Body Heat

  Copyright © 2016 by Madeline Parr

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodies in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email m@madelineparr.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  www.okaycreations.com

  Editor: Aquila Editing

  www.aquilaediting.com

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  www.champagneformats.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  November

  December

  January

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Body Image

  About the Author

  I RISE FROM THE tangled sheets and stumble toward the leather club chair, stripping off my wet clothes as I cross the room. I’ll sleep in the raw the rest of the night, once the cold sweat on my skin dries and the panic fades.

  If it fades.

  I sit in the dark and concentrate, but I’ve already forgotten my nightmare. The basics were there: gunfire and screams. Those two players are always present. But the details get a little fuzzy. Some would consider that a small mercy, but it bothers me that I can’t remember. It’s a sign of weakness and disrespect. I don’t want to remember, but I need to remember.

  I rest my hand flat on my chest, close my eyes, and focus on slowing my racing heart. It takes a few minutes, but my breathing levels out. A chill passes over my body as my sweat cools and evaporates. Goose flesh rises on my arms, and I shiver.

  I close my eyes and focus. Snippets of the dream burst into my consciousness like mortar shells. So many memories. The smell of tires burning. The way the smoke hovered like a toxic haze. A pop so loud it hurt my ears.

  I try to piece the memories together to form some sort of cohesive narrative. I think it was an IED, but that’s just a good guess; most of them were. When it comes to horrible memories, I have an embarrassment of riches. You don’t give years of your life to Uncle Sam and come out the other side without a mark on you. Not when you did what I did, anyway.

  At this point, I’d sell my soul to the devil for eight hours of peaceful, uninterrupted slumber. No waking up drenched in cold sweat, throat hoarse from yelling, limbs exhausted from thrashing. And it’s getting worse. I thought the memories would fade with my career change, but they’re only intensifying. I feel like I’m losing it.

  I see the crumpled pack of Camels on the desk out of the corner of my eye. I want one of those fuckers so bad. But I knew my better angels would win out this time; there’s no way I would light one up after how hard it was to quit. But sometimes I crave the feel of one resting between my fingers. I miss lifting it to my lips and taking that first sweet pull. I miss it when I’m stressed.

  And I’m stressed now. The dream is like a scab I can’t stop picking. We were in a light armored vehicle when we were hit, I think. And that skinny kid from Ranger School was there. I was sure he’d wash out—he looked like he was 18 and weighed a hundred pounds dripping wet—but he had nuts of steel. Until I dragged him out of the Humvee minus his legs. Then he just screamed for his wife. He was dead by the time I got the first tourniquet secured. His name comes to me, along with the memory: Ty Hunter.

  Remembering is a curse and a relief. I reach down and trace the scars on my abdomen. I can still remember the feel of the shrapnel burning into my skin. How red my blood looked. I look down. So many scars. In the right light, it looks like someone fucked me up with a cheese grater.

  I may not be pretty, not like I was at 18, anyway, but I’m strong. I flex my muscles to remind myself. I’ll get through this, just like I’ve made it through everything else.

  I move to my desk and switch on the lamp. The light bathes everything in a soft yellow glow. I grab the bottle of Macallan and tip a shot of the finest whiskey God ever made into the lowball glass I always use for this sad ritual.

  “Ty Hunter” I whisper as I raise the glass to my lips, “you were one tough son of a bitch.” I down it in one swallow and set the glass back down. The heat spreads throughout my chest and warms me.

  The VA shrinks try to help. I know they mean well. Pasty old guys with sagging guts who never saw a day of action in their lives. They give you helpful tips like “practice helpful thinking” or “take a time out if you’re feeling angry.” I know they’re trying, but how the hell is that supposed to help me? I keep things to myself. It’s how I am. Nobody wants to hear the guy who survived complain when thousands of others are six feet under.

  I had to figure out a way to survive that didn’t involve pills or drinking myself stupid. Instead of sitting in a circle-jerk therapy session, I do crazy shit that clears my head. I stumbled across my remedy totally by accident the first time my buddy Parker took me free diving. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or what. But I slept like a baby that night. Ten hours of glorious, uninterrupted slumber; I felt like a new man when I woke up.

  So I developed my own treatment plan. And since starting a business in the private sector, I have plenty of money to make it happen. I find anything I can to live in the moment. Skydiving, motorcycling, free diving, rock climbing. Anything that gets my heart pumping and the adrenaline flowing. I sleep like the dead and I can live with myself for one more day. But I’ve been tearing through those hobbies like I’m a character in a Fast and Furious movie, and I’m ready for something fresh.

  And then I see it, peeking out from under a stack of receipts I need to itemize. The business card a client had slipped in my hand the other day, along with his hushed recommendation. He knows I like to chase a thrill and said I should check this place out. Invitation by referral only. Said it costs a pretty penny, but he knows what I charge him, so he knows I’m good for it.

