War’s Peace: Chapter 1

 

“No.” Mark calmly folded a paper airplane and sent it sailing over Ryan’s head. It crashed against the far wall of his office behind the bar, then spiraled to the floor. He hated morning meetings.

“War—”

“The name is Mark… Ryan,” he snapped, emphasizing his friend’s given name. “We’re not in the Navy anymore.”

Of all of them, Mark thought Ryan had changed the most in the five years following their discharge. He used to be easygoing and just a little on the sloppy side. Now, he looked like a stockbroker in tailored three-piece suits that he never, ever unbuttoned. Who the fuck wore suits in northern Arizona?

“Come off it.” Ryan flopped down in the leather chair on the other side of his desk and rubbed his face, the sleeves of his suit jacket pulling up to reveal French cuffs with gold and onyx cufflinks. “We have to do something, man. Those protesters are eating our business alive.”

“I told you years ago I didn’t want to promote the dungeon. You promised you’d let me keep it small and intimate, but then you tried to advertise it yourself. That’s why none of us can step outside without people getting in our faces demanding we shut down.”

“I made a mistake, okay?” Ryan took a breath and exhaled through pursed lips. “I thought we were big enough to handle it, and now we need help.”

“Close down for six months and wait until they find someone else to bother?”

“What about our employees? Are you suggesting we lay off over fifty people?” Sean asked, quiet as his nickname suggested until he had something to say. No, death wasn’t nearly as silent as Sean could be.

Fuming inwardly, Mark sent another paper airplane over Ryan’s head. “Can we do it without this fancy marketing specialist?”

“I’ve tried,” Ryan said, sounding tired. “Publicity obviously isn’t in my skillset, but I had to do something. We’ve been losing money hand over fist for months, and it’s draining us dry. The events are still selling well, but reservations are down across the board.”

“The restaurant isn’t doing any better,” Jake added. “I’ve lost four of my best servers already because they’re afraid to cross the protester lines, but it’s just as well since I get no walk-in traffic anymore. If the restaurant closes before we pay off our upgrades, we’ll all be Famine, not just me.”

“Fine.” Mark got up and reached for the darts standing in the board behind his chair, then let them fly one after the other in an attempt to control his irritation. “Who are we hiring?”

He didn’t want strangers coming into his space, much less someone who would turn Apocalypse into a carbon copy of every other club in the world. Part of him wanted to shut Club Apocalypse down until the bad publicity blew over, but that would put too many people out of work. Aside from that, it wasn’t in him to let himself be bullied by a bunch of redneck fuckers with nothing better to do with their time.

Then again, they could use the marketing guru for long enough to get rid of the protesters, then go back to business as usual. It wouldn’t be a permanent situation, and with luck, Mark could keep them out of the dungeon entirely.

“Her name is Kendra Hall. I headhunted her from one of the luxury hotel chains, and she has an excellent reputation. It’s going to cost a fortune, but my contacts say she’s the best in the business.”

“I thought you preferred women who stayed home to play housewife.”

Ryan shrugged, then smiled crookedly. “I’m well aware women are just as capable and intelligent as men, and I have no intention of dating her. She can do whatever the hell she wants.”

“Fair enough.”

“Good, because she’s scheduled to arrive this coming Monday afternoon. That leads me to another item on our agenda.”

“Shoot,” Mark replied, aiming a dart at the elusive triple twenty on the top of the board. It was Friday, giving him the weekend to figure out how to keep Ms. Hall out of his business.

“I hired someone to upgrade and reinforce our computer security.”

“I can take care of it,” Sean replied. “We’ll just—”

“There have been two hack attempts in the last week,” Ryan interrupted. “I’m not willing to give them a chance to get in.”

Sean grunted sourly, but nodded. “Who is it?”

“Dr. Gabrielle Knox from MIT. She’s agreed to a short-term contract.”

“No idea who that is.”

“Unsurprising,” Ryan said. “She designs kid’s computer games for profit, but does corporate security for fun. She got her PhD at nineteen, specializing in counter-espionage and trackable viruses.”

