Sebring

There were large and small bouquets of extraordinarily arranged, fresh-cut flowers, the air heavy with the aroma of them, the biggest at the reception desk behind which Ms. Ross was standing.

Her thick, dark hair was swept back in an artful messy bun. Her eyes were expertly and dramatically made up. Her dress fit perfectly. And I would find, when she walked around the reception desk to lead me up the stairs, her shoes cost twelve hundred dollars.

“Ms. Lincoln,” she greeted with a small smile, already on the move. “Welcome. We’re ready for you.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Ms. Ross’s eyes went beyond me. “Can Mr. Arthur take your coat?”

I shrugged off my coat and handed it to a man that had moved out of the shadows of the cloakroom just off from the reception desk.

He said nothing. Just disappeared from whence he came.

I moved silently up the thick-carpeted steps behind Ms. Ross.

“I hope you enjoy our program tonight. It’s already begun, as you know.”

I was still murmuring when I replied, “I’m sure I will.”

“Midori, vodka and Fresca, correct?” she asked when she reached the top.

I cleared the last step behind her. “Yes.”

“Excellent,” she replied.

We moved down the hall that was handsomely appointed, intimately lit and it had a number of doors leading off of it, all to the right side.

She led me to the middle one, the only one with double doors.

She opened one side and stood out of my way for me to precede her.

I walked into the social viewing chamber and heard it immediately, the hall and reception being soundproofed, but the viewing rooms absolutely not.

I looked to the floor to ceiling one-way window and felt my mouth tighten.

Ms. Ross got close, read my look and gave her expert opinion. “It looks like this scene won’t last much longer.”

I stared at the women through the window. Considering the cost of membership…hell, considering I was even there, I did not judge what people did, what they liked.

But a woman performing cunnilingus on another woman didn’t do anything for me.

Man on man, absolutely.

I just was not turned on by same-sex play if they were my sex.

I looked from the window to the chamber, which I’d been in only once, when I’d taken a tour after being cleared for VIP membership two and a half years ago.

Again intimately lit, there were five segmented seating sections with low walls separating them, the flooring theater-style. The front four sections on two rises having two comfortable chairs in each section for relaxed viewing and a table for drinks and snacks. The seating section at the top rise sat six.

My drink was at the bottom level, closest to the window and the right wall.

“We surprisingly had another booking come in after yours,” Ms. Ross informed me.

I looked her way, not thrilled at this news.

“A new member, I’m afraid,” she carried on. “He’s been notified of the rules, of course. He’s also been here more than once and behaved accordingly so you both should be able to enjoy your viewings without concern and with minimal interruption.”

“When is he due to arrive?” I asked.

“Sometime between now and midnight,” she answered.

A vague arrival. Something else I didn’t like.

“He orders his drinks when he’s here,” she continued. “So I’m afraid unless you want us to interrupt you to inform you of his arrival, you’ll have no warning prior.”

I nodded, offering no reply, and made a move to the steps that led down to my seat.

“Enjoy,” she murmured to my back.

“Thank you,” I returned, not glancing at her when I did.

I moved to my seat, stowed my clutch, took a sip of my drink and then pulled out my phone to check email and otherwise kill time while the women finished their scene.

The club, obviously, was a sex club. Intensely private and relatively secret (“relatively” because they had to be known to attract members), it was independently owned.

All players in all scenes were freelance, auditioned and paid well.

There was a member section which had an entry from the street, but, like VIPs, all members needed to pass a vetting process, pay a yearly membership fee but also pay an hourly or nightly viewing fee. Non-VIPs could show when they wished without a booking, paid for their drinks at the bar and sat in a common viewing area with their brethren.

The scenes were played out on the upper floor. The lower floor for non-VIPs was simply a nightclub. There was music, liquor, dancing and men and women behind screens performing dances that hinted at the real thing, that real thing being something that could be found beyond security up a set of hidden stairs.

Obviously, there was also the VIP section, which had its own entry and a higher level of service, providing much more discretion and vastly superior accommodation.

The owners paid Benito Valenzuela for protection and assistance in making certain the club was not discovered by law enforcement.

This protection was at one time paid to Marcus Sloan. Seven years ago, in the days when Sloan was still acknowledging my father’s existence, he’d sold that protection to us. This was why I knew of the club.

In a brutal takeover that meant we lost one man and two more were injured, three years ago, Valenzuela had taken over.

After that, I continued my membership because it continued services I appreciated at a caliber that was more than acceptable. I did this even if the club was under Valenzuela’s umbrella.

Benito Valenzuela was not the most couth individual on the planet. In fact, he was one of the foulest people I’d ever met. He reminded me of my grandfather, including the fact he’d convinced himself he was the opposite of vile when he was not.