Page 8 of Direct Action

Three cell phones simultaneously alarmed.

Before I could pull mine out of the pocket of my slacks that cost a fucking fortune, Mason announced, “Jammer.”

“Expected,” Pete grumbled.

Shep’s informant had warned there were cell phone jammers on the premises, but not in the parking area. And speaking of, the lighting was shit. The building’s entrance was no better. Strategically placed sconces gave a warm glow to the dark stucco exterior, giving it a posh, affluent charm. The kind that was meant to scream old money but fell short by a fraction. The gold door and window trim was on the wrong side of gaudy.

Pete rolled to a stop in front of the valet. Two men, both unremarkable in every way, down to their slight builds, approached the SUV. Still, I cataloged their every movement. A fighting-aged male was a fighting-aged male regardless of his size.

My door was opened. The valet moved to the door behind mine and opened that as well. But when he saw it was a woman, he held out a hand to help Calista out.

“If you don’t mind.” I tipped my head to the open door.

“Of course, sir,” the valet said, immediately stepping away from the opened door.

I reached in and helped Calli maneuver out onto the sidewalk, holding on to her hand long enough for her to steady herself on her dangerously high spiked heels. Not that that was necessary; Mason was at her side like a man possessed. Not that I blamed him. Calli in a pair of jeans, tee, hair in a ponytail, and flip-flops—her go-to when she and Mase were at the Plank—was stunning. Calli with bold red lipstick on, in a tight black dress with some complicated twist of fabric under her tits, hair done in loose curls, and in a pair of high heels was head-turning gorgeous.

“Mr. York.” The doorman approached Pete with his hand extended. “Welcome.”

Pete took the man’s hand and with an incline of his head, muttered, “Thank you.”

“If you’ll follow me in, Muriel will get you and your guests to your section.”

A Geena Davis look-alike in a silver one-shoulder dress that hit her knees appeared as soon as we filed into the foyer. The woman had to be in her sixties and had cougar written all over her. Not because she looked like she’d go after younger men, but because younger men would trip over themselves to get to her.

“Mr. York,” she greeted with a smile but didn’t offer her hand.

“Miss . . .” Pete let that hang.

“Muriel, please.”

Well fuck, she didn’t bite.

Shep’s report didn’t include Muriel’s last name. Dorian only knew her as Muriel, and to his knowledge she ran the club but didn’t handle the membership process. Mr. Mercer—no first name—conducted the membership intake.

“Muriel,” Pete conceded.

Her smile didn’t falter as she took in the rest of us. “Mr. and Mrs. Hart. Mr. Sinclair. You’re just in time. The first show of the evening will begin in five minutes. If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you seated.”

Right. Tonight I was Rhett Sinclair. Mase and Calli were Mark and Caroline Hart, and Pete was Peter York. Lucky bastard didn’t need a first name change since his name wasn’t Pete, it was Saint. Pete was a nickname from our time in the Navy.

I took in the foyer as we followed Muriel. No hostess stand, an empty coat check to the right, no one manning the area as it was unnecessary this time of year. Dark matte-navy walls. Polished wood floor. Gold-framed mirrors in all different shapes and sizes adorned the walls. Minimalist but effective, it gave the space an elegant feel without being over the top.

The theme continued into the club—navy walls, mirrors, and gold frames devoid of pictures hung on the walls. It was much larger than I imagined. Maybe double the size of the Plank. Padded taupe booth backs lined the walls. Pastel pink leather chairs sat opposite. A mix of two and four tops took up the rest of the space, with a few tables that would seat six. To the far left was a glassed-off cigar section, the view of the room unobscured. The room was currently occupied, six men and one woman smoking cigars, but no smoke lingered. Opposite the smoking room was the bar. With all the patrons gathered around, I couldn’t take in the fullness, but from a distance and what I could see, it was damn impressive.

And the women . . . We’d passed two servers on our way to the table. Both in tight black leather pants. One had on an electric-blue leather vest, the other a red leather corset with black lace ruffling the top. The other servers bustling around were easy to spot, some in shorts or skirts, all of them black leather. Vest, corsets, tank tops, some in ripped tees tied under their tits, showing skin but managing to keep it classy. The woman patrons wouldn’t find the servers’ apparel offensive, and the men would find it alluring.

“Here we are.” Muriel stopped next to a four top. “Service is slow right before a show. Would you like me to get your drinks, or would you prefer to look over the cocktail menu?”

A couple fingers of bourbon would make sitting in this damn suit more bearable. “Eagle Rare. Very Rare if you have it.”

Muriel looked affronted I would question their bourbon selection.

“Of course, Mr. Sinclair.”

She patiently waited for the others to give their orders. It was hard to beat back my smile when Pete ordered a bourbon, knowing damn well he’d prefer a Corona. Mase ordered a vodka soda and Calli a glass of wine. Neither looked happy with their selections. Mase also favored IPAs. I wasn’t sure what Calista would prefer, but whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t an expensive glass of wine.

As soon as Muriel left to put in our order, Mason adjust his collar and muttered, “Thank fuck we didn’t need ties.”