I drop my head to the level of Ty's neck, letting my hair and breath tickle the tattoos there, instead of my fingers. He's tense, not moving a muscle, except to barely breathe. Then he tilts his head to give me more access.

I brush my lips on his neck.

A sharp inhale stops me from going further.

Is this what I want? To push this man into breaking the rule he's made with his best friends since being a teenager?

Because if he starts touching me, neither of us is going to stop.

His hands move up from my hips to my waist. A little higher, to my ribs. He's breathing heavy. He stops, just under the pillowy underswell of my breasts.

Muttering a harsh fuck, he meets my gaze silently for a long moment. His hand lifts the barest fraction of an inch. I sense the warmth of his hand through my silk top on the bottom of my breast. My core quivers.

"You really do want to trash this place," he says.

I nod.

"Then come with me. You deserve the truth about what you want to break."

He takes me off the ledge and drags me behind him towards the arch where I came out of earlier.

I've gone cold.

The truth.

He's going to tell me the truth. About Keith?

After all these years.

I nearly bump into the security guard who surges from the shadows at the arched way.

"I had eyes on her the whole time," he tells Ty.

"Then why was she getting accosted at the bar?" he snaps back and the guard side-scuttles out of the way, jaw clenched tight.

I barely see the elevator until he inserts a key into a slot under the numbered buttons.

"A secret floor?" I breath.

His head lifts as if he's studying the elevator's cieling. Dangerous strength rolls from his frame and tattoos roll on his forearms as he opens and closes his fists.

"Devon didn't want you to know, not yet."

We're dropping, down, down, down.

"A secret basement," I say as the doors open to a dark, brick lined hallway. He takes me to a heavy door.

I expect a secret knock or tiny window to open and for some grungy bouncer to ask for the password.

A mechanical hiss sounds, though and I look up. A camera is trained on us, green light blinking. I scoff. The door unlocks on its own and he pushes it open.

He rounds on me before going through it, though. "This is Stay Gold, not the club upstairs. This is the truth."

He ushers me into another world, that has nothing to do with the ritzy, loud club on the top floor.

I hold my breath, taking it in. A winding, wide room is shrouded in shadows and smoke. Smoke? In a public place?

There are several small dance floors, which are unoccupied now, turning around the long, river-like stage that flows across the floor at the far side of the room. Smaller rooms branch off the main one.

There are poker games going on several tables, the piles of chips, dollar bills, actual gold and silver coins, lights glinting off amber liquid in crystal glasses and the hard, unyielding faces of the players sitting around it all.

I feel like I've time traveled to a 1930's speak-easy. A crooning voice whispers a jazz song through hidden speakers and I'm not surprised to see several of the women with foot long cigarette holders.

Servers skirt past us and in between tables, scantily clad, but each with a choker in bright yellow around their necks.

I blink in confusion.

As I take it all in, the music changes to a languid, big-band song from the forties and the lights dim further, except for the stage where a blue light glows on a single pole in the middle of it. A woman comes out, barely clothed, every line of her hard, lean body sparkles subtly. Wide straps of satin are all that cover her high breasts and firm ass. (20000 words)

She's also wearing a choker necklace, but in some dark color. I can't tell with the blue lights on her. Perhaps a maroon or purple. She takes to the center of the stage slowly, undulating with the music like a waterlily sways with the currents. In a quick sweep of her long, strong legs, she grabs the pole and kicks up into an elegant, upside down, gravity defying hold.

Continuing her routine, she's simply mesmerizing. I can't stop staring. The grace and power in her movements as she curls around the pole in different positions fascinates me. All the while, she makes it look easy. Which is how I know she's good at what she does.

Not breaking a sweat while hanging horizontally eight feet from the floor by her foot, ankle, and knee? She's beautiful. If I was into girls, no rule about not touching the women who work here would stop me from approaching her.

"My god," I whisper.

"You aren't the only one impressed," Ty says. "Look."

He motions to the crowd.

Even the gamblers pause in their game, tossing the die idly in their hands or staring up from the side of their eyes instead of at their cards.

Conversations lull.

Hard faces reflect the soft blue from the stage. Puffs of smoke snake through the air to disappear into vents at the ceiling. I squint into the dark room, really studying the customers. The clients. The club members.

I can be honest about myself: I'm a good girl who keeps her head down and her feet on the straight and narrow.

But I'm not so innocent or naïve that I don't recognize a room full of criminals when I walk into it. Gamboling, smoking, secret basement for a club with a fake club at the other end of the building....

Ty stands behind me, radiating warmth on my bare shoulders, he's so close. He leans over my shoulder and his beard brushes my ear and neck, setting off an electric storm of shivers through my nerves.

"This is your stage," he whispers, motioning to the pole dancer. "Not the one upstairs. This is your audience, this is your cage and your safe haven. And while you sing, not only will the club members be watching, but we'll be watching you. I'll be here. Conner will be here. Most of all Devon will be here, watching you. This is what you signed for. This is the truth."

"This isn't legal, is it?" I ask.

He doesn't answer.

"You're laundering money through the official club upstairs and running the show from down here." I shake my head. What have I gotten into? I can't put this on my resumé. I can't tell anyone I sing here, or invite them to come and see me.

"It's not exactly illegal, either. Some of the business is legit and we declare most of our taxes," he says. "Come on."

I follow him around the bend of the stage. A gasp jumps from my mouth.

Only a few feet away, on a winding bench seat in leather, sits Devon. He isn't alone at the table. A gorgeous brunette is wrapped around him while he whispers in her ear, or he nibbles it. She laughs. Cupping her cheek, he draws her mouth to his for deep kiss.

My heart rages.

*** ONC 180 word count. Secret basement clubs are the best! Hit that star if you enjoyed this chapter and have an amazing day! ***