Chapter 2

"Hello?" she called out. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

Her light soprano voice seemed to disappear into the cavernous space before her. In the dimness she could make out tables with chairs stacked on top of them, like they did at the pool hall back home when they put down fresh sawdust. Over on the left was a bar with a single glowing neon sign advertising the product of an upscale local brewery. In the light of that sign she could see the diamond-like reflections of hundred of glasses of all shapes and sizes. Row upon row of them, shining and spotless.

Alex had taken about three steps into the darkened room when she was stopped short.

"May I help you?"

Even before she whirled around, surprised by the sudden sound of his deep voice, Alex knew what the owner of that voice would look like. He would be tall. He would be young and dark. And he would be handsome. Very handsome. Turning, she gasped audibly as she realized she had been both right and wrong in her prescience.

The man standing before was dark. Wuthering Heights dark. Heathcliff in the flesh. Wet your panties dark and handsome. He was young, too, she saw. She estimated by the lack of grey and the smooth unlined skin on his face that he was only a couple of years older than she was, but he could have been older, too. What took her aback, what surprised her was just how tall he was. He was well over six feet tall, maybe even two inches over. Alex had thought Harold was big at five feet, seven inches, as tall as Daddy. But now, Alex had to tip her head back to just to look at this man's face. His beautiful face. His gorgeous face, looking at her with a curious expression, as if waiting for an answer...

Alex jerked herself out of her reverie, blushing as she felt the unfamiliar moistness between her thighs.

"George?" she queried, hopefully.

"I prefer Mr. Smith," he replied.

Alex nodded, trying to place his accent. Or maybe it was just his pronunciation of the word 'mister.' It had almost sounded like he had said 'Master Smith.' She shook that thought from her mind and, having found what she assumed was her quarry, launched into a complete explanation, minus the ravishing, of course, of how she had come to be here. She didn't notice in her rush to get out her explanation just how comfortable he made her feel. Nor did she find it strange that she was telling him much more about her life than she had intended. All she knew was that when she looked in his eyes, she felt like she belonged here. She wanted to belong here.

The man's name was not George. Or Mr. Smith. His name was Damon Arquette, though few, if any people in this country were aware of his real name. He answered to 'Mr. Smith.' He had no idea who George was, nor did he care beyond the fact that there was no one named George who worked at the club. That made him suspicious of the pretty woman standing in front of him.

Damon was, by nature and by necessity, suspicious. It was how he had survived in this business and how he had been as successful as he was. His immediate reaction upon seeing this pretty young woman standing in his club was that the Feds had sent in yet another undercover agent. True, he had been expecting a new dancer this morning, but this innocent young thing in front of him was obviously not her. No makeup, no attitude, no piercings, no leather, no whip marks or scars. This was definitely not a girl from one of the other clubs owned by the Syndicate. And the dancer he was expecting, was, by the way, two hours overdue, and therefore, was not coming. She had probably not survived her last dance at her last club. It wasn't unusual, in this business.

Damon kept a pleasant smile on his face, nodding occasionally at the babbling woman, pretending to listen. He could listen to the tape later, if he had to learn anything from the story she was telling. She was good, he had to admit. But was she Narcotics, ATF, IRS or from some RICO-type committee? He had found the best way to find out what the bastards were after was to let them think he was cooperating. But not quite fully. He had learned the hard way, as several dead agents could have told you, that if he kept them thinking that if they only looked a little harder or let him get a little closer, the evidence they needed would be found. By digging more than they intended, they inevitably tipped their hand and let him know what they were after, and, thus, what to hide. None had survived.

On the surface, Damon ran a straight club. No drugs, no minors, no prostitution. That still left a lot of opportunities to profit from the weaknesses in others. It was his club, by its very existence, however, that grated most often on the moral self-image of the community. Sanctimonious hypocrites. No one wanted to admit out loud that there was a market for his kind of club, the kind of club that let men and even some women explore their darker sides. The self-righteous bitches that squeezed their legs shut after the honeymoon and one kid couldn't stand the fact that it was their husbands' money that kept him in business. And kept the club highly profitable.

