Page 9 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

She points across the club, and I follow her finger to see an elevator guarded by another man in a black suit. “Tell him you need to meet Jack. He’ll let you down, and you should probably be able to find him in the back somewhere.”

“Thanks,” I stammer awkwardly. After drinking the water, I follow the bartender’s instructions.

What on earth is down this elevator that needs a security guard, and why is Jack down there? Why is that considered the club and not this?

I’ve never been more confused in my life.

Warning bells are going off in my mind, and I suddenly remember Phoenix giving me stringent instructions not to ask about his job or go poking around where I’m not supposed to.

And yet here I am, standing in a club, or above a club, that Jack apparently owns.

You’re causing trouble again, Camille.

Perhaps if I were better at following instructions or listening to warnings when I’m given them, I would turn away now and go home. I would put all this to rest and let my curiosity subside.

But I am none of those things.

Instead, I’m reckless and nosy, and I wouldn’t recognize a boundary if it slapped me in the face. If this is how I lose my job, then this is how I lose my job, but I can’t turn away now.

“I’m here for Jack St. Claire,” I say to the man by the elevator. Then I point back at the bartender. “She told me to tell you that.”

He lets out a grunt as he nods at the bartender. Then he jabs his finger against the button, and the doors slide open, allowing me into the elevator. I’m practically shaking as it takes me down alone. Once it opens, it takes everything in me to step out.

It’s immediately a little quieter and even darker as I exit the elevator and walk down a narrow black hallway. A red neon sign above the inky black curtain ahead simply says Legacy .

Something about this has my insides screaming, I don’t belong here .

What if Jack is in the Mafia, and I’m about to walk into some secret meeting where everybody in the room will turn to me with guns drawn?

What if it’s some seedy underground dealing of drugs or other black-market goods?

What if it’s a kinky sex dungeon and I walk in on something I really shouldn’t see?

As all these thoughts swirl anxiously around in my mind, it is a sudden reminder that I don’t know who I’m working for. I could be employed by a very dangerous man, and I would have no idea.

Not that it matters. I love Bea already, and I would take care of her even if her father were some drug-dealing Mafia killer.

As I slip through the dark curtain at the end of the hall beneath the sign, what I find is nothing like I expected.

It’s not nearly as crowded as it is upstairs.

There’s still music playing, but it’s slower, more sultry, and not as loud.

The lights are dim, but they’re also a pinkish shade of red, and the entire room has a sense of sexy energy about it.

There is distorted glass and ornate fixtures on a half wall around what looks to be a dance floor. I follow it around, watching the strange movement of the people, unable to make out what kind of dance this is.

As I reach the other side, I stop and gawk in surprise. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. There are people on the dance floor, but not many, maybe twelve or fifteen. They’re moving to the music in a way that is both natural and unnatural.

It takes my eyes a moment to realize that most of them are completely nude. And the rest are hardly wearing anything at all.

The small mass of bodies grind and rub against each other to the beat of the bass.

Their hands roam over each other’s bodies.

One of the naked women has her legs wrapped around a man, her arms hanging around the shoulders of another, and it’s definitely not a dance they’re doing.

The man’s thrusts match the sultry beat of the music, and I can just make out their moans from here.

It’s salacious without being grotesque or vulgar. In fact, it’s almost beautiful.

“So it is a kinky sex dungeon,” I whisper to no one.

“You keep staring like that, you’re gonna get yourself kicked out,” a voice says from behind me.

My body feels flushed, tight, and hot as I spin around to find another small bar, much like the one upstairs. The man talking to me is a very handsome young bartender with nearly pitch-black hair. He appears to be my age with dimples and a coy smirk as he leans against the bar.

I quickly scan my periphery to be sure I haven’t just been caught staring at the dance floor…or sex floor, I guess. “I’m sorry,” I stammer as I rush toward the bartender. My cheeks are on fire, as are other parts of my body I don’t want to acknowledge at the moment.

He chuckles. “First time?”

Silently, I nod.

First time what? I don’t know. First time in a kinky sex dungeon, yes. First time my curiosity has gotten me in trouble, not even close.

“Need a drink?” he asks.

“Desperately,” I whisper as I rest my arms on the bar, not daring to turn back toward the erotic display in the middle of the room.

“Want me to fix you up something? I could surprise you.” Judging by his accent, he is also from America, like Phoenix and Jack.

“Yes, please,” I reply as I toy with my hair to busy my hands.

“Did you come alone?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Normally, new members get a tour and a guide. Did you not get a tour?”

I clear my throat, uncomfortable again. New members? Am I supposed to be a member? Good God, Camille. What have you gotten yourself into now?

“Um, no,” I reply, stammering.

“All right, well, this isn’t much of a tour, but that’s the dance floor. Those are VIP booths, and there’s a BDSM room in the back, but if you wanted to rent a private room, you’d have to talk to the host.”

As he slides my drink across the bar, I try to absorb what he just said, but none of it is really sticking.

A private room? BDSM?

Trying to keep my cool as I let all this register, I take a sip of the purple drink and realize that Jack St. Claire owns a sex club. That’s what all this is about. Now it makes sense why Phoenix didn’t want me asking any questions.