  The business card is thick and midnight black. Body Heat is printed in raised platinum letters. It looks sexy. Hell, it even smells sexy. Like a woman’s perfume. But there’s not much else to go on. No address. No details. I could ask the guys at work to look into it, but I got the distinct feeling everything was pretty hush-hush in a ‘the first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club’ kind of way. I flip the card over and am rewarded with a phone number.

  Body Heat. I’ve never heard of this place, but that’s exactly what makes me think I might like it. If it’s the type of club I think it is, they’ll still be open at 3 a.m. I grab my cellphone off the charger and dial the number.

  “Body Heat. How can I help you?” Her voice is sexy as hell, and I’m immediately curious about this place.

  “I�
�m interested in your services.”

  “I’m so excited to hear that. And who referred you to us?” She had to have been a phone sex operator in a past life. She’s hasn’t said a thing remotely suggestive, but I still feel my cock twitch.

  “Emory Rothschild.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll note that in your paperwork. I’d like to set up a time for you to meet with the owner at our corporate office and get the ball rolling on your membership. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds perfect,” I say. “Do you have any availability tomorrow?”

  “I’m sure we can accommodate your schedule.”

  She explains the process and goes into the details of the required paperwork. I’m pretty sure I needed less to buy this house. But the rigorousness of the entire process only piques my curiosity. If it’s that hard to get a pass, they must be hiding something really good inside.

  The thought warms me. I end the call. The promise of a new thrill excites me, and sleepiness returns. The Scotch may have also had something to do with that. I crawl into bed, punch my down pillow a few times until it’s in the perfect shape, and wrap the covers around me. That honey-filled voice plays in my head until I finally drift off to sleep.

  BODY HEAT IS THE hottest club nobody talks about. Not with the ironclad confidentiality agreement you sign before you step inside. It’s the close-kept secret of the rich and famous, and they want to keep it that way.

  I’m not particularly rich and not at all famous. I’m something even better: family. The club’s owner, Nova Bennett, is my big bad sister. So, while other potential members fill out extensive applications, undergo rigorous background checks and medical reviews, and hand over their little black credit cards, I was simply handed the keys to the kingdom.

  I sit at the bar, sip my bourbon, and survey the room. This isn’t the cross section of society you run into at the grocery store or the DMV. Not even close. The majority of those in attendance tonight are good looking enough to be movie stars. A few of them probably are.

  Nova’s not a madam, if you’re wondering. The club doesn’t peddle flesh. She provides a safe place for like-minded people to meet and discuss their interests. Those interests just happen to involve sex. Sometimes she helps match people if their interests are especially unique. Otherwise, she simply provides a place for the rich, famous, and discreet to meet others who are rich, famous, and discreet.

  There’s no danger of publicity or being hounded by the tabloids. Not in a club that boasts a spectacular view of the city skyline through windows treated with military-grade privacy film. Not with a security team that rivals that of a small government. And not with Champagne.

  Champagne, the restaurant on the ground level of the building, started as a front for the sex club but developed into a celebrated and profitable establishment. I was the executive chef until a recent career change. It remains one of my favorite places to eat, and I’m not alone. It’s a favorite of all sorts of politicians, cops, and other straight-laced members of the community who couldn’t imagine the debauchery going on in the penthouse even if they tried.

  I’m not nervous about being exposed because there’s no way anyone could accidentally stumble into the club. Nova owns the entire building, and its security measures are best described as drastic. The only way clients can access the club is by swiping their security fobs near a nondescript door at the back of Champagne. It opens to reveal a bank of three elevators that travel only from the ground floor to the penthouse and back. Members use a key card to trigger the elevator. When they reach the penthouse, security verifies identities and membership status before allowing them inside.

  That’s when the fun starts.

  No sex happens on club property, unless you book one of the gallery rooms ahead of time. This is a place to meet and make arrangements. I’m anxious to make a few of my own tonight.

  Five years is a long time to go without sex, even if you have a good reason. And believe me, I have a damn good reason. Saying my divorce was rough could qualify as the understatement of the century. Now that my ex is somewhere . . . secure, I guess you could say, I’m ready to get back out there. But I’d pull my fingernails out one by one before I’d enter the dating pool again.

  And that’s the problem.

  I’m lonely. I miss being with a man. I miss the chest hair, the borrowed oversized T-shirts perfect for lounging around in, and that clean warm smell of the masculine man. I miss the scratch of stubble between my thighs and the feel of a hard cock in my hand, dancing at my touch. I need a man. I just don’t want one around all the time, making demands, getting jealous, and needing his ego constantly stroked.

  I surreptitiously scan the room for potential partners. Unfortunately, I see a lot of fake tans, waxed eyebrows, and smiles bleached shockingly white. I’ve always liked my men a little rough around the edges. I prefer to be the prettier one. Still, it’s turning out to be more fun than I imagined. I thought I’d feel like a wounded antelope. The straggler at the rear of the pack who draws the attention of the pride. But I feel like the lioness. It’s fortunate; I couldn’t turn off my need for control even if I wanted to.

