didn’t fit. The subterranean space, located half a mile off the highway between Vegas and Lake Mead, was originally hollowed out as a nuclear fallout shelter for a paranoid mob boss plus his wife, mistress, six kids, and four grandchildren. Half the rooms never made it to the steel reinforcement phase, leaving many of the bedrooms and common areas as rock-walled tributes to something between a Moroccan palace and a desert prison.
Only a year ago, Max Brickham had scooped up the space for a song when visiting down here after the “mission from hell.” Dan remembered the day Brick practically danced into the burn center to tell all of them about his purchase, proclaiming he’d found the perfect place to open his second alternative lifestyle club. His first, The Bastille, was a daunting glam fortress in Seattle’s warehouse district, and was practically a second home for many of the guys on the team. Heading that list was John Franzen, the battalion’s CO, as equal a best buddy to Max as he was to Dan—which was why he led the group in calling Max a complete loon about the purchase.
Funny thing about Brick. He had a lonnnng memory. Validation of that came from the man himself, folding his massive arms and surveying the bustling main room, cockier than Starlord with a new mix tape. “So what was that you all were saying…about renaming me Sir Loon and all that shit?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Franzen, seated next to Dan, muttered it into his own Scotch. “You want me to eat my hat or something? Because I’m sure as fuck not gonna kneel and kiss your feet.”
“Hey.” The protest was as soft and sweet as the petite woman who nudged her ink-black hair against Max’s shoulder. “That’s my job, mister.”
“Thank fuck,” Franz muttered.
Max growled with pleasure, hooking a finger into the ring that dangled from the woman’s diamond-studded collar. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, tamago gata no kao .”
The Japanese endearment was his way of honoring her heritage and submissiveness, as well as her official name as his collared submissive, declared during a formal ceremony at Bastille six months back. Dan had missed the occasion due to continued surgeries and healing, though he’d likely have concocted an excuse, anyway. Even being around Max and Megan now was difficult. They were the epitome of the D/s dream, an ideal he’d once looked forward to having too—a fantasy he’d only be experiencing from the outside now.
“You two want to get a room?” Franz barked it when the pair behind the bar entered their second minute of making out like a pair of porn stars. “Like your private one at the end of the hall?”
“Fuck off.” Max broke away from his girl long enough to laugh it out. Two seconds later, his mouth was jammed harder to hers, his hands sliding beneath her leather skirt, greedily cupping her ass.
“Shit,” Franz groused.
“They just want us to start throwing twenties,” Dan quipped.
“Like you’d notice.” Franz glowered. “You seeing Jesus in the depths of that drink, ass munch? You’re the one who wanted the ‘Catacomb experience’ tonight, remember?”
Dan hunched his shoulders. Yeah. He remembered. How could he forget? Same way he couldn’t forget much of anything about the last seven days. When the world hit midnight in an hour, it’d be the one week anniversary of the moment he’d marched into a Mexican Riviera luxury suite and gotten his hands on Cameron Stock again. There, with Stock’s terrified face filling his vision, he’d been truly complete—
For ten seconds.
After that, everything had reverted right back to normal. His scars were still there. The fury was still there. Frustration still clawed him like a demon spawn, leaving charred trails everywhere it went in his psyche. Not even driving the Bowie into Stock’s ball sack had relieved the agony.
Only seeing Tess had done that.
Until she’d brought a new torture of her own.
Making that coy little
Only a year ago, Max Brickham had scooped up the space for a song when visiting down here after the “mission from hell.” Dan remembered the day Brick practically danced into the burn center to tell all of them about his purchase, proclaiming he’d found the perfect place to open his second alternative lifestyle club. His first, The Bastille, was a daunting glam fortress in Seattle’s warehouse district, and was practically a second home for many of the guys on the team. Heading that list was John Franzen, the battalion’s CO, as equal a best buddy to Max as he was to Dan—which was why he led the group in calling Max a complete loon about the purchase.
Funny thing about Brick. He had a lonnnng memory. Validation of that came from the man himself, folding his massive arms and surveying the bustling main room, cockier than Starlord with a new mix tape. “So what was that you all were saying…about renaming me Sir Loon and all that shit?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Franzen, seated next to Dan, muttered it into his own Scotch. “You want me to eat my hat or something? Because I’m sure as fuck not gonna kneel and kiss your feet.”
“Hey.” The protest was as soft and sweet as the petite woman who nudged her ink-black hair against Max’s shoulder. “That’s my job, mister.”
“Thank fuck,” Franz muttered.
Max growled with pleasure, hooking a finger into the ring that dangled from the woman’s diamond-studded collar. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, tamago gata no kao .”
The Japanese endearment was his way of honoring her heritage and submissiveness, as well as her official name as his collared submissive, declared during a formal ceremony at Bastille six months back. Dan had missed the occasion due to continued surgeries and healing, though he’d likely have concocted an excuse, anyway. Even being around Max and Megan now was difficult. They were the epitome of the D/s dream, an ideal he’d once looked forward to having too—a fantasy he’d only be experiencing from the outside now.
“You two want to get a room?” Franz barked it when the pair behind the bar entered their second minute of making out like a pair of porn stars. “Like your private one at the end of the hall?”
“Fuck off.” Max broke away from his girl long enough to laugh it out. Two seconds later, his mouth was jammed harder to hers, his hands sliding beneath her leather skirt, greedily cupping her ass.
“Shit,” Franz groused.
“They just want us to start throwing twenties,” Dan quipped.
“Like you’d notice.” Franz glowered. “You seeing Jesus in the depths of that drink, ass munch? You’re the one who wanted the ‘Catacomb experience’ tonight, remember?”
Dan hunched his shoulders. Yeah. He remembered. How could he forget? Same way he couldn’t forget much of anything about the last seven days. When the world hit midnight in an hour, it’d be the one week anniversary of the moment he’d marched into a Mexican Riviera luxury suite and gotten his hands on Cameron Stock again. There, with Stock’s terrified face filling his vision, he’d been truly complete—
For ten seconds.
After that, everything had reverted right back to normal. His scars were still there. The fury was still there. Frustration still clawed him like a demon spawn, leaving charred trails everywhere it went in his psyche. Not even driving the Bowie into Stock’s ball sack had relieved the agony.
Only seeing Tess had done that.
Until she’d brought a new torture of her own.
Making that coy little
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