“Dr. Knox has a strange idea of fun,” Sean replied. “She’s over twenty-one, right?”

Ryan arched a brow. “Ask me if I care. All I want is for her to do what we’re paying her for. She’ll be here tonight, but she’s driving from Massachusetts, so we didn’t set a firm arrival time.”

Mark was more concerned about Kendra Hall. Would a fancy hotel exec have any idea how to market an adult resort?

There was only one reason Club Apocalypse existed. They’d all wanted a play space everyone could enjoy without the outrageous membership fees of other clubs. Kinksters weren’t just beautiful millionaires; they came from all social classes and were all ages and body types. The one thing they had in common with the rich fuckers in those expensive clubs was a desire to be with others like them.

Hell, one of his regulars was an elderly Gorean master from Holbrook whose kajira was seventy-five and grandmother to twelve. Could he make the place grow and keep that intimate atmosphere welcoming to everyone? Grumbling under his breath, he paced, wondering how he was going to keep Kendra from changing everything that made Club Apocalypse special.

“All right,” Mark finally said. “Ms. Hall will be here Monday. I’ll deal with her. Sean, you’ll handle Dr. Knox since you know about the security we already have in place.”

“Poker tonight?” Jake asked, getting up from his chair.

“Yeah.”

His friends wandered out, leaving him alone with his thoughts in an empty dungeon. He hated seeing it like that.

***

Surrounded by desert on all sides, Kendra Hall’s new workplace was like a mirage. The setting sun bathed Apocalypse in reddish light, making the stark white of the vintage motel look like it had been covered in blood. A sign on a tall post stood at the entrance to the parking lot. It looked like it might have been original, but it had been painted black. The Apocalypse logo was picked out in red and purple neon lighting, paying homage to the old motel’s roots.

Parked cars lined both sides of the road and dozens of protesters marched across the parking lot entrance. Her new boss, Ryan Wood, had warned her about them so it wasn’t a surprise. Slowing down, she weaved her way through the gauntlet of vehicles and read a few of the signs.

We don’t need a brothel in Winslow.

Repent and send the Horsemen back to Hell.

God is watching you!

Making sure her doors were locked, she kept her speed steady, but didn’t stop. Unsurprisingly, the protesters moved out of her way when it became clear she’d run them down if they didn’t. Although she didn’t want to hurt anyone, there was no way she was stopping her car or getting out.

Despite the protesters, there was a line of cars waiting at the valet station. Kendra allowed herself a small smile. It was always easier to promote a popular business. Getting rid of the demonstrators wouldn’t be a great challenge, and after that, she could get to work.

Judging by the parking lot, the joint was hopping—just as she’d hoped to see. This was why she’d shown up early. Her actual start date wasn’t until Monday, but she’d wanted to see the property on a weekend—and without the owners expecting her.

Leaving her vehicle running, she stepped out and accepted a claim ticket from the valet, then walked through the frosted glass doors into the lobby.

Freshly divorced at the ripe old age of thirty-six, Kendra Hall was ready for her new gig as the vice president of operations for what was supposed to have been one of the hottest adult resorts in the western United States. Well, that’s what the brochures said anyway.

Maybe it had been hot once upon a time, but the financials she’d been sent by Ryan Wood, one of the owners, proclaimed the property to be lukewarm at best and it was hemorrhaging revenue.

Their concept was on point. The name, Club Apocalypse, was gold—especially since it was owned by military veterans who called themselves The Four Horsemen, complete with War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. There was even a picture of them in one of the brochures. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been labeled, so she had no idea which of them was which.

At least she knew their names: Ryan Wood, Mark Luciano, Jake McBride, and Sean Franklin. Not that it really mattered. She’d been too desperate to get out of Houston and away from her ex. The offer had been too good to pass up, and it had come at exactly the right time—namely, the minute she had her divorce decree clenched in her hands.

She pulled the glossy trifold brochure from her pocket, tracing her fingers over the dark-haired man with sinful whiskey brown eyes and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He was off limits though. Aside from being one of her employers, she’d sworn off pretty men. They were more trouble than they were worth.