  I’m scanning the room when I hear him place an order at the bar. His voice is deep and gravelly. It sounds like sex on a stick, and when he orders a Bruichladdich 21 neat, I get goose bumps. Maybe have a look at him before you decide to take him home, I think. I drain my drink and swivel on my deep brown leather stool toward the bartender to catch a glimpse, but I’m interrupted by an attractive couple who materialize in front of me. She’s petite and curvy and rocking the perfect red lipstick. He’s tall and blond and has cheekbones carved from granite. They both wear friendly smiles.

  “We’re heading out for the night and we’d love someone to come home and play with us,” he says. “You look like you know how to have a good time.” He looks at his girlfriend, smiles, and takes her hand.

  She nods, wide-eyed, and adds: “He loves eating pussy and he’s a god with his tongue. I’m no slouch myself. You won’t be disappointed.” There is not a hint of nervousness or self-consciousness in their invitation, and I know for certain it’s not their first rodeo. But it is my first time saddling up this bronco.

  “I’m sure it would be amazing,” I say, “but I’m just dipping my toes in the water—not ready to jump in the deep end yet.”

  “We totally understand,” the young woman says. She places a hand on his arm.

  “We’re here pretty often if you’re ever in the mood,” he adds. They wish me a good night and drift off.

  I turn to the stool next to me to collect my handbag, ready to go in search of my raspy-voiced, Scotch-swilling mystery man.

  “Can I replenish that drink for you?” I look up. The man in front of me is tall, dark, handsome, and giving off smarminess like radiation from a mushroom cloud. He takes his time examining me from tip to tail and then back again, like he’s assessing a prized mare. I know in an instant he’s not what I’m looking for.

  “Thanks, but I’m a one-and-done kind of woman.” He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already striding away from the bar area. I scan the room but don’t see anyone with a lowball glass of amber liquid. Plus, for some crazy reason, I’m convinced I’ll know him when I see him. The club is busier than I expected, but the crowd seems happy and fun. Still, it’s making it difficult to zero in on my target. And the layout isn’t making things easier.

  The club is divided into several different areas: the bar, the gallery, and the lounge. The bar is an upscale watering hole for the wealthy, while the lounge is a luxurious quiet space for more intimate conversations. To get to the lounge you have to pass through the gallery. I’ve visited Nova here before when the club is closed, but I’ve never been here when the gallery is open. It’s a thing to behold.

  Think of a hallway in an aquarium. But instead of windows looking into an underwater wonderland, the wall-sized windows in the gallery open to private performance rooms where people do every naughty act th
ey can think of to themselves and each other. There are three on each side of the hallway, and they have to be reserved ahead of time. If you’re horny and shy, there is a toggle in each room that instantly frosts the window. They are always full during business hours. Always.

  I pass the gallery on my way to the coat check, and the moans and groans from the hallway send a delicious shiver up my spine. I have no intention of leaving this early or empty handed, but I need to check for messages, and cell phones are on strict lock down inside the club. One quick detour and I’ll head for the gallery and find my mark.

  He finds me first.

  “YOU CAN’T GO yet,” he says. “Third time is the charm.” So that’s where he was hiding. The mood lighting in here is already low, and he’s leaning against a wall at the edge of the bar area, toward the exit.

  “Or three strikes and you’re out,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Touché.”

  I almost expected to be disappointed when I finally laid eyes on him. But I’m not. I’m a tall woman and he towers over me. He’s broad-shouldered and well muscled, but he still has an actual neck and can wear the shit out of his clearly custom-tailored suit. He has sharp features, brown hair with a hint of gray at the temples, and storm cloud-blue eyes. They’re tired, I notice, and a little sad, but the smile on his face is genuine nonetheless.

  I notice he’s holding two drinks. He offers one to me. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of getting you a refill while I was waiting in line to talk to you. I thought the crowd would never clear.”

  A thrill zings through me as I realize he was watching me. I try like hell but I can’t keep the heat from rising in my cheeks. “There’re plenty of pretty girls who would have been happy to keep you occupied.”

  “Well, that’s the problem.” He pauses to take a sip, never breaking eye contact with me. “I stopped dating girls a long time ago.”

  I’m instantly thankful I fought off the urge to dress younger in a short skirt or microscopic dress. Instead, I chose impeccably tailored black dress pants with wide legs that show off my slender waist, paired with a curve-hugging black lace blouse that exposes a slash of my ivory décolletage. Looking classy in a plunging neckline is one of the few benefits of having small tits, so I cash in on it whenever I can. Tasteful make-up enhances my looks without trying to disguise the fact I’m in my thirties. My luxurious mane of hair, by far my best feature, falls in glamorous waves around my face and down my shoulders.