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Which, she’d discovered, was shorthand for vanillas—people who weren’t in the BDSM lifestyle.
She’d learned all kinds of things about consent, and the club’s safe word had been mentioned in every communication.
Rules she appreciated, because they let her know what to expect in life. Sometimes she even followed ones she agreed with.
After securing both her bags over her shoulder, she looked through the peephole, then she cracked the door slightly to ensure the hallway was empty before leaving the room.
Usually, she preferred to jog down the stairs, but in these shoes she might kill herself if she tried.
Hyperaware of her surroundings, head on a swivel, she made her way to the elevator.
She’d parachuted into war zones with fewer butterflies than were flapping around inside her stomach right this moment.
This was about far more than being a fish out of water.
Each second ticking past brought her closer and closer to looking a long way up to meet the enigmatic, dark, mysterious eyes of a man who dressed all in black. For as long as she could remember, a diamond in one ear had refracted prisms of light wherever he went.
Do you still wear it, Gregorio?
No doubt he did. It served as a reminder to him of all the things he’d lost—just like the tattoo on his well-honed biceps.
But she’d do what she needed to.
Resolved, Sasha pushed the Call button.
Showtime…
Chapter Two
Under the stark lighting of the garage gym attached to his caretaker’s cottage at the Den, Gregorio struck the heavy punching bag with a rhythmic thud, the power and precision honed by years of trying to outrun the past.
Shirtless, slick with sweat, he focused on each jab instead of the slight limp that left him a little off balance and the white bandage on his abdomen—a nasty fucking reminder of a recent mission gone south.
With each punch, pain flared, a soul-sucking contrast to the dull ache of his exertion. Ignoring it, he pushed through, just like he did with everything else.
Hell, he’d done it for so long it might as well be his life motto.
Endure.
This afternoon, he’d opted for silence over music, which meant the only sounds in the room were the repetitive echo of knuckles against canvas and the breaths burning his lungs.
Well-earned sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes.
On and on he went, clearing his mind with each combo, narrowing his world to a physical, brutal rhythm.
With a final, vicious jab, Gregorio stepped back to grab a towel.
As he wiped sweat from his face, the movement pulled at his wound, yet another in a long line that he’d needed to have stitched.
He was too old for this shit.
On rare occasions, and only on days the Den was closed to the public, he still freelanced for Hawkeye Security. But this one had been unsanctioned, and no one had known about it. He’d left a loose end when settling a recent score, and that bothered him enough to do something about it.
The bastard had died at his hand, but not without catching him with a knife and carving out a jagged chunk of flesh.
He’d allowed the doctor to do her work, as long as she skipped anesthesia. He was a physical man and wanted to feel every moment of his life. It reminded him he was still alive.
Muscles burning in a satisfying way, he headed back inside to get ready for the evening—ladies’ night at the Den. More newbies than ever were planning to attend. So many, in fact, that he’d marked the event as sold out.