Chapter 13

The next morning, Tasha and Claire woke in a bed that wasn’t their own, in a room that looked like it had been decorated by a professional. The sheets were Egyptian cotton and impossibly soft. They could’ve stayed wrapped in that bed all day—if it had been theirs. But as their minds shook off the haze of sleep, they slowly remembered where they were ... and what had happened the night before.

“You awake, Tash?”

“Yeah ... but I’m not sure I want to be. This bed is way too comfortable.”

“Same. Let’s get dressed and try to sneak out. I have no idea what kind of reception we’re walking into downstairs.”

The WE remained silent but aware—knowing full well that Grant was already waiting in the kitchen with hot coffee, pancakes, and omelets made from scratch.

Barefoot, with shoes in hand, the women tiptoed down the stairs.

Grant greeted them with open arms and a warm smile.

“Tasha, Claire—good morning!”

“Sir.”

“Hi.”

“I’m Grant. Welcome to my home. If you’re hungry, there’s hot coffee in the kitchen, along with pancakes and the best omelets money can buy. Care to join me?”

He speaks the truth. Trust him, the WE reassured them gently.

“Sure.”

“Thank you.”

They followed Grant into the kitchen, where his chef stood at the counter with fresh ingredients for custom omelets.

“What can I make for you two ladies?” the chef asked politely.

Shy but grateful, they placed their orders, poured themselves coffee, and sat together at the table.

A few minutes later, Frank and Veronica appeared. Veronica went straight to the girls, giving each of them a tender hug and a soft kiss.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“You’re welcome.”

“It was our pleasure.”

Veronica poured herself a cup of coffee and took a seat beside them.

“Did my husband treat you both well?”

Mouths full of food, they both nodded emphatically.

“Good,” she smiled. “His wives and I have worked hard to train him. I’m glad to hear he’s finally listening.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Frank said, sipping his drink.

“I know, dear,” Veronica replied sweetly, patting his hand and continuing her conversation as if he weren’t.

Marisol came down the stairs next, clearly recovering from morning sickness. Grant handed her a cup of tea, and she slid into the seat beside Veronica.

“Hi,” she said with a tired smile. “I didn’t get to meet you last night. I’m Marisol—Grant’s wife.”

Tasha and Claire greeted her warmly, finishing the last bites of their breakfast.

Once the meal was done, Grant arranged for the car to take the women home. They said their goodbyes, with Claire giving Frank a lingering hug and Tasha whispering a quiet “thank you” in his ear. Then they were gone.

Grant rejoined the group at the table.

“So,” he asked casually, “are those two joining your pack?”

“No,” Veronica answered before Frank could, though he nodded in agreement with a mouthful of food.

“Are you going to hire them at one of the clubs?” Marisol asked. “They were certainly pretty enough.”

“And sexual enough,” Veronica added with a teasing grin. “I heard some of what you three were doing when I got up to pee.”

“If they want to work at a club, I’d welcome them,” Frank said seriously. “But not because of what we did last night. Because they truly want to care for their customers—make them feel good, not just for money. Because they care.”

“Good,” Grant said with a grin. “That’s two less things we have to worry about.”

After breakfast, Frank and Veronica packed their bags. The car took them to the airport, where the girls parted with teary hugs and whispered promises to stay in touch. The men exchanged strong, brotherly farewells—firm handshakes and shoulder slaps that spoke louder than words.

Then came the long walk to their gate.

The flight home was smooth. Once in the air, Veronica climbed into Frank’s lap like it was her rightful place. She didn’t stop kissing him until the plane began its descent.

When they arrived home, the kids came running with squeals of joy, arms outstretched. Jane and Lisa met them with passionate kisses and warm embraces, wrapping the travelers in love and laughter.

In the weeks that followed, Grant’s inbox filled with emails—design drafts, technical schematics, requests for decisions. Floor plans changed. Lighting was reimagined. New ideas for booths, lounges, and sensory spaces were proposed.