Case in point, Daniel, her ex. His ginger hair and soulful brown eyes had caught her in a web of lies and mental abuse that trapped her for a decade.

However, this was exactly the challenge she most relished. Her career and the salary she could command relied on understanding the nuances of what made people spend money and how to bring ailing properties back to profitability. She thought she had a decent grasp of how the world worked, but when she walked in, she realized there were levels of adult entertainment she hadn’t been aware of. Namely, a naked man on all fours wearing a puppy mask and a collar, with a glittery chain leash and a furry tail hanging from a butt plug.

Towering over him in black boots, a corset, and a teensy black miniskirt, his gorgeous blonde partner leaned down and stroked his head between the leather ears of his mask.

A lovely brunette wearing an apron and a collar offered her an appetizer from a tray. A similarly attired blond man followed with champagne flutes. Although she wouldn’t have minded sampling the food, they were violating at least a half dozen health codes.

In her soft cotton maxi dress, Kendra couldn’t decide if she was overdressed or underdressed. Even if she had any, fetish wear wasn’t the best idea for road tripping across three states from Texas.

Head held high, she wended her way through the somewhat shabbily retro lobby to the front desk. Kendra wasn’t here to play or ogle the scenery; she had a job to do and couldn’t do it in a leather corset.

Her biggest challenge wouldn’t be getting rid of the protesters camped just over the property line. It would be convincing the owners to update. Club Apocalypse had to look like it was worth the five hundred dollar a night rack rate. It needed to be decadent and opulent, with fixtures and furnishings designed to tease the senses into believing the fantasy the owners wanted to present. Instead, it looked like a chain motel. Maybe the suites were better, but the lobby needed a renovation.

“Welcome to Club Apocalypse,” the woman behind the desk said. “How can I help you?”

Wearing what Kendra decided was sexy professional, the desk clerk was impeccably groomed, with silvery blonde hair tied in a wavy pony tail. Her black suit was cut low to reveal generous décolletage and was very short. Her name tag read Sierra.

“Hi, I’m Kendra Hall. I’d like a room for the weekend if you have one available.”

Obviously recognizing the name, Sierra’s smile faded, then returned as she typed furiously on her computer. “We weren’t expecting you until Monday, but your suite is ready. Did you have a pleasant trip from Houston?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’m glad.” Sierra looked down at her computer terminal and swiped a keycard. “Would you care for valet service for your luggage?”

“Please.” Kendra laid the valet ticket on the desk. “There are two suitcases in the trunk.”

“I’ll have them delivered to your suite shortly.” Sierra handed her the card. “You’ll be staying at the end of the east wing closest to the pool. If you’re ready for supper, the restaurant is just past the lobby in the west wing. I can have someone give you a tour, if you prefer.”

The décor might be dated and shabby, but what she’d seen of the staff had been beyond reproach aside from their attire. That was a very definite plus in Kendra’s book, and would become part of her marketing plan.

“A tour would be wonderful. I had a late lunch, but I’ll try to visit the restaurant later.”

Lifting her hand, Sierra snapped her fingers and an adorable young man with dark hair appeared, wearing a pair of tight leather shorts and a collar.

“Ezekiel, Ms. Hall is our new vice president of operations. You’ll be giving her a tour of the facility. Make sure to include her new office down the hall from Master Ryan’s, and the staff conference room adjacent to the restaurant, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ezekiel inclined his head, peeking at Sierra from under thick eyelashes.

“Thank you, Ezekiel. Ms. Hall, it was a pleasure to meet you. Please let us know if we can assist you further.”

Clearing his throat, Ezekiel looked at her collarbones, then said, “The Majestic was built in 1935 and had sixty rooms, plus a diner that served breakfast and lunch. The rooms were converted into forty suites, four of which are handicap accessible. It was purchased by Masters Ryan, Mark, Sean, and Jake five years ago, and has undergone—”

“It’s okay,” Kendra said, laying a hand on his arm. “I read the brochure. I’d love it if you’d show me around though.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you can call me Kendra.”

“Yes, ma’am… I mean, Kendra.”

