Page 99 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

KIERA

W hen I was a child, I had an imaginary best friend, an old dragon named Rhun. It was Rhun’s voice I heard when Lenny Johnson offered me twenty bucks if I would carry a backpack to Mr. Garcia. He’s a bad man. Don’t do it, Kiera.

It was Rhun that I played with. Rhun that kept me safe in the night when my mother was out with her newest boyfriend. Rhun was my constant companion, even after my sister Bianca came along.

Then I grew up, and Rhun melted away into the shadows.

Real-life, draining and stressful and often terrifying, took over.

My mother died from an overdose. Greg Dratch took an interest in my fifteen-year-old sister.

I tried to break them up, with disastrous consequences.

People died. My life shattered. There was no room left for childish things like imaginary friends.

Years later, I have a small dragon tattoo on my right arm, a larger one on my left, and a third that hugs my left thigh and curls around my hips, but I have just one remaining memory of Rhun. His eyes, brown, piercing, and wise.

The man in front of me has the same eyes.

He’s tall. Six-feet-something. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. His face is framed by a neatly trimmed beard.

His dark hair is long enough that he’s pulled it back into a knot.

I didn’t think I was attracted to guys with long hair, but the butterflies in my stomach are very real.

He’s dressed more casually than most of the patrons.

His jeans are faded, and he’s wearing an olive-green t-shirt.

From the lines on his face, I’d peg him in his thirties.

No wedding ring, either, though that doesn’t mean anything.

“What’s your pleasure?” My voice comes out huskier than I intended. The words sound like a come-on, and in a place like Club M, where sexual energy fills the air and lust laps at me from every direction, that’s a bad idea.

The stranger’s lips tilt up. His eyes rest on me, and his scrutiny freezes me in place.

A shiver goes up my spine. Is it fear or desire?

I can’t tell. No one can recognize you, Kiera Lynne, I remind myself.

It’s been eight years. You’re far away from home.

Vladimir Sirkovich is still in jail, serving a life sentence, and his organization is in shambles. You’re safe.

“My pleasure…” His voice, deep and self-assured, sends something twisting inside me. “An intriguing question to ask in a place like this.”

My cheeks heat, which is a bizarre reaction, all things considered.

I work as a bartender in a sex club, for fuck’s sake.

Right now, in the corner of the main floor, a masked guy is kneeling on the floor, his head between the legs of a woman.

He must be good at what he’s doing, because her expression is filled with bliss, and her moans are increasing in volume.

In the center of the room, on the raised stage, a dominant is dripping wax on his clearly aroused submissive. Just another Friday night at Club M.

I’ve barely registered any of it. You learn to tune it out.

I don’t blush easily, but this man has me red-cheeked and stammering. With effort, I reach for composure. “What can I get you to drink?”

His lips stretch into a slow smile. “Rum and Coke, please.”

I fix his drink and set it in front of him and then make myself move away. I don’t understand my reaction. It’s as if he’s a magnet that I’m drawn to. Only one other man makes me feel this way.

Speaking of the devil… Caleb Reeves enters the club.

Farid, the other bartender working tonight, nudges me. “Incoming,” he says under his breath, a grin forming on his face. “I’d ask Mr. Reeves what he’d like, but I already know the answer.”

Oh, dear God. Caleb Reeves, the guy I’ve had a massive, unrequited crush on for the last six months, strides purposefully toward the bar and settles next to the stranger.

Of course. There are only two guys I’ve felt a frisson of attraction for in the last eight years, and they clearly know each other well, because the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

I drag my attention back to Farid. “You do?”

“Mhm. You.”

Caleb Reeves wants me? I shake my head to dispel that fantasy.

“Mr. Reeves flirts with every woman in this place, Farid. Besides, I like my job. The hours are reasonable, it comes with benefits, and the customers tip well.” I’m a bartender at Club M.

Caleb Reeves is a member. That’s a chasm that cannot be crossed without serious consequences.

Farid gives me a sly smile and moves away to take care of some people. I make my way to the two men on shaking knees. “Mr. Reeves, good to see you. What would you like?”

Caleb Reeves is lean and tightly muscled. As always, he’s impeccably dressed in a suit that probably costs more than I make in six months. His dark hair is mussed, and his green-gray eyes are amused. “For starters, you could call me Caleb.”

I’ve moaned out his name plenty of times in my fantasies. I give him my best professional smile. “You know I can’t do that, Mr. Reeves. What would you like to drink?”

Once again, I feel the stranger’s scrutiny on me. “It was worth a shot,” Caleb says, shrugging disarmingly, as he always does. “I’d like a Dempsey, please.”

Club M doesn’t have a cocktail menu. We have a crazily well-stocked bar, and in deference to the outrageous sums of money the guests pay to become members, we’re expected to make whatever they want.

Caleb Reeves does his best to stump me by asking for obscure drinks. This is a game the two of us play, the only one I allow myself. For the last few weeks, it’s been pre-prohibition cocktails, and I’ve had to buy a book or two to bone up on them. Today, it’s the Dempsey.

So far, I’ve never failed to make him his drink, something I’m absurdly proud of. Today’s not going to be the day I fail, either. I search my memory for any reference to the Dempsey, and at first, I draw a blank. Caleb raises an eyebrow. “Want help?” he murmurs.

Ah. I’ve got it. I grin back at him. “No need, Mr. Reeves. Is there a brand of gin you’d like me to use?”

“I’m entirely in your hands, Kiera.”

Banishing that unlikely image—Caleb Reeves is a dominant through and through—I start making his drink.

Both men watch me, and it’s all I can do to tune out their gazes.

Gin, Calvados, absinthe, and grenadine go into my shaker.

I give it a vigorous shake and then strain the contents out into a chilled glass, which I carry over to Caleb.

He takes a sip. “Thank you. It’s delicious. ”

“Fancy cocktails, Caleb?” The stranger’s voice is coated with laughter. “Really?”

Caleb’s eyes remain on me. “You know me, Nolan. I enjoy games.”

And there it is. The definitive reason I can’t ever let myself fall for Caleb Reeves.

The man is rich and handsome. He’s used to getting whatever he wants.

To him, I’m a challenge, interesting only as long as I resist. If I let him in, he’ll tear my world apart, and he’ll leave me to pick up the pieces.

I’ve already picked up the pieces once. Bianca is gone, lost forever.

My mother is long dead. I have no family, no real friends.

Once Vladimir Sirkovich went to jail, I got a nose job, changed my last name, and entered witness protection.

At the start, I moved around a lot, terrified that the bratva was going to find me.

It’s only in the last three years that I’ve put down tentative roots in this quiet part of Pennsylvania.

My peace of mind is hard-won. God knows Caleb is gorgeous, but I can resist his appeal, because to him, I’m a game. Like I told Farid, Caleb Reeves flirts with everyone. I’m not stupid; I don’t think I’m special.

The stranger—Nolan—is saying something to Caleb, his voice too low for me to pick up the conversation. As much as I want to linger, I force myself to leave.

These men aren’t good for me. I cannot forget that.