The Muse's Undoing

“Jesus,” I hear him mutter under his breath as he walks past me to get between her and where I’m standing.

“I’m sorry about last night—” she starts, but he holds up his hand to stop her.

I feel sick. “Excuse me,” I say, stepping around them to catch the elevator door before it closes. As I do, I catch a glimpse of Raven.

She looks good. Like Britney during the good years. Her messy bun makes her look taller than she is, and—I think this is where I catch the Britney reference—in a gray velvet cropped sweatsuit with hip-hugger pants straight from the early aughts, her tits draw the male gaze. I give her a nod while Fischer covers his erection with the mail I gave him.

“Am I not allowed to speak to you anymore?” she asks him with a light laugh.

“I’ve had a long day,” he tells her curtly, stepping onto the elevator. I hand him his bag and step between him and Ravenna, looking down at her as I cross my hands over my own bulge.

“He’s so stubborn,” she says to me.

“Headed out?” I ask. “It’s a nice night.”

“Yeah, I…” She squints up at me. “Why was he in the mailroom?”

“He had mail,” I say.

“Uh-huh. He looked kind of—I don’t know. Flustered or something.”

I shrug.

“Are you okay?” she presses.

“Of course. Can I help you with anything?”

“No. I’m good. Saying hi.”

I walk her to the door, wishing I never had to see her face again.

41

MATTHEW

Iwait for Fischer this morning on a bench across the street from the building, and we enter Gramercy Place together. I only have him for a couple of hours. He has to work and then pick up Vaughn from Maggie’s later, but I need him, and he was easy to convince.

The Penthouse in the early morning feels quite different than the way it does at night. There’s no show in the amphitheater, no gang bang line, and Gibson Hayes is nowhere to be found. In his usual place is a masked Domme with one leg draped on the arm of the chair where she sits, observing the comings and goings in and out of the private rooms. Costumed escorts and male members mostly.

The music is lower, but the lighting is exactly as I remember it from the last time. It was my idea to come here instead of Fischer’s place. To get him in the mood for something different. Not to mention the side benefit of reclaiming this space from all the women he’s been with here.

“How long has this club been around?” I ask as we pass the occupied rooms to find one of our own. I wouldn’t hate playing with him in the amphitheater, but for what I want to do with him, I need a bed. Maybe one day.

“About three years?” Fischer sounds like he’s guessing. “I’m not sure. Gibson mentioned it a few years back—I assumed it was a new thing, but maybe he had it open longer.”

“What’s his story?” I ask.

“In terms of this? No idea. He’s always been into kink.”

We approach an open door to an empty room, and Fischer stops walking. I shake my head and point at the glass-walled room next door.

“No,” he says.

“Please? There’s hardly anyone here.”

He looks around and sees what I see. While it’s not packed like it was the Friday night we came before, there are people—men in scrubs. A few employees. A dozen other nondescript people, mostly couples, who I figure are probably like us—experimenting with something forbidden or taboo. Membership does have its privileges.

When he hesitates, I remind him, “We’ve messed around in public with way more eyes on us. Do this for me.”