“I’m thinking about taking a fishing trip to Wyoming,” Declan says, moving his gaze from the dark beauty to me. “You should come. We wouldn’t be far from the original Wicked Horse club.”
“Original club?” I ask, my eyebrows knitting. I hadn’t known there was more than one.
“Yeah… Jerico Jameson modeled this club off the original Wyoming one. It’s actually housed inside an old silo, which is where the inspiration for this club’s silo came from,” Declan answers.
The silo is the circular-shaped room we were in earlier. It has glass-walled rooms along the perimeter to allow for unparalleled voyeurism. It’s my favorite place in the Wicked Horse. I spend most of my time in there.
“When are you leaving?” I ask. Until I get the call for a specific job with Jameson, my time is my own, so a trip is doable.
Declan shrugs. “I can go whenever, but I was thinking next week.”
Hesitating for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to have his wealth. It’s the type that can fund entire countries.
Billions and billions.
I have no clue what Declan does for his family’s hotel business. He’s third generation or some shit, but he spends a lot of evenings here at the club, same as I do. Doesn’t mean he’s not a hard worker, though. Just like me, he has a day job. I’m just not sure what that entails in relation to him. In the hierarchy of domestic and international hoteliers, the Blackwood Hotels and Resorts are considered top tier.
Still… most would never know he comes from that kind of wealth. He doesn’t flash it around, even dresses more casually than most patrons. It was a few months of shared fucking and bourbon before I even found out about his background, and he was pretty blasé about it. I wouldn’t say he’s exactly humble, but he’s definitely not flashy.
“I’m interested,” I continue, referring to the fishing trip in Wyoming, but more interested in a visit to the original Wicked Horse. Sounds like way too much fun, but I have to say, “Assuming nothing comes up at work before then, anyway.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he drawls. “And if you want to invite anyone, feel free. I might invite a few other guys.”
“Appreciate it,” I reply. Truthfully, though, there’s not anyone I’d invite. The guys I was closest to at Jameson aren’t around anymore. Several up and moved to the Pittsburgh office, and one of my closest mates, Sal Mezzina, was recently killed in a mission gone very bad in Syria.
While Jameson gets a lot of bread-and-butter work doing mainstream security services, we’re often hired for high-speed, black-ops shit that even our own government doesn’t want to associate itself with. One day, I could be protecting a pop star on tour and the very next, I could be headed to some Middle Eastern country to combat terrorism. One of the things I love best about working at Jameson is it’s never boring. It’s definitely more of an adrenaline rush than I experienced as a Vegas cop where I spent the last few years of my career in special weapons and tactics. Moving from SWAT to Jameson was pretty seamless since they share many of the same skillsets.
Declan tips his head, draining the rest of his bourbon. Setting the empty glass down, he shakes his head when the bartender starts to move our way. He swivels his gaze to me. “Ready to go again?”
“Same thing?” I ask, taking a moderate sip of my bourbon. I enjoy the taste too much to slam it.
Declan scans the interior of The Silo room, which is now clean, rearranged neatly, and occupied by some bulked-out beefy dude topping a skinny guy who seems to be enjoying it. It was one of the things that startled me when I first started coming here… the guy-on-guy action, since I hadn’t ever had an opportunity to witness it firsthand.
Now it doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, some of it interests me. But not what I’m watching now. Both are clearly gay, but more power to them. The big dude obviously knows how to fuck with finesse.
But I have been in situations—with Declan as a matter of fact—where I was in a group setting with a lot of touching between men and women alike. Sometimes I can barely make it out of The Orgy Room without having had some other dude fondle my balls or lick my cock. It didn’t take long to realize shit feels good no matter who’s doing it, so I’ve become much more open to new experiences over my months in the club.
It’s about hedonism.
Draining every bit of pleasure out of a situation like sucking the last bit of juice out of a ripe strawberry.
It’s what The Wicked Horse is meant for.
“How about The Orgy Room?” I suggest.