Page 12 of Art of Sin

“Write me in as a guest of Gideon Masters. You just saw him a few minutes ago.”

“Shit. He’s the client? Never mind, don’t answer that.” Silence stretches for an excruciating ten seconds. “I never could say no to you, but it saved my life enough times that it doesn’t matter.”

My smile is genuine. “Thanks, Nate.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t, promise.”

I plan on making Gideon Masters regret it enough for all of us.

* * *

I’m beginningto wonder if Gideon is a sexual deviant. Scratch that—I’d put money on it. First the strip club, now Crossroads. Granted, Crossroads is much more mainstream than the VIP-only fuck fest I found him at Sunday night.

My surroundings are elegant and polished, a sharp left-turn from traditional sex dungeons. The refinement juxtaposes its occupants’ interests in a near-poetic fashion. The owners, Dominic Cross and Charlie Rhodes, are geniuses. Good people, too, even if they’d probably flip at me being here.

Three years ago was an exploratory period in my life. And not in the way of a new hair color or wardrobe. I made some bad choices, trusted the wrong people, and the incident Nate referred to was a much-needed wake-up call.

If Dominic hadn’t found me in time, there’s a good chance I would’ve wound up in the morgue. Thanks to me, the club shifted to invite-only, and every member is now personally vetted by the owners.

You’re welcome, Los Angeles.

“Hey, little brother.”

Nate stands from his stool and stoops to give me a bone-cracking hug. Looking at us from any direction, you wouldn’t think we were related. We’re not. By blood, anyway. But we’re brother and sister in every way that counts.

His long, white-blond hair is loose tonight, brushing like silk against my cheek as he straightens. The crimson glow of the small antechamber makes him look like a demon instead of an angel, but I know better.

“Hey,” he echoes softly. “Are you sure about this?”

I nod, smiling tightly. “I’m just here to make sure my client doesn’t do anything stupid in front of someone who might sell the story.”

A brow cocks. “Don’t insult our establishment. And besides, shouldn’t that be someone else’s job? A manager? Or better yet, an intern?”

I nod. “I’ve been temporarily demoted to crisis management for spoiled man-children. Don’t bother asking why, because I can’t even explain it to myself.”

Nate laughs and gives my hand a squeeze. “All right. Stay away from the rooms, you hear?”

I shudder, the skin of my back tight with remembered pain.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

He steps to the side and opens the door to Crossroads.

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