Descent: A Dark Billionaire Romance (Black Heart Romance presents Heaven & Hell) Page 2

  He shakes his head. “No can do.”

  “But… I’ll only be two minutes. I just need to run in and tell my friend—”

  “If you want to get back through this door, you’ll have to wait in line like everybody else.”

  Shit.

  “All right. Thank you,” I murmur.

  I turn around to face the road, sighing into the phone still pressed against my ear.

  The line has been silent for so long, I half-expected the man on the other end had hung up and I just hadn’t noticed, so I’m surprised when he suddenly speaks again.

  “Do you typically thank people for giving you an answer you don’t like?”

  Frowning faintly at his question, I explain, “I was being polite.”

  “Was he?”

  “He was only doing his job. I’m the one who walked outside without thinking to ask if I’d be allowed back in.”

  “So it’s your fault,” he murmurs, sounding more interested than I would expect him to.

  “Actually, it’s yours,” I tell him.

  He sounds surprised. “Mine?”

  I nod, forgetting he can’t see me. “You called me on the phone—who does that but psychopaths? And you sounded so bossy, I was unnerved. Ordinarily, I would’ve asked before I exited if I needed a stamp to get back in the club, but…”

  “I unnerved you,” he says, sounding almost pleased at the notion.

  That should unnerve me, but there’s something calming about the man’s voice. There’s a confidence, a capableness I pick up even without ever having met him. “How do you typically respond when people give you an answer you don’t like?” I ask.

  His answer is simple. “I don’t accept answers I don’t like.”

  Smiling faintly, I say, “That’s a bit unrealistic, isn’t it? We all have to hear answers we don’t like sometimes. That’s life.”

  “For some people, maybe.”

  “For everyone. Nobody can win all the time.”

  When he speaks again, there’s something almost fond in his tone. “I very much look forward to meeting you, Miss Meadows.”

  I glance down at the dirty sidewalk beneath my nude heels. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Yes,” he says, as if waiting for me to explain why it’s relevant.

  I smile faintly. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “Do you expect life to be fair?”

  I shrug. “I don’t expect it, but it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not for me,” he says wryly.

  Ignoring the implication that he might live on the wrong side of Karma, I say, “You’re really not going to tell me your name?”

  “I’ll tell you my name when we meet in person. My driver’s nearby, he should be there in a few minutes.”

  “Where is he taking me?”

  “He’s bringing you to me.”

  His words shouldn’t send a shiver down my spine. Or maybe they should, I don’t know. I’ve never had a man say something like that to me before.

  “And where are you?” I ask.

  “Purgatory,” he answers.

  I frown, unsure whether he’s being cute or naming a real place I’m just unaware of. “Paying for your sins?”

  “No, I haven’t sinned yet. Not tonight, anyway.”

  “If you’re already in purgatory, you better not,” I advise. “You’ll never make it to heaven that way.”

  “Oh, I’m never going to Heaven, regardless of how long I spend in Purgatory. I’m in Hell, that’s where you’ll be meeting me. You won’t be able to enter without an invitation, so I’ll send one of my men outside to escort you in. What are you wearing?”

  I glance down at the outfit I put together before heading out tonight. “Um… a white silk blouse and a metallic pink skirt. What exactly is Purgatory?”

  “A club,” he answers.

  “And you have… men?”

  The line falls quiet. For a moment, I wait, hoping he’ll speak again—and not even really sure why I hope that. I guess I like talking to him, even if he is a mysterious stranger.

  “We’ll get better acquainted once you’re in my territory, Miss Meadows. In the meantime, you should probably text your friend to let her know you won’t be coming back inside. Don’t tell her where you’re going.”

  That’s a sketchy request, but it doesn’t feel like a request at all—it’s an order.

  If Jackson ordered me around, I wouldn’t have liked it, wouldn’t have tolerated it for very long, but recalling what this man said about not accepting answers he doesn’t like, I remind myself that whoever he is, he’s used to getting his way.

  I don’t know who he is, or what kind of trouble Jackson could be in that this man is involved with, but it seems to me I have little to gain by arguing with him over this.

  I can tell Charity where I’m going. It’s not like he would know I disobeyed him.

  “How do I know I’ll be safe?”

  “You don’t,” he answers simply.

  I wait for him to assure me I will, but he doesn’t.

  It feels discomfiting, but I’m not sure why. If he did mean me harm, it’s not like he would tell me. It would have cost him nothing to reassure me, though, and he made the deliberate choice not to. That says something about him—something I’m not sure I like.

  Before I can decide whether or not to heed the warning in his words and his carefully chosen silence, a sleek black limousine pulls up to the curb and diverts my attention.

  I watch as the driver gets out and looks over at me. He’s not a slim older man with a mustache and a cheap suit like I might imagine the driver of a car service to be. He’s younger and muscular, clean shaven, and his head is shaved, too. “Hallie Meadows?”

  A strong sense of foreboding washes over me at the sight of this driver who looks more like a fighter, but I ignore it and nod.

