Knight:A Club Alias Novel(5)By: K.D. Robichaux
“Touché, big guy.” She winks. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner. I’ll see ya around.” And with that, she turns with her camera aimed in another direction, snapping random photos as she maneuvers between tables and benches. The swish of her hips is so hypnotic that by the time I lose sight of her, my macaroni has hardened and my Coke has gone flat.
“So she’s five years older than you,” Doc points out, bringing me back to the present.
“And you’ve known each other for eleven years now.”
“Yep,” I reply, popping the P.
“So you knew her before I even approached you about joining my team.”
“I did. She actually helped me make the decision to accept your offer,” I confess.
He ponders this for a moment. I can practically hear the wheels spinning in his mind, putting everything together.
Nine years ago, Doc had approached me just before it was time for me to decide whether I wanted to reenlist in the army. He’d read my story in an article in Sands of Time Magazine. An article that no longer exists anywhere on the Internet. Nothing about me does.
“Clarice Lorenson. The war photographer?”
“The one and only. Well, not anymore. She’s a freelance photographer now,” I reply.
“She knows what you do for a living? Not just Imperium Security, but—”
“Everything. There are no secrets between us.” My knee starts to bounce, my nerves starting to appear.
“And she knows the type of club we run? She’s comfortable with the lifestyle?” he asks, and I can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes me.
“Who do you think introduced me to BDSM in the first place? Why do you think I didn’t even bat an eye when Seth wanted to open up the club?”
“So you have a sexual relationship with her,” he points out.
“Yes,” I state, not wanting to go into detail about the specifics of our… intimate encounters—at least not yet.
“All right then. Well. I don’t want to miss anything, so how about we treat this like any other person coming in for club membership? Our hour is just about up, but I can see you again tomorrow and then Wednesday. That should be sufficient enough,” he tells me.
“Sounds good, Doc.”
“Brian, you are aware she’ll still need to go through her own therapy sessions, right?” he prompts softly, and I grimace. “You said she’s not really open when it comes to feelings.”
There are specific rules in place to become a member of our high-end BDSM club, Club Alias. We open up applications only four times a year, because the process is so extensive. A new applicant must have a sponsor, someone who is already a member to vouch for them, who is responsible for them throughout the entire process. Then they must complete at least four hour-long sessions with Doc. He takes the time to determine whether the person is the right fit for our club. If they pass the Doc test, then they go through a probationary period, and membership costs a five-figure chunk, ensuring only the most serious of Dominants and submissives are allowed in.
Needless to say, the people who are able to afford to join Club Alias are people who want to keep their identities confidential. Well-respected doctors, lawyers, high-ranking military men and women… all wanting to peacefully enjoy their alternative lifestyle without worry of being outed in the real world.
“Doc, I think we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. I was hoping just to bring her as my personal guest. I’ve been close to Clarice for eleven damn years and have never been able to penetrate those walls she’s got around her heart. I don’t believe even you could get past that fortress,” I say low, my voice sounding depressed even to my own ears.
“And in those eleven years, she’s never come to see your home. Yet, she’s coming now,” he says with a small smile, giving me the slightest bit of hope. “I assume you’ve seen her since your days in the army. What do you think has changed?”
“So, uh, yeah… I see her quite often, actually. Nearly every mission I go on, she either meets me there or I pick her up on my way out,” I admit, hoping not to be scolded by my boss for bringing along a distraction on my jobs.
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