Except he’s not.

Look closer and you see a man that, like me, entertains the thought of living another type of life.

“This is the last time I’m bringing you coffee,” Bridger mutters as he hands a tall thermos to me. “Buy a fucking coffee pot for this office. It’s not like you don’t have the money.”

I accept the container, pop the top, and take a quick sip. “True enough. But what I don’t have is an assistant to go out and buy a fucking coffee pot. You think I have time to drive the thirty miles to town to do that?”

“Pansy-assed whiner,” Bridger says affectionately as he takes his own hat off and hangs it on the peg beside mine.

Bridger is the only one that would ever get away with calling me that, and that’s because he’s closer to me than anyone. Even my brother, Tenn.

We met our freshman year in college, pledging for the same fraternity. We survived Hell Week and made it through together. We bonded first as fraternity brothers and classmates. Later, the bond grew a bit deeper when we fortuitously found out we shared some common interests of an indelicate nature.

I set the thermos down on my desk and walk over to a set of rolled building plans on one of the built-in pine shelves.

“I got the final renderings,” I say as I unroll them out on my desk, securing each of the curling corners with a stapler, my coffee, my cell phone, and my right hand at the corner that rests near my hip. Bridger steps up next to me, sipping at his brew.

We both stare down silently at the plans, our eyes roving over the blue lines with tiny descriptions and measurements etched in. In the upper right corner, in deep blue ink—The Wicked Horse. Next to it, the brand I developed. A round circle with an inner circle and eight spokes dividing the outer ring into seven sections. It’s simple and to the casual observer, it sort of looks like a wheel.

“So take me through it,” Bridger commands.

I point down at the large structure on the top sheet. “This is the main club area. I don’t have the specs on the exterior plans yet, but just envision a weathered barn.”

“Like it could be any old building on the Double J,” Bridger says with a satisfied grin.

“Exactly.” I slide my finger along the lines. “Main bar here… stage for weekly bands… dance floor. I figure this area here can hold at least thirty tables. We’ll put another bar back here, a small built-in store to sell merchandise, and this area back here will all be storage.”

“And this?” Bridger asks as he points to a large room.

“Our office.”

Bridger moves his finger to an exit door. “And this is how you get to The Silo?”

“Yup,” I say as I pull the top sheet of the plans off. I lay it on the floor, and I don’t give it another thought. Because the truth is, it’s really not that important. What I just showed Bridger is nothing but a front.

A facade.

It’s a lie called The Wicked Horse. A western-styled nightclub sitting on the very border of the Double J ranch that is closest to the town of Jackson. It’s sure to be a big hit with the tourists that flock to this area year round for the abundance of summer and winter activities.

I glide my fingertips over the next sheet of plans, because this is actually what’s really important. This is what I envisioned when I came up with the concept of The Wicked Horse and asked Bridger if he wanted to go in on it with me.

We have no interest in running a nightclub. They’re a dime a dozen. As I said… the barn-styled club is nothing but an image for people to believe that what I do is respectable.

Because there is much more to The Wicked Horse than just meets the casual observer’s eye.

“It’s amazing,” Bridger says in a low voice as he takes in all that encompasses The Silo.

It’s a separate building that sits behind the main club. It looks like a common variety silo that would store silage for the cattle. Except it’s enormous in size, at least one-hundred and fifty feet in diameter and constructed of concrete staves. It has the classic white-domed top and even has an authentic-looking grain elevator that isn’t really an elevator. Purely aesthetical, of course.

The Silo is really what it’s all about.

It’s round… it’s a hub.

It’s the center of everything that The Wicked Horse really is.

It’s where our fantasy sex club will start.

“They’re ready to start construction next week,” I tell Bridger.

“It’s a fucking brilliant design,” he says with admiration.

And I couldn’t agree more as I look at the architectural drawings. The outer perimeter of the silo will be seven rooms. Four on one side and three on the other. Concrete walls will keep the rooms separated, with an outer hall that runs behind them around the entire perimeter. There is one large, floor-to-ceiling glass wall that is open to the interior of the round building. No curtains. No blinds. No way to hide anything that happens inside one of those rooms.

That’s because this building was designed in mind to meet the needs of those people—like Bridger and I—who enjoy the kinkier side of sex. This building will serve all of those people that like to be exhibitionists and voyeurs. The watcher and the watched.

The exact center of The Silo will be anchored by a round bar. The decor will not be western like the night club area, but I envision sleek chrome, black leather, and red velvet. It has to be upscale, because frankly… only the wealthiest of people, and those they choose to bring with them, will ever see the interior of this building.

“These three rooms will be the bondage rooms,” I tell him as I point to the drawing. “That’s your area of expertise, so I’ll need you to start thinking about how you want to outfit them.”

“I’m thinking lots of leather,” Bridger says in a low voice, which weirdly causes a shiver to run up my spine. Fear? Excitement? Maybe both.

Bridger really got into the BDSM scene while we were in college. I personally don’t like it, although I’ll play around with a riding crop. I don’t like doling out that type of pain, and I like my women to look me in the eye while they’re sucking my cock. I do, however, like to watch Bridger work a submissive hard before he fucks her—or him. Bridger doesn’t discriminate.

Before we start drooling over the plans, I pull that sheet off and set it on the ground. The final elements to our fantasy sex club are the private buildings. Ten log cabins intimately appointed and designed to fulfill any number of fantasies that someone could imagine. We’ll spare no expense in decking them out, because I can afford to. Besides, the types of clientele that will seek memberships are going to expect only the best.

We study the cabin design, which is fairly simple in comparison but no less thrilling to add into the business plan.

Turning my head to look at Bridger, I say with a grin, “And that, my friend, is The Wicked Horse on paper.”

“Fucking fantastic,” he says with a return grin.

Our dream is coming to life. This time next year, we’ll be deep in the business of fulfilling sexual fantasies for all kinds of people from sweetly seductive to downright depraved.

Want to have a romantic seduction by a stranger? I’ll make it happen.

Want to get fucked by three well-hung cowboys? I’ll make that happen too.

Want to do it all while being watched? Easy as fucking pie.

Almost any fantasy imaginable—except forced sex or bestiality—and I’ll make it come to life. I know enough people just like me to staff this place well. And while I won’t be handing out the fantasies, because after all… I am the proprietor and only have so much time available… it doesn’t mean I won’t indulge.

Call it a perk.

Why in the world would I ever want to open up a sex fantasy club, you might ask? Especially when I’m sitting on a massive fortune?

Well, let’s just say that I’m a lot like my brother. I have my own dreams and goals, and I was raised by parents that taught Tenn and me that we could accomplish anything we set our minds too. And while I love everything that my father created with JennCo, it isn’t my passion. It’s more of an obligation.