Frank gave his input, Grant gave his blessing, and slowly but surely, the dream began to take shape.

Life in Chicago continued on as it had before. Summer turned to fall and the kid’s had to say goodbye to the town’s pool and hello to their school once again.

The pack got out of bed all at the same time on that first day of school as the bus rumbled down the street. The kids joined other children on the street getting on the bus as their parents waved and at least one of the moms had to wipe a tear from her eyes as they left for the day.

“First day of school. They grow up so fast.” Veronica said.

“I know. My girls grew up so quickly, they were adults before I knew it.” Jane said.

“How are your girls? We haven’t heard from them in a long time.” Lisa said.

“They are all busy but good. I was hoping to have them up to Chicago for Thanksgiving. What do you all think about that?” Jane asked.

Frank spoke up first. “I’d love to have them up for the holiday. Sounds good to me.”

Jane touched him, “Thank you honey. I’ll let the girls know so that they can plan their trip.”

Once the bus was out of sight, they returned to home to get ready for work and for the day. They did wave to Jennifer across the street as she saw her kids off to school at the same time.

The club opened like any other day, welcoming guests on their midday breaks from work—or life. Everything moved smoothly, until Frank’s phone rang.

“Hello, Club Velvet. This is Frank.”

“Frank Devon?”

“Yes,” he replied, curious but not suspicious. “Who’s calling?”

“I want to reserve the VIP Lounge for tomorrow afternoon.”

Frank straightened in his seat. “Absolutely. What name should I put down for the reservation?”

A pause. Then the voice, a woman’s, answered softly.

“Betty Boop.”

He smiled gently at the name. “Well, Betty Boop, we look forward to meeting you. What kind of experience are you looking for?”

There was a hitch in her voice. Emotion cracked through the line.

“I heard you have guys now. Do you have one who’s not just ... physical? Someone who listens?”

Frank’s tone softened further. “Yes. Logan is our best in that regard. Would you like us to tailor the space for anything specific?”

A sniff. Then a voice in the background, muffled. The woman came back.

“Could Logan give me a massage? And maybe ... just hold me for a while?”

“Of course,” Frank said, already feeling the weight behind her words.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Just one more thing—we require a deposit for the VIP Lounge. Do you have a card for that? And how long do you think you’ll need the space?”

Another voice murmured something in the background. Then the woman replied.

“All night. I’ll be there around three or four and stay until the club closes.”

“Very good. I’ll also have a few other Pleasure Consultants on standby in case you need anything else.”

She gave her credit card details. The transaction cleared—ten thousand dollars for the reservation.

“Would you like to use the back entrance?”

“No, I’ll arrive by taxi and come through the front. Who should I ask for?”

“Ask for me. My name is Frank—I own the club. I’ll be happy to escort you personally. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Betty Boop.”

“Thank you, Frank.” Then the call ended.

Frank made the reservation official, blocking off Logan’s schedule and securing one of the smaller VIP lounges for the full evening. He arranged for a massage table to be delivered, ordered one for permanent use at the club, and placed a rush order for massage oils and a hundred soft, white cotton towels.

Later that day, Logan knocked on Frank’s office door.

“Hey boss, I saw I’m booked all day tomorrow. Who’s this ‘Betty Boop’?”

Frank gestured for him to come in and sit down.

“I don’t know who she really is, but from the sound of her voice, she’s on the verge of a breakdown. She reserved the room for the entire evening—and you. It’s a hundred-thousand-dollar booking. All she asked for was a massage and someone to hold her. This might not be about sex at all. It sounds like emotional triage. Be ready for anything. The other guys are on standby if you need backup or a break.” Frank said.

Logan rubbed his face. “Women,” he said with a shake of his head, then took a breath and centered himself. “Alright. I’ll go brush up on my techniques. I hope she’s...”

He stopped himself, searching for the right words.

“It’s not about looks. I just hope I can help her. If she’s that bad off, she might need real therapy.”