She tried for a smile to show her approval, but he made her feel old. Had she ever been that innocent and shy? Then again, Ezekiel was working at an adult resort, meaning he couldn’t have been as young as he appeared.

As he pointed out features, she typed notes on her phone, cataloguing changes she’d suggest during her meeting with the owners. Although she might have gone faster had there not been a crowd, it allowed her to see two significant problems.

The traffic flow was a potential fire hazard, and nobody was spending money.

“Ezekiel, is there an event scheduled for tonight? I’m curious about why so many people are milling around the lobby.”

“No, ma’am… I mean, Kendra. They’re all just visiting.”

“Do they have rooms?”

“No, well, maybe some of them. Mistress Sierra would know.”

“I see. And how often do these guests visit?”

Brightening, he grinned. “Every Friday. The Horsemen call it Get Your Freak on Friday.”

Kendra had a problem with that. Not because of the dumb name, or because people were running around mostly naked, but because the resort was spending money feeding hors d’oeuvres and champagne to freeloaders. There was no incentive for them to pay membership fees, buy food, or reserve rooms when they had free run of the lobby.

Parties could be a beneficial marketing tool, but having them every week was a serious financial drain, and they should have been located somewhere that wasn’t the freaking lobby.

Forgetting all about the protesters, she typed furiously, barely looking up as he led her through an open plan atrium toward the restaurant. Even the empty space was an offense. It should have been filled with vendors and shops for an additional source of revenue. There wasn’t so much as a traveler’s store where one could buy a forgotten toothbrush.

Without warning, she slammed into something hard and unyielding, the impact making her drop her phone. Swearing softly, she crouched to pick it up.

“I’ll take over Ms. Hall’s tour,” a gravelly voice said. “It’s clear she needs to pay more attention to where she’s going.”

She rose slowly, and her breath caught. It was one of the Horsemen. Not just any of them, but Whiskey Eyes himself. She looked up into those compelling eyes, and forgot every last thought in her head. He was imposing, but not because of his size. Although only a few inches taller than her, he exuded presence as if his skin was too small to contain him.

Thankfully, he was fully clothed in a pair of dark jeans, boots, and a black polo with Club Apocalypse’s logo stitched on the breast. Kendra wasn’t sure she could have maintained her composure if she’d seen him dressed as the servers were. Muscular arms bulged, stretching his sleeves to bursting, and there were prominent ridges of a defined abdomen under his tight shirt.

Ezekiel muttered an apology and disappeared, leaving them alone.

“Excuse me,” she replied, trying to shake off the spell he’d cast over her. “I was taking notes and I should have found a place to stop. Are you Mr. Wood?”

“No.” He tugged the phone from her hand and pocketed it. “Ms. Hall, you are not above the rules. We don’t allow electronic devices in public areas.”

Taking her arm, he walked quickly down the corridor, forcing her to trot to keep up. “Sir,” she said, trying to make him slow down. “You need to return my phone. That rule isn’t visibly posted, nor was it communicated in any way.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your phone back.”

Instead of slowing to allow her to keep up, he walked faster, leading her back through the lobby and into the east wing past several numbered doors. At the end of the corridor, he swiped a master keycard through the slot, then opened it to reveal a comfortable suite. The décor was tasteful, yet bland. Although it was spotlessly clean and inoffensive, it could have been better.

Giving her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he returned her phone and inclined his head. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Hall.”

The door shut behind him, leaving her speechless.

Kendra had spent over a decade dealing with prima donna managers, overly dramatic chefs, and needy guests, but had never once been treated like a naughty child sent to her room without supper. For a moment, she considered chasing him down to explain the facts of life to him, then decided against it.

She wasn’t at all upset about the rule prohibiting electronic devices. It made perfect sense, and she should have thought of it herself. However, it needed to be clearly posted throughout the property. She also wasn’t about to let someone walk all over her like that—especially when he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself.

“More flies with honey,” she muttered to herself, opening a suitcase. She pulled out a black cocktail dress, then hung it in the bathroom to steam while she showered. This engagement called for proper armor.