“Feel free to go take a look around,” he says, “but don’t be doing any of that gawking stuff you were a moment ago.

Just play it cool. A pretty thing like you, I’m sure you won’t be alone for long, but if someone gives you any trouble, just signal to any one of the security guards, and they’ll help you out. Got it?”

“Got it,” I reply, feeling embarrassed and more nervous than I’ve ever been.

I nearly chug down the rest of my drink, convincing myself that I’m going to leave as soon as I’m done.

After slipping a note over to pay for my drink, I stand from the stool, clutching my purse to my chest as I slowly make my way around the club.

I’m expecting that at any moment, someone is going to realize that I’m trespassing and kick me out.

As the bartender said, there are large circular booths off to the right with high backs and low tables so that people inside are hidden from view. Passing them, I see a doorway leading deeper into the club.

The noises from within stop me in my tracks. It’s not music I hear anymore but the unmistakable sound of something smacking flesh. The bartender told me not to gawk, and I am doing my best, but I am definitely out of my element here.

The room is sectioned off with high walls and space for people to walk around them.

Other guests like me are meandering around them, watching.

I pass by each one, not fully absorbing what I see.

It reminds me of a museum, people perusing the art, but instead of paintings and sculptures, it’s whips and bondage.

There’s a man paddling the ass of a woman bound to a bed. Judging by the sound of her voice, she both loves it and hates it.

There’s another woman suspended from the rafters wrapped in rope with her hair tethered to her ankles. I can’t quite make sense of that one, so I pass it by for the next.

What I find in the last booth stops me in my tracks.

Jack St. Claire is standing near a wall covered in paddles and other tools I don’t recognize.

He’s shirtless with his back to us and a pair of dark jeans hanging on his hips.

I can’t take my eyes off the cords of muscle cascading from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine.

There’s a glisten of sweat on his skin, and I’m too struck by the sight to move when I know I should.

A woman kneels on the floor at his side, but I don’t even look at her. Jack reaches for something along the wall, a bundle of black corded rope, and I spot the gold wedding band on his left hand.

As he picks up the rope and slaps it against the other palm, I flinch. The girl on the floor looks acquiescent. Then Jack turns around to regard her, and I watch as he softly pets the top of her head and the line of her jaw with adoration. She practically melts under his touch.

Hiding myself behind a couple, I watch them with fiery interest. The woman leans into Jack as he begins to unravel the rope in his hand. She lifts her wrists on his command, and he softly whispers two words that course straight down my spine.

“Good girl.”

Lips parted, I find myself wondering what it must feel like to be in her position, to be so adored and treated so gently by him. To feel his touch, his attention, his gentle praise.

He mumbles something else to her I can’t understand, and I wish that I could.

And then his eyes lift, making their way out to the crowd where a small group of people is standing, myself included. I do my best to hide, ducking behind the couple in the darkness, but it’s too late.

His eyes meet mine. It feels like being struck by lightning. Dread floods through me as his eyes widen in shock. His nostrils flare and his chest expands as he takes a deep breath, and I ready myself for his wrath. He mumbles something to the girl before slamming the rope in his hand to the floor.

Shit.

He stomps angrily toward me, and I find myself backing up as if I could escape him. One of his hands latches around my upper arm, and I shriek, “Let go of me!”

“What are you doing here?” he says, his eyes searching my face.

“I… I…” No words come out. There’s not a single excuse I could come up with, so I give up on the futile attempt to talk my way out of this one.

“You don’t belong here,” he says in a growly reply. Silently brooding, he drags me deeper into the room instead of the way we came, and I find myself digging my heels in as if I could stop him.

“Why not? I can go where I want!” I shout.

“Not here you can’t,” he argues as he continues dragging me through the deep recesses of the club until he finds a door. Grabbing hold of the knob, he tears it open and shoves me through.

“Stop it!” I’m engulfed in fear as he drags me up a set of stairs in the back of the club. It all happens so fast. He slams open an exterior door, and suddenly, we’re outside.

“What are you doing?” I scream.

He lets go of my arm and blocks the door we just escaped through. His eyes bore into mine with intensity, rage pulsating through his features. “Why can’t you just listen?” he grits with exasperation.

Huffing, I stare back at him, lifting my chin with all the defiance I can muster. “Why would I listen to you ?” I snap. “You’re not my, my…”

“Your boss?” he growls, leaning closer.

The chemistry between us is electric, his chest heaving as he glares at me.

I forget how to speak, no response on my lips.

I don’t know what I was about to say to Jack, but I’m disarmed when he calls himself my boss.

All this time, I’ve fabricated this connection between us, all because of some photograph.

That’s what drew me into this club. What had me following him, desperate to know as much as I can about him.

And I discovered far more than I ever imagined.

But he is just my boss. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And if I don’t listen, I risk losing the best job I’ve ever had.

“Go home.” He points toward the street, away from the club, like I’m a dog that must listen to his commands.

“What is wrong with you?” I ask, my voice shaking with emotion. He doesn’t react or answer. When it’s clear that he won’t move until I leave, I sigh as I take a step away.

Tears moistening my eyes, I turn my back on him and walk away from the club toward the road that will lead back to home.