he was going to kill the guy. It took four people to pull him off the scumbag.”

Steph shakes her head. “So freaking sad. That poor woman. I’m glad about the new security, though.”

“Me too,” remarks Nate. “Just not the way it came about.”

Setting down my coffee, I ask haltingly, “What about the woman? Is she okay?”

Sorrow clouds Nate’s eyes. “She’s okay. Turned down the club’s offer to pay for a lawyer.”

“Do you know her?” I hazard.

He nods but doesn’t say anything else. The look on his face prevents me from pressing further.

“She’s not pressing charges?” demands Steph. “That’s nuts—why not?”

Nate and I share a glance. I don’t know who the woman is, but I can suss out her motives easily enough. I cock a brow at Nate, who waves a hand for me to speak. I turn to Steph.

“I’m not saying she doesn’t have a case, or shouldn’t seek justice, but let me put it to you this way—in my former career, my most valuable asset was my reputation. Anything that might jeopardize that…”

The frown clears from Steph’s brow. “Ah, I get it. She might be avoiding the press coverage.” She sighs. “I’m not even into kink, but I hate that she has to make that choice. People should be free to explore intimacy however they want, as long as it’s safe. And assault is assault.”

“Amen,” murmurs Nate, picking a napkin to shreds. “Mr. Cross is really torn up about the situation. He truly believes in Safe, Sane, and Consensual and feels like he’s failed the community. I guess he always wanted the added safety measures, but Charlie thought it would limit the club’s exposure. He blames himself for not pushing harder. She’s angry because she thinks he blames her. It’s a total mess.”

“Aw, your mommy and daddy are fighting?” coos Steph, effectively breaking the dark mood over our table.

Nate throws a packet of sugar at her. She laughs and tosses it back.

“Anyway, enough about work,” Nate says on a loud yawn. He grins at me. “You still up for what we talked about?”

My conflicting feelings about what I’ve learned—specifically Dominic’s guilt and the niggling urge to diminish it—vanish at his words. Anxiety shivers down my spine.

“You were serious?” I squeak.

Nate sticks his lower lip out. “Of course!”

“What’s this?” asks Steph. “Do tell.”

I swallow past a dry throat. “He wants to, uh, photograph me.”

Steph’s brows lift. “Why does the word photograph rhyme with murder when you say it?”

Nate chuckles. “Because our London might have been a wee bit drunk when she agreed to pose for my belated grand-opening present for the bosses. I want to do erotic nudes. Black and white. Totally tasteful. Well, except for maybe a nipple here or there.”

Steph squeals and shoves my shoulder lightly. “Oh my gosh, that’s awesome! Girl, I can’t believe I thought you were a prude when we met.”

I roll my eyes as Nate laughs loudly.

“She’s not even as vanilla as she thinks she is, right, London?”

I glare at him, then tell Steph, “Nudity doesn’t bother me.”

“You should hear about her childhood,” Nate provides, “total hippie parents. Orgies in the backyard, masturbation classes, dildo-making. Didn’t you tell me your parents held some big ceremony when you and your sister got your periods?”

Steph gapes at me. I kick Nate under the table. “Remind me not to trust you with any secrets, shithead.”

“Oh, come on now.” Nate gives me his cheesiest smile. “We’re your BFFs. No secrets here.”

No secrets. My stomach flips. I look down quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the guilt in my expression. Thankfully, Steph speaks up. “So what’s the present, exactly?”

“I want to hang the series of photos in the back hallway.” He points a finger at her. “You can’t tell anyone, though. It’s a surprise, and London doesn’t want anyone to know it’s her.”

“You’re not going to let me out of this, are you?” I whine.

“Nope,” he replies brightly. A club napkin covered with writing flutters to my empty plate. “We have a contract.”

Steph snatches the napkin and reads, “I, London Limerick, do solemnly vow to pose for nude photographs taken by Nathan Amherst, on the condition that my face and vagina aren’t in them. I will do this for free.” Fighting a smile, she glances up at me. “You both signed it.”

“I was drunk,” I mumble unconvincingly.

I hadn’t actually been that drunk last night, but I had just walked down the hallway with private playrooms and seen something I could never unsee. Dominic Cross, shirtless and in black leather pants, standing above a naked woman bound in rope to a high table. She trembled and bucked as he mercilessly held a vibrating wand to her clit.

The image that seared me most, however, wasn’t the fierce, focused look on his face or the beautiful stacking of muscles beneath his olive skin. It was the outline of his long, hard cock against the leather of his pants.

I was angry—so angry that he was hard for someone else, that he might fuck someone else. Fueled by jealousy and three shots of booze, my only thought when Nate made his proposal was revenge against Dominic for the way he made me feel. Torturing him with images of my naked body every time he walked to and from his office seemed like a perfect plan.

Only in the rising light of day do I realize the stupidity of my impulsive decision. Dominic won’t know it’s me in the photographs. And even if he does figure it out, he probably won’t care one way or the other.

The last weeks have proven that my fascination with him is one-sided. Since opening night, our interactions have been minimal. When they do happen, they’re back to the borderline frostiness of our first meetings. And with direct deposit now in effect, I don’t even see him to pick up my paycheck.

There’s no logical reason I should think of him as anyone other than my boss. But I just can’t seem to stop. I fall asleep fantasizing about him and wake up throbbing for him.

The moment we shared in the hallway after his blatant test—that stark flare of desire I saw in his eyes—now seems like wishful thinking.

Maybe I had been drunk last night, after all.