  He nods once, then walks around to open the back door. His gaze returns to me in a way that makes me feel like it’s his job to keep an eye on me. Like if I ran right now, he would give chase.

  He gestures for me to get inside.

  I’m not sure I should.

  “I believe my ride is here,” I tell the man on the phone, hoping for some kind of reassurance that I’m not making a massive mistake.

  “Then I’ll see you soon,” he says.

  He hangs up before I can ask any other questions.

  The driver is still waiting with the door open.

  Now that I’m not on the phone with that oddly compelling man, I feel even less sure about getting into the car he sent for me. It doesn’t seem like a good idea.

  I look back at the club. The bouncer is watching, a bit more curious now that a limo is waiting for me.

  I hate to leave Charity, but I can always text her once I deal with whatever Jackson’s problem is. I could meet back up with them at whatever bar they head to next—or maybe even invite them to this Purgatory place. The man said it was a club. An exclusive one, sure, but apparently “his man” can get me in.

  He could probably get Charity and the other girls in, too. Charity would definitely get a kick out of getting into such an exclusive place. It would probably be the highlight of her whole bachelorette party.

  The more I think about it, the more it seems like I should get into the car he sent for me, so without further hesitation, I do.

  Chapter Two

  Calvin

  When I invited Jackson Price—an employee of mine who isn’t bad at his job, but certainly has room for improvement—to come out with us tonight, my CIO thought it was merely because I was taking a measure of the man. Using an unorthodox method of taking a peek inside and seeing what he’s made of so I will have a better idea of how to make the best use of him professionally.

  He’s not completely wrong about my wanting to assess the man, but it had more to do with his recent breakup than any professional intentions.
>
  I guess the breakup isn’t really recent anymore, but I only found out about it recently.

  It wouldn’t matter to me at all, but at the office Christmas party last year, Jackson’s girlfriend caught my eye. I never got a chance to talk to her. I knew I couldn’t just steal her from an employee because I liked the look of her, and I was there with somebody else, anyway.

  When I overheard him griping about her to someone at the office the other day, I knew there was an opening. A small one. They were broken up, but still in contact—though judging by the way he spoke about her, she should not be answering his calls.

  It says something about her that she is, though. Something I like, because maybe it indicates she’ll suit me better than she suited him.

  I know men like Jackson Price, and I may not be a perfect man myself, but I’ve made it a point not to be like him.

  Jackson is spoiled rotten, obtuse about the good things he has right in front of him. He believes he’s owed everything and she’s owed nothing. He thinks Hallie was out of line for finally getting sick of his shit and leaving him, but he most assuredly does not think he was out of line for heaping his attention upon the many other women he seemed to find much more fascinating than his own.

  I think he was sitting on a diamond mine and lusting after costume jewelry.

  Tonight, watching him do coke off a pain slut’s tits, I was utterly disgusted by him. Even halfway to fucking someone new, he couldn’t stop bitching about Hallie—and it’s unclear what she ever did to him that was so egregious, other than come to the conclusion that his spoiled, shallow ass wasn’t doing it for her.

  I’m a lot of things, but shallow and faithless are not among my more problematic traits.

  Spoiled is up for debate. I live a life of excess, but I’ve worked hard for every bit of it. I even shunned my birthright and built something entirely of my own instead.

  Whether or not you want to call me spoiled, I am a man accustomed to getting what I want, and there are certain aspects of my personality that aren’t for everyone.

  My sex life, for example.

  What turns me on horrifies some, even though I work to keep it in check. Above all else, I’m a reasonable man. I understand that my predatory side is unconventional, that seeing fear leap to a woman’s eyes and knowing I put it there shouldn’t get me hard as fucking steel.

  It does, though.

  I’ve never been able to find anything else that could come close to heating my blood the same way.

  For the past several years I’ve been able to satisfy my darker cravings by coming to this club, playing with like-minded individuals.

  Lately, even that has lost its luster.

  When I play here, it’s always with a consenting playmate. We’re each performing our agreed-upon role, but lately the experience has started to feel mundane. I’ve started to wonder if maybe playacting has lost its edge and I need to take it to the next level.

  When I play with a woman here, her fear isn’t real. Maybe that’s why it isn’t working for me anymore. Perhaps I need the potency of the real thing.

  I don’t know if the floor has fallen, the depths of my depravity sinking to new lows, or it’s something else. I only know last time I roleplayed with one of the ladies here, I felt… bored.

  It has been a while since I visited, the grime of the last visit lingering and draining my interest. The only reason I came out tonight was because of Hallie. She was the last person to spark my interest, and she wasn’t even naked or afraid. She was wearing a lovely red dress and smiling sweetly at someone else as she sipped her punch across the room.

  Even without speaking to her, she lingered in my mind long enough to become a preoccupation.

  Tonight, I want to taste her fear.

  I want to play with her.

  I’m going to play with her, whether she wants to play with me or not.

  Anticipation courses through my veins as the ominous black door eases open. Hollis, my driver/bodyguard, escorts a wide-eyed Miss Meadows in behind him.

