Elise.

My heart clenched, reminding me my luck had not changed. I wasn’t on a date with a seven out of ten who would later take me back to his place and rock my world, giving me all the goodness I’d never had, making him a ten out of ten. I was having dinner with a man in hopes of seducing him to ascertain his role in a sex club.

I was playing a part.

I needed to remember that Adam Newcomb was not and never would be available to me.

I knew I would fail in that endeavor. I knew I’d lose my heart to him—I knew it the first time I saw him. But I’d gladly wrap it up and hand it over, only to get it back bloodied and broken if it meant finding my friend.

Nothing was more important than Elise.

Not a single thing.

5

Sitting across from Sloane was pure fucking torture. She’d gone from the standoffish and distant woman she normally was at the club to over-the-top flirtatious. This would’ve irritated me if it wasn’t so worrisome. The flirting came across as desperate. It was clear in a way that troubled me she was uncomfortable. This was out of her norm and would be—a woman who was as beautiful and self-assured as Sloane would in no way be desperate. She’d never given me any indication she’d behave in a manner that was not who she was. But the woman sitting across from me was not the Sloane I’d come to know.

And for the first time, I started to doubt my instincts.

It had taken one interaction with Sloane, just one, for me to object to her involvement in anything shady or illegal. It had taken me five visits to the club before I started to question if anything illegal was actually taking place. On the surface, Club Joi was a members-only club that catered to the wealthy—high-society, high-profile members who liked to watch and engage in consensual public sex. It was not a free-for-all orgy. I had not witnessed a single woman or man being forced or coerced into watching or participating. It had been the opposite—consent was needed at every step, even from the members who came to the club together as a couple.

No one touched, no one watched, and no one walked into a viewing room without an expressed desire to participate.

However, that was what Marco Kelly, the owner, would want members to see. I had yet to meet him—the club’s manager had done my interview. And even though my membership afforded me an all-access pass to all events, a private Platinum party had not yet come up.

Now with Sloane’s about-face, I was seriously skeptical.

A few hours ago, she’d made it clear she didn’t date members of the club, and considering I’d seen her aversion to the naked bodies roaming the mansion I believed her. Which meant every flirty come-on was total bullshit.

I fucking hated to think Sloane was a bullshit artist, but the evidence was suggesting that was exactly who she was.