Wanna be a pirate? Cowboy? Biker? Vampire? It’s here.
Jasper leans over to me and whispers, “I could have gone with a nice bottle of bourbon, but I wanted your present to be unique. I love you, man. For real.” He sniffs and waves his hand like a swooning woman. “Now I’m all misty. You like it, the club? Please like it.”
Sure, I’m down with people exploring their sexuality. To each their own kink—I don’t judge. I’ve done my own crazy shit—a few threesomes, maybe a foursome (I really can’t recall)—but that was in my early days of the NFL. These days I prefer a girlfriend.
Did I want to come here tonight? Nope. It’s not part of my tradition.
“Stop torturing me,” he begs when I don’t reply. “Tell me you love it. Come on. Please, please,please.”
“God, stop with the whining. Fine, fine, it’s cool. Awesome. My mind is blown. My dick is hard. Plus, I’ve always wanted to wear a mask with feathers.”
“I hear your sarcasm and choose to ignore it. Is it weird that I bought a glue gun and stuck more feathers on it? I fucking loved jazzing it up, so don’t lose it, yeah? It’s a memento of our friendship.”
I huff out a laugh. “You seriously need to stop buying shit online.”
“Never. I would have told you I was a member, but it’s kind of likeFight Club. Thereisno Decadence Club.”
“Right.”
“We wereneverhere. Weneverwalked down that alley. The mayorisnot a member. You neversawBrogan. Hmm, I wonder if I could fake a British accent.” He clears his throat. “Ahoy, matey, how the bloody hellare you? Wait, let me try again—that was my pirate impersonation.” He clears his throat. “Hiya, mate. Fancy a cuppa?”
Smirking, I hold my hand up for him to be quiet, keying into Brogan. Apparently, Deacon was the only one listening.
“Before you touch someone, ask, and before you join an orgy, ask. A simple tap on the shoulder will do,” Brogan says in a somber tone.
I roll my eyes. No thanks. I’m here, but I’m not touching anyone.
Brogan gives us name tags. Jasper writes in Prince Personal Trainer, Deacon chooses Prince of Princes, and I pick Prince Player. Brogan asks if we’d like to hit the locker room, disrobe, and wear towels around our waists.
I rear back. “Whoa, now, hang on. I’m drawing a line. My dick does not swing free in a club.”
“Same,” Deacon mutters, cupping his groin.
Jasper huffs. “Pussies. Fine by me. We’ll stick with the suits. We do look good—am I right?”
I guess we do. I’m in gray, Deacon is in black, and Jasper has the navy. It’s going to be hard to pass as a mechanic in a five-thousand-dollar suit, but whatever. Happy freaking birthday to me. “There better be cake,” I tell them.
After Brogan declares we’re ready, we go through double doors and head upstairs to the second floor, pausing on the balcony that overlooks the downstairs bar area. Deemed a social area—no full-on sex allowed, just petting—it’s like a regular nightclub: people dancing, a naughty fairy-tale movie flickering on one of the walls. It’s not gritty or dirty like I expected; the vibe is glamorous, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and an oval swimming pool in the center. Long black couches line one wall, where couples make out while others stand and watch. Nothing I haven’t seen in a regular club.
Following the signs posted, we walk down another staircase to reach the floor. A few men are dressed like us, but most of the clientele went all out: guys in white jackets with gold tassels and lapels; women inprincess costumes—some skimpy, some floor length with big skirts. As for the men in towels, I salute them for their bravery.
“Oh my God, Snow White is here” comes from Deacon as a woman rises from one of the couches. She’s wearing a yellow miniskirt, white thigh-high stockings, red heels, and a headband. Straightening her mask, she makes her way over and asks Deacon if he’d like to dance.
“Uh ...,” he says, throat bobbing. “I’m here for a birthday. God, you’re so pretty ...”
“Go on; we’ll be fine,” I say and nudge him her way. Deacon is the shy one and sometimes needs a push.
“Why didn’t she ask me?” Jasper asks, frowning as they disappear on the dance floor.
“Come on, pretty boy; there’s plenty of women for you. Let’s get some drinks.” We head to the bar.
A woman slams into me, her chest colliding against my arm. She’d been in a rush, and the impact sends her reeling. I catch her before she falls and tug her up to my chest. “Whoa there. You okay, sweetheart?”
Breathing heavily, she raises her face, a glittery white mask covering her upper cheeks and most of her forehead. Her eyes capture mine, and I linger on the striking aquamarine color, the irises outlined in thick black.
Petite with her hair in a haphazard updo, she’s wearing a floor-length white dress. There’s a tiara on her head attached to a veil. “Great costume, Princess Bride,” I say after glancing at her name tag.
She jerks away. “It’s not a costume, and I do not want to have sex with you! Pervert! Get away from me!”