Page 54 of Filthy Secret
It’s fucking ridiculous. I hadn’t even thought about my stupid obsession in years, but leave it to my brother to mention it, to put that shit in my head. Because, in many ways, Ryan is a bit like Frances Cleveland. She’s much younger than me, for starters. She’s got debts up to her eyeballs, and I’m sure she used that fifty grand of mine to help her, or her sister, out of some shit.
Fuck me.
Ryan is my Frances.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
RYAN
I should not be here.
I came up with as many excuses as I possibly could, but Nash didn’t give a fuck about any of them, and neither did Shawn. That’s why I’m standing in front of the bar door that leads into the clubhouse, carrying two boxes of cupcakes.
As I chew on my bottom lip, my feet are frozen in their spot. I think about setting the boxes down and running. I could run. I brought my own car, against Shawn’s wishes. She wanted me to come with her, but the only way I agreed to show up here at all was if I could bring my own car. I want to get the fuck out when I want to get the fuck out.
Right now, I’m ready to leave, and I haven’t even stepped one foot through the door. I can hear the music, smell the smoke, and I know when I walk in there, I’ll see the whores doing what they do.
I know everything that happens in there. I used to be immersed in the life. As much as I want to believe that it’s no big deal, that I know what to expect, that’s just the problem. I know what to expect.
Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath, then let it out slowly before I open my eyes, focus on the door, and take a step forward. If Shawn realizes that I’m hesitating my ass off, she doesn’t say anything.
She wouldn’t anyway. Shawn is probably one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. My initial gut judgment of her was right. She’s a good woman, clearly someone who cares about herself and her man. She’s an old lady but sweeter than any I’ve ever known, including myself.
Together, we move toward the door, and the prospect standing guard dips his chin with a smile as he opens it for us. I’m not sure if the prospect guarding the gate sent a message for this one to help us inside, but it would not surprise me if that’s what happened.
Nothing about this place, this club, or these men surprises me anymore.
Stepping into the clubhouse bar, I lift my feet, one then the other. It’s sticky with beer and whatever other kinds of fluids make things sticky. I try not to think about it. Shawn jerks her head toward the side of the room where there is a long banquet table set up.
The music is exactly how I knew it would be, loud rock that fills the room. It rattles your bones and pounds in your head. I love it. And I hate that I love it. Trying to ignore all the happenings going on in the room, I turn my back to the bar area and get to work busying myself with cupcakes, cookies, and cake.
Shawn moves gracefully around the table, setting everything up as if she’s done this a million times, which I’m sure by now she has. I can’t imagine a single milestone going by without these men begging for desserts from her.
Not only are they hungry bastards, but Shawn’s desserts are also just that good.
When we’re almost finished, I notice a couple of shadows behind us. Slowly, I turn around to face them, expecting one to be a still angry Grover. But that’s not who it is at all. It’s King, his gaze on Shawn and only Shawn. Beside him is Clink.
“I’m just here for cookies,” he announces.
My lips twitch into a smile, and I move to the side. “Have at it.”
He hums, rushing the table, and I watch in awe as he takes four cookies and three cupcakes. He jerks his chin, two of his four cookies in his mouth, turns around and walks away as if he hadn’t just pillaged the table.
My gaze slides to the side, and I watch as King places his hand on Shawn’s belly before he slants his head to the side and lowers down to kiss her. I don’t watch his mouth make contact. It seems too intimate, so I turn away from them, facing the action in the bar and wishing I hadn’t.
There are a few orgies happening in various places in the room, one of the pool tables being one of them. I stare at that one, mainly because that was exactly where Grover was fucking a clubwhore the last time I came to one of these things.
I can’t look away, and they don’t notice that I’m staring anyway. They are, without a doubt, equal parts drunk and high. They probably like being watched, too, if I had to guess. And I don’t have to guess because these women are all into it. Not one of them has even a modicum of modesty, and I know that because I walked in on Grover fucking one of them, a nameless, faceless body in the exact same spot.
“You are staring awfully hard at that. I don’t think you’re the type, though, babe,” a voice murmurs from beside me.
Turning my head, I tear my gaze from the foursome doing whatever the fuck they’re doing and look at the man who belongs to the voice.
It’s Gnaw.
“Do you know the type I am?” I ask, arching a brow.