Mick stared out at the incredible view, the city lights a sea of color against the dark sky. The sky was clearer here than in New Orleans. His head was clearer here than in New Orleans.

He’d spoken with Allie several times in the last few days, checking in on her. They’d kept the conversation light. He hadn’t mentioned to her that he was extending his trip by a day or two so he could play at 2112. No, he’d texted a short message to her a few hours earlier saying business was keeping him longer than expected.

He hated that he’d lied to her. But he’d excused it by telling himself that letting her know he was going to play with someone else would only hurt her.

It wasn’t as if he’d promised to play exclusively with her.

He turned from the window and grabbed the keys to his rental car. There was no point in beating himself up about it. He was doing what he needed to in order to get his head on straight. It was that simple. He fucking needed simple.

The drive to 2112 in Atlanta’s historic Adair Park area only took fifteen minutes. He found parking across the street from the club—although from the outside no one would have known what went on behind closed doors.

The place was a beautifully restored Craftsman bungalow set on a large hill lot at the end of the street, three stories of gorgeous old architecture, outfitted from top to bottom for kink. He’d been a number of times before and knew many of the regulars. Still, he’d called Finn and asked him to set up a play partner or two for the night.

He grabbed the small play bag he often took when he traveled from the trunk of the rental car and walked up the long driveway to the house. It was only when he stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door that he could hear the music playing inside.

The ornately carved door was opened by a hulking man in a black leather vest.

“Evening, Mick,” the man greeted him.

“Evening, Richard,” Mick said as he moved past him into the club.

He nodded at the pair of collared subbie girls corseted in white leather at the desk, a matching pair of blondes. 2112 always did it up right.

“Good evening, Mick, Sir,” they chorused.

“We have your online check-in, Sir,” one of them said. “You’re welcome to go on through.”

“Thank you.”

He moved through the door to the right and into what was originally a parlor but was now a sort of lounge for members of the club. It was decorated in early Craftsman style, with a few additions. There were large eyebolts in the floor next to chairs and sofas to which a leash or rope or chains could be attached, and an old gun case against one wall held a nice array of paddles, floggers and crops. Another young woman in the club’s official white leather corset and collar approached with a carefully balanced silver tray holding a decanter of whisky and several crystal glasses.

“A beverage for you, Sir?”

He rarely drank on a play night, but a little extra relaxation sounded good.

He nodded, and watched as the pretty girl balanced the tray with one hand and managed to pour with the other. She smiled as she handed him the glass.

“For your pleasure, Sir.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

He smiled back, paused a few moments to look over her soft curves, the mane of red hair cascading over her shoulders, before nodding his dismissal. She was a pretty little thing, but even if she hadn’t been contracted to train at the house, he wasn’t interested in the slave mentality. Still, he wasn’t dead. He watched her hips sway as she walked away to offer a drink to another member.

He moved through the lounge and back into the second parlor, known as the Spanking Room. This room was more dimly lit and more comfortably furnished, though still in Craftsman style. Here the submissives were mostly naked. Several were draped over a lap and being soundly spanked. Small sighs and cries of pain or pleasure filled the air, and he felt that familiar tingle of anticipation deep in his bones.

He walked through, keeping an eye out for Finn—and finally found him standing in the opposite doorway, heavily tattooed arms crossed over his massive chest, watching the action. Finn was an enormous man, with tribal Maori ink covering most of his body and a short crop of spiky platinum blond hair. His appearance could be intimidating to those who didn’t know him, but despite his wicked Dom side he was a real gentle giant, someone who laughed a lot. His thick Australian accent added to that sense of ease, and he was damn good company.

Finn clapped Mick on the back, his huge hands giving him a good pounding.

“How are you, my friend?” the big man asked.

“Doing okay.”

“I’m not so sure that’s true, but we can talk more later. I’ve set up a few potential play partners for you. Would you like to meet them? Or do you want to relax first?”

“I’d like to finish this drink and hang out for a while.”

“Sounds good. Think I’ll join you. I’ll meet you in the main room in a minute.”

“Sure.”

Mick turned to let himself through the glass-paned double doors that led to the largest play area on the main floor of the house. The lights were even dimmer in there, red, purple and amber lamps casting color and shadow in the room, which was a real dungeon room with padded spanking benches, the big St. Andrew’s crosses that looked like giant Xs made of wood, some of them freestanding in the center of the room and double-sided. There were enormous bondage frames made of heavy wood in the Craftsman style, even with the faux exposed rafters mimicking those under the eaves of a Craftsman building’s roofline. There were other pieces of equipment: chains hanging from the ceiling with thick iron spreader bars or heavy leather cuffs attached, special thronelike chairs made for interrogation scenes, cages lined with fur rugs. In between the equipment were comfortable seating areas for those who wanted to watch and for aftercare use. A number of people were already playing, and the room was filled with naked bodies and an air of wanting that reminded him too sharply of what he’d needed to get away from.

But she’s not here.

No, it was just him, a club that was familiar enough for him to feel at home, a good friend, and the girls he would play tonight to work some of this tension out of his body, and hopefully his damn head.

Finn found him, drink in hand, and they chose a long sofa to sit on.

Finn raised his glass. “Cheers, mate.”

“Cheers.” Mick raised his glass in salute, then tipped it back and swallowed. “Damn good Scotch,” he remarked.

“As always. Do you need another?”

“Not yet.”

His friend studied him for a moment. Even in the dusky colored light he could see Finn’s piercing blue gaze searching his face.

“So,” Finn started.

“So,” Mick finished—or so he thought.

“So, you going to tell me about it?”

“Tell you about what?”

“Don’t try to bullshit me, mate. I’m the mind-fuck expert, remember? My psychology degree has trained me to run circles around people’s minds.”

“Don’t even fucking consider crawling inside my head, old friend. You might not like what you see in there.”

“Do you really think anything could shock me? And that’s starting to sound like whining, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Finn raised a hand when Mick started to protest. “Yes, I’m sure you do mind. Whatever. I say what I think. As you well know.”

“Don’t think I didn’t come here knowing that.”

“In which case you must have wanted to hear what I have to say.”

“Since it’s fucking inevitable,” Mick said, not even trying to keep the wry sarcasm out of his voice.

“Damn right.” Finn leaned back and slung an arm across the back of the couch. “Shall we dance around this a little more, or are you ready to spill?”

Mick blew out a breath, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, avoiding Finn’s knowing gaze. “I hate this transparent communication shit sometimes, you know?” he muttered.