  A rush of blood hits my cock at the mere sight of her, doe-eyed and mildly horrified by the depravity of her surroundings.

  “What is this place?” she asks Hollis, her voice small, like maybe the rest of us won’t hear her if she’s quiet enough.

  That and the way she leans close to him as if he might protect her makes me think he did his job well, made her feel safe with him when he brought her into the club and down to Hell—a place where no one is guaranteed safety.

  Hollis doesn’t answer her. Instead, he opens his briefcase and draws out an NDA and a pen. “I need you to sign this before we go any further.”

  Hallie frowns at the paper as he hands it to her. Her frown deepens as she scans the document, then she looks back up at him. “Why?”

  “Standard procedure.”

  She only hesitates for a moment, then she hands the form back without touching the pen. “No.”

  I like the sound of that word on her lips.

  “What is this place?” Her gaze drifts around the room, briefly registering the other men before landing on me. It’s unlikely she recognizes me since we didn’t speak at the office party, but there’s a flicker in her gaze, almost like she does.

  Hollis looks to me for direction, wanting to know if he should push the issue with the non-disclosure agreement or let it go for the moment. I shake my head faintly so he backs off.

  Hallie steps forward, looking around the dark interior of the room we’re in.

  The Hell level of the night club has different rooms for different play, but the one I chose has a dark, grungy aesthetic reminiscent of a castle dungeon. There are even shackles on the wall behind me with an assortment of toys hung up beside them—perfect for chaining up your unwilling partner and forcing any sensation you want on their vulnerable body.

  I picture Hallie there, pulling on her chained wrists, bent over with her legs forced apart, her lovely pussy on display for me to touch, taste, or fuck any way I please.

  There’s a cage on the floor, too—not the kind women dance in on the upper levels, but the kind you’d keep someone in if you wanted to treat them like an animal.

  It’s not all cages and shackles, though. There’s a long black leather couch along the wall where I’m sitting now. In the corner there’s a wooden chair placed at an angle—a contraption that looks more like a medieval torture device than anything sexual, with leather straps for binding someone, making them entirely helpless as you inflict any pleasures or horrors upon them you choose to.

  Jackson is sitting on a red upholstered bench on the wall opposite me, his wild-eyed gaze focused on Hallie.

  I wonder if he’s having second thoughts.

  Looks like he is.

  He certainly should be.

  Bastard.

  Even though I’m the one who will benefit, I’m disgusted by how easily I convinced him to betray her.

  Hallie is still mostly watching me, but her gaze drifts back to Jackson, warier than it was before. Sensing danger in this place, she tries to make her tone harder as she addresses him. “I can’t stay long. I have to get back to Charity’s bachelorette party. What do you need from me?”

  Unsure how to answer, Jackson’s gaze flickers to me.

  He doesn’t need anything from her, of course. It was a ruse to get her here, something he was sure would work. He was quite cocky when he expressed to me that he was sure she’d show up for him, no problem. His first attempt to get her here failed, but thankfully she answered his text a little later and got on board.

  I stand. The movement catches her attention. She shifts, then covertly takes a step back toward Hollis as if he’ll protect her.

  Not from me, he won’t.

  “I’m the one who needs something from you,” I state.

  Recognition lightens her expression, diminishing some of her fear. “You’re the man I was talking to on the phone.”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  I walk closer to her. For a moment, she doesn’t back away. It makes me think I must have made a halfway decent impression on the phone. Perhaps she’s lulled by the sense of familiarity into thinking I won’t pounce on her, that I’m not dangerous.

  When I get about two feet away from her, she finally takes a step back. Some of the wariness returns, but not as much as before.

  “You were supposed to introduce yourself when I got here,” she reminds me.

  “I’m Calvin.”

  “Hallie,” she says automatically, even though she knows I already know her name. Licking her lips and trying to maintain some distance between us, she asks, “And what, exactly, did you need from me, Calvin?”

  “We’re going to play tonight, Hallie.”

  She swallows, regarding me carefully as I move even closer. She tries to back up, but she’s already against a wall. With Hollis guarding the door and me in front of her, she doesn’t really have anywhere to go. “Play?”

  “Mm-hmm. I like to come here and enjoy a certain kind of play you can’t enjoy in other places. The NDA is a mere formality. You should know that now, lest you decide tomorrow you need to tell someone what happened here tonight. Nobody will believe you. Your presence at this club—on this level—all but implies consent.”

  “I—I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what this place was. I still don’t,” she adds, looking around at the other people in the room for help, someone to take her side.

  “You can all go,” I tell them without looking away from Hallie. “I don’t like an audience.”

  Her gaze lingers on Jackson the longest. She hasn’t yet accepted that he lured her here to be my next meal, so she manages to look stunned when he slinks out with everyone else, leaving her here at my mercy.

  I observe her face as she watches everyone abandon her, all of them knowing she was lured here under false pretenses, that she didn’t mean to open herself up to this.