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CHAPTER ONE
LAYLA
“Tell me again why this is the place you chose for us tonight?” I slip my hand into the crook of Jorge’s arm as he leads me into the bar. Weaving us through the crowd, my arm brushes against a large, sweaty man, and I huff in disgust.
This tiny, run-down bar is nothing like the establishments Jorge normally entices me to with him. It smells like sweat and cheap liquor–okay, that’s like most places he drags me to. There’s no loud music, obscure décor, or outlandishly dressed bar staff. The only sounds filling this space are the rambunctious conversations and clattering of glasses against tables. The staff are all understatedly dressed, wearing blue jeans and T-shirts or polos adorning the logo of the bar. Deartháir Irish Pub.
Dear Thair?
De Art Hair?
I’ll have to Google that later.
All eyes are on the two of us as he leads me deeper into the bar. This place definitely has a ‘regulars only’ feel to it, and based on our appearance in comparison to the rest of the crowd, we may as well have flashing neon signs above our heads that say we don’t belong here. Had I known tonight’s location made a frat party seem upscale, I might have forgone the gold-sequined mini-dress for virtually anything else in my closet.
The scrutiny of their gazes feels tangible on my skin. I squeeze his arm a little tighter to close the distance between the two of us and tug at the hemline of my dress as we walk between wooden tables occupied with middle-aged men—all of them presumably middle-class and blue-collar in nature based upon their well-worn blue jeans, ratty T-shirts and uniform button-downs.
Not Jorge’s cup of tea in the slightest.
Everything about this run-down, mom-and-pop bar is so out of the norm in comparison to the places we normally go that I meticulously scan the patterned, hunter-green wallpaper looking for the secret entrance to an underground nightclub or hidden speakeasy. One I don’t find as Jorge pulls me toward two open stools at the bar.
“Seriously, Jorge,” I whisper-shout as we each slide onto our barstools—or rather I climb onto mine. Looking around, I can’t help but scrunch my face, displaying my annoyance and disgust. “This place? Why are we here?”
“If you must know.” He lowers his voice to a whisper and a coy smile spreads across his face. “I heard a rumor that they are building a sex club next door?”
“A what?” My question is loud enough to garner the attention of those around us.
“A kink club. A BDSM club.”
“You’re so full of shit,” I laugh as Jorge stares back at me in silence, his features devoid of humor. After what feels like an eternity, Jorge smirks and cocks an eyebrow.
“That’s a real thing?” I’m unable to hide the shock in my tone. I’ve read my fair share of romance books that include them, but I just assumed they were fictional. Never that real people actually went to places like that or someone would build one on the skirts of Midtown.
“For being such an equal opportunist with the men you allow into your bed, you sure are sheltered, Layla,” he jests.
“Did you just call me a slut?” I quip as we garner the attention of the busy bartender.
“No,” his response is overly sarcastic and exaggerated, “I’m just saying that you—and your thighs—are always open to new possibilities.”
I can’t help but laugh as Jorge pokes fun at my—what some would call overzealous—sex life. Not that he’s one to talk. At least I can name most of the men I’ve slept with.
“I’ll have a Jack and cranberry.” I struggle to get out my order between laughs.
“Sorry, darling.” The thick Irish accent of the pretty redhead behind the bar catches me off-guard. Almost as much as her subsequent comment. “No Jack here.”
Every bar in the city carries Jack Daniels. As though she can read the befuddlement on my face, she continues, “Irish whiskey only. Neat or on the rocks. Or we have several Irish stouts on tap.”
What the hell kind of bar is this?
I glare at Jorge as I place my order. “I guess I’ll take mine on the rocks.”
“Same.” Jorge nods at the bartender while giving me a shove with his elbow as she turns to grab glasses for our whiskey. “Rude, much?”
“We both know this isn’t your kind of bar either, Jorge.” I roll my eyes at him. “If you’re interested in the sex club, why are we here?”
“I heard from a friend of a friend that the guy who owns this place is the one putting the club in next door. I was curious.”
Discreetly turning on my barstool, I scan the crowd filling this bar. Middle-aged men clearly enjoying an ‘end of the long working week’ drink. Most of them are dressed in jeans and T-shirts that barely cover their pot bellies.
