Page 1 of His to Possess
Philip
Ifeel dirty the moment I set foot inside the club.
I suppose you could say that’s hypocritical, since I typically spend quite a large portion of my free time at a club not all that different from this place, in purpose if not in style. But to me, style has always been part of the equation.
If Club Rendezvous has a style, it’s not one I care to experience.
“The things I do for money,” I mutter, sliding my overcoat off. I debate whether or not to check it with the bored looking attendant. Keeping it on me will make for a faster get away should I need to escape. Then again, the coat is Armani and probably cost more than the bored attendant makes in a month. Perhaps not wise to expose it to the filth I’m sure waits inside.
Is that a snobbish assumption? Possibly. It’s also likely true.
The fact that this meeting doesn’t even have anything to do with my own business only makes my annoyance stronger. I need to have a conversation with my father about limits to my willingness to help his firm.
I slip the coat check ticket into my pocket and face the entry to the club. Pulsing dance music assaults my ears and I sigh as I push through the main door. This is going to be a long evening.
Somehow, the interior of Rendezvous is even worse than I expected. Dance clubs are really not my scene. Why my associates insisted on holding our meeting here I’ll never understand. It seems unlikely we’ll even be able to hear each other over the loud beat of what passes for music in a place like this.
A hand claps onto my shoulder and I turn to see the grinning face of Clifford Boyd. “Enjoying the view?”
I merely arch an eyebrow, causing him to laugh uproariously. “I could see the stick up your ass from across the room,” he says, Texas drawl thick. “Not your usual scene, is it?”
“Forgive me if I stopped frequenting dance clubs in my early twenties.”
He leans in conspiratorially. “It’s not all dancing and drinking, you know.”
I’ve heard enough about Rendezvous to know he’s telling the truth. While the dance club takes up most of the space, there’s an entire wing in the back for more private—or at least smaller scale—fun. I suppose some people need the alcohol and atmosphere of a club like this in order to let their inhibitions down. Seems rather childish to me. When I visit my club, I’m there for one of two reasons—to socialize with fellow members or to get the kind of release I can only find with a submissive woman at my feet.
But this place is clearly no Club Wyld.
I follow Boyd over to the table he has reserved. The VIP section is situated at the top of a half flight of stairs, giving us a view of most of the club before us. Even early in the evening, the dance floor is full. I believe there’s a rule against full nudity for guests in the public areas, but many people seem to be determined to skirt as close to that line as possible. The dresses are short and tight and leave very little to the imagination.
Even more blatant is the waitress who appears at the table at the same time as us. Dressed only in towering stripper heels, a garter belt, and a G-string, she’s definitely attention grabbing. Her bare breasts are too large and perky to be natural but that doesn’t seem to bother any of the men already sitting at Boyd’s table. They all grin at her lasciviously, one guy reaching over to smack her ass with a laugh.
She smiles down at him but there’s something tight in her flirty expression that gives me the impression that she doesn’t actually enjoy being pawed at by assholes. Imagine that.
“A bottle of your best scotch for my friend here, honey,” Boyd says, slipping a large bill under her garter.
“Sure thing, doll,” she says, the smile she gives Boyd a good deal more genuine than the one she had worn earlier. That soothes my displeasure over the evening slightly. Clifford Boyd is the only reason I agreed to be here. He isn’t a bad guy—a little gregarious for my tastes and increasingly brash the more liquor you put into him. But he has a good head for business when he’s sober, particularly when it comes to the oil industry. And that’s the main reason my father insisted I be here when a bad thunderstorm kept the old man stuck in Manhattan for the night.
Boyd begins to make the introductions. He’s brought several people along from Texas as well as two Chinese financiers, a banker from New York, and one of the most unwelcome faces I could imagine.
“Matthews,” Aden Roth says, anger flashing in his eyes even as he fixes his signature oily grin to his face. “So good to see you again, man.”
I can’t return the sentiment so I merely nod at him. I shouldn’t be surprised to see Roth in a place like this. He probably started coming here when he was on suspension from Club Wyld.
Hissecondsuspension from Club Wyld, to be precise. We should have bloody well kicked him out entirely. Which is the argument I gave the rest of the Wyld board when we met to determine his punishment for his latest infraction. The man is untrustworthy, petty, and has a habit of dangerously disregarding the rules when it comes to his treatment of submissives.
From the way Roth is glaring at me from the other end of the table, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t quite forgiven me for my no vote on his probation. Or maybe his anger stems from my refusal to involve my father’s investment firm in the financing of his latest scheme last year. Or maybe the asshole just doesn’t like me—the feeling is definitely mutual.
I sit at the end of the table, thanking the waitress when she reappears with Glenlivet—not bad—and a tray of glasses. Boyd begins pouring the scotch, practically shouting over the music while he tells a story involving Texas moonshine, a trio of prostitutes, and something about a police squad car. I honestly don’t care enough to pay attention.
I don’t mean to give my potential associates the impression that I’m prudish. The people who have seen me in action at Club Wyld would laugh at the very idea. I have long been a fan of the kinkier types of fun a person can get up to.
But there’s a difference between decadence and pure smut and this place most definitely crosses that line.
“You’ll have to forgive our British friend,” Roth says to the Chinese financiers when I don’t join the others in uproarious laughter at Boyd’s punchline. His voice is light but there’s still a shadow of malevolence in his eyes when he glances at me. “This atmosphere is a bit too rowdy for him.”
I make eye contact with the men. From their expressions, I get the sense they aren’t enjoying the atmosphere much either. I file away that knowledge. I have plenty of partnerships in Asia already but it’s a hot market, and you can never have too many contacts. I generally feel better about working with men and women I can respect.
