Except she has to ask.
And if I know Skye Manning, she’ll never ask.
Which makes me want to help her all the more.
For now, though, I have my own work to do.
Ben and I are on a plane in the morning to New York for meetings, and I wonder whether I should pay a visit to my club.
It’s been a long time, and I miss it, but…
I want to go with Skye.
And I’m not sure I’ll enjoy it without her.
What the hell is happening to me?
…
Black Rose Underground.
My leather club on the bottom floor of my Manhattan residence tower. After a shower to get the grime of travel to New York cleaned from my body, I dress in simple black pants, a black button-down, black casual shoes. I pull the key card out of my wallet and take my private elevator down. I have my own entrance to the club. One of the perks of owning it.
My tastes are varied, and none of the clubs in Manhattan quite suited me, so I built my own.
Confidentiality is a must, and members leave their inhibitions at the door.
Claude Bonneville sits at his desk, burly and threatening. No one gets into Black Rose without Claude’s okay.
“Hey, Mr. Black,” he says. “Long time no see.”
“Been busy. How are things going here, Claude?”
“No issues. Everyone’s cool. A couple new membership applications for you to approve. They’re in your inbox.”
I nod. “Thanks. I’ll take a look.” I don’t check my Black Rose email except when I’m here. I have a private server in the back that I can’t even access from anywhere else. What happens at Black Rose truly stays at Black Rose.
I walk through the main room, its bloodred carpeting speckled with members. Some are dressed casually, as I am. Others are dressed in club gear—leather, chains, corsets. Some are naked.
Anything goes at Black Rose Underground—well, anything pertaining to wardrobe. I don’t allow edge play here, for which I have my reasons.
I walk to the bar, where a topless woman gives me a dazzling smile. “What’ll it be, Mr. Black?”
I don’t know her name. I don’t allow myself to get close to anyone who works at the club, other than Claude and Rick and Steve, my managers. “Wild Turkey, one ice cube.”
“You got it.”
A minute later, my drink appears. I bring it to my lips and let its aroma waft around me before I take a sip and let it float on my tongue. When I swallow, it burns. That’s what I like about Turkey. It’s a good slow burn. The other billionaires can have their top-shelf brandies. Give me good old Turkey any day of the week.
Rick Myers, the manager on duty tonight, approaches me and sits next to me at the bar. “Braden, haven’t seen you in a while. Anything you need tonight?”
“A scene, Rick.”
“Did you bring someone?”
I shake my head, picturing Skye in my mind. “Not this time. Anyone available?”
“Aretha’s here.”