Chapter 8

Placing my hands against the double doors, I pushed them open and descended the stairs into the belly of the beast. The air was cooler, and the smell of leather and disinfectant filled my nostrils. The club's main floor was a maze of empty couches and vacant bondage stations, the velvet and chrome surfaces gleaming with the promise of nights to come. The dance floor, where bodies had writhed and sweated to the pounding music, was now a vast, empty space that echoed my footsteps.

As I walked through the dimness, the morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end cast a glow over the room. The dungeon area, which had been a cacophony of sighs and whispers, was now silent, the whips and chains hanging lifelessly on the walls. The sight of the stage made me pause, recalling the vivid scenes of the weekend's performances. The memories were as intense as the first taste of a spicy meal—sharp and lingering.

I continued exploring, noticing the meticulous organization of the toys and instruments scattered around. Each had its own designated space, a silent testament to the club's strict protocol and attention to detail. The sound of my sneakers against the cold, stone floor was the only company I had, and it felt strange to navigate these hallowed halls without the usual sea of faces and the throb of music to guide me.

As I reached the bar, the soft glow of light reached outward from a partially open door.

Making my way to the door, I peeked inside, finding Alex. He was sitting at a desk, his elbows propped up on the surface, with his head in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot, and his tie was loosened around his neck. The room was bare compared to the club—the walls lined with shelves of liquor bottles, and a single desk lamp casting a pool of light on the paperwork scattered in front of him.

With a little hesitation, I stepped into the room. Alex looked up, surprise in his eyes. "Morning," he murmured. "I didn't expect you to be up this early."

"Yeah...well, I couldn't sleep," I replied, stepping further into the room. "Mac had other plans in mind."

Alex's eyes narrowed slightly. "Mac is your...mouse, right?"

"Yeah," I returned, smiling. "He's got quite the personality for a rodent." Then peering at Alex a little closer, and seeing the tension in his shoulders, the weariness written on his face, I asked, "Rough night?"

Sighing, Alex rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "You could say that," he breathed, his voice carrying a hint of sarcasm.

Stepping closer, I caught the scent of stale cigar smoke and whiskey in the air around him. "Is everything okay?" I couldn't help but ask, my voice soft.

His eyes snapped up to meet mine, and for a brief second, there was a flicker of something raw and vulnerable in them. Finally, he murmured, "It's nothing," dismissing my question.

I didn't believe him. The shadows under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders told a different story.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I offered. Surprise rippled through me that I actually gave a damn.

Lacing his hands behind his head, Alex leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Well, now that you mention it..."

Though his words were playful, the innuendo clear, I laughed. "Oh, get over yourself," I said, rolling my eyes. "What do you need help with, really?"

His smirk widened. "Just some paperwork," he said, gesturing to the mess on the desk. "The club's taxes are a nightmare, and I've got an audit coming up. It's not exactly my strong suit."

I raised an eyebrow. "Taxes? That's what's keeping you up?"

"It's more than just taxes," Alex said, his expression growing serious. "The club's been losing money, and I can't put my finger on why. I've gone over the books a hundred times, but I keep coming up short. The audit is going to be a disaster if I can't figure it out."

Despite his tough exterior, it was clear he was frustrated. "I'm not an accounting guru, by any means, but maybe I can take a look at the numbers?" I suggested. "Maybe I can see something you might have missed?"

He gazed at me silently for several seconds, then shrugged. "Not what I hired you for, but knock yourself out."

"Like I said, I'm not a mathematician, but maybe I can balance your books better than I balance on the stilettos you had me wearing last night," I quipped, stepping further into the room.

Giving a chuckle, a sound that was surprisingly warm and comforting, Alex pushed a pile of papers toward me. "It's all there. Take your time. I've got to deal with some... stuff." With that, he stood, his movements betraying his exhaustion as he left the room.

As I took his seat, the chair still carried warmth from his body heat, and without thinking, I snuggled into the comfort, beginning to peer at the paperwork before me; a labyrinth of numbers and dates, a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Outside the office, the club was still, a change from the glamour and drama of the weekend. But in my mind, I could still hear the whip-cracking performance of the dominatrix and the bound submissive who had danced across the stage. With a small shake of my head, I dismissed the memory, and picked up the first set of papers.

The numbers and letters blurred together at first, but as I began to sort through the mess, a pattern began to emerge. The numbers didn't lie: they whispered mismanagement and missed opportunities, of a business that was hemorrhaging money.

My excitement grew as I realized that this was a puzzle I could solve, a challenge I could conquer.

Half an hour had passed when the quiet was broken by the sound of the door opening, and Mistress Ainsley walked in, looking as fresh as a daisy despite the early hour. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of me, elbow-deep in paperwork. "You taking on a side hustle?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Hardly," I expressed, shrugging. "Alex needed some help."

Mistress Ainsley's eyebrow arched even higher. "How... domestic of you." She leaned against the desk, her arms crossed. "I never took you for the accounting type."

"Normally, I’m not. But…well…you know…" I said, a hint of challenge in my tone. I knew she was trying to figure me out.

At my response, she smirked, but there was something in her eyes that told me she didn't much care for me. "Well, if you can make sense of those numbers, you're more than welcome to try," she finally offered, sipping at the cup of coffee in her hand. "Alex has been tearing his hair out over it for weeks."

I nodded, already lost in the sea of invoices and receipts again. "I'll see what I can do," I stated, more to myself than to her.

Mistress Ainsley took a seat on the only other chair in the room, setting her coffee down with a clink. She watched me for a moment, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. After a few seconds, she murmured, "Forget your idea."