Hell, he just provided a service. They provided the demand. Supply and demand, that was true market forces at work. Somehow, in the tiny little minds of those frigid bitches, because he supplied the services they wouldn't or couldn't, that made him the 'bad guy.' Well, they weren't far off, but it wasn't for any of those reasons.

The woman, 'Alex' she said her name was, was still yapping away. He wondered what 'Alex' was short for, but he suspected it wasn't for brevity. It didn't look like she was winding up anytime soon, either. Damon allowed himself an assessing glance of her body, taking a calculated risk that her eyes would still be held by his when he looked back. He effected some women that way and she seemed to be susceptible.

His eyes drifted down over her chest, noting the generous swells capped by the obvious protrusions of her nipples. Her waist was slender, her hips flared nicely. What he could see of her legs showed a shapely calf and ankle, even with the flat shoes. Already Damon was imaging her legs in stiletto heels and the wonderful effect they would have on the shape of her legs and buttocks.

Looking back at her green eyes, Damon was surprised to see the flush of pleased embarrassment that colored her neck and cheeks. She had noticed him checking her out and it pleased her. Odd. He gave her his most disarming smile, as if it was only natural for him to inspect her bodily attributes. He gave no sign of noticing her subtle shift in posture, as she moved her cheap purse behind her back and thrust her breasts out at him, as if in invitation for a greater inspection. Had it not been for the unconscious blush, that move would have convinced him that she was an agent. As it was, he wasn't sure what he thought she was.

"So. How can I help you, Alex?" he asked her when she finally wound down her lengthy explanation.

She looked up at him in dismay. She couldn't just come out and ask this stranger that she needed to know what made her husband horny and how to turn him on.

"I -- I -- Uh, I guess I want to learn, to know..." she stumbled badly and ended weakly. This part of the conversation had gone so much easier when she had had it in her mind. George, Mr. Smith, was supposed to know what she needed.

"You want to learn what? How to tend bar? How to serve drinks?"

Alex shook her head. She felt hot. She knew she was blushing and it wasn't all from embarrassment. She was strongly attracted to this man. It must have been the long walk to get here, she rationalized.

"What? Do you want to learn what we do here?"

The look of relief on her face as she nodded almost made him laugh. That, however, would have been a mistake, and Damon didn't make many of those. Not when it came to women.

Damon pursed his lips, thinking. For the Feds, this was a novel approach, but he wouldn't put it past them. Still, the girl's reactions seemed to be genuine. She looked to be too young to be that good of an actress, but even that wasn't outside the realm of possibility. It had been a while since he had had the opportunity to break in a new girl, and he had never tried to train one that was this naïve. It might be fun. The thought of having total control over this diminutive redhead was extremely tempting to him, and that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.

"Well, I think I can give you an idea of what goes on here. But tell me this, Alex: Are you interested in learning about it or experiencing it for yourself?"

She looked up at him, her green eyes dancing in excitement. "Is there a difference?" she asked him.

Damon gave a short laugh. Naïve and beautiful. This girl, agent or not, had just delivered herself into his hands. At least until he could find out who she worked for. Regardless, he was sure he could turn this into a profit somehow. It was an opportunity he couldn't resist.

Taking the girl gently by the arm he led her from the bar area down a long dark hallway to his office. The soundproofed door closed behind them and he led Alex over to a large wooden chair. He turned it so that it faced a bank of nine TV screens set in the wall. Normally, these screens were set up for viewing security and the observation of all key points in the club. It wasn't unheard of that the occasional blackmail tape was produced here, as well. But with the club now empty, this would make a good educational center until he could get the other room set up with the special 'training' equipment he had designed. It hadn't been used for a while, but it wouldn't take much.