Free Tell it to the Marine by Heather Long Page B

many new arrivals over the last three months, there were a number of unfamiliar faces working toward a new life at Mike’s Place.
    Logan shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
    “Well if you have time tomorrow, maybe you could join us for a run or a pick-up.”
    “Three on three?”
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    “Zach’s got some kids running scrimmages in the morning, but after that I’m free. Just text me. I’ll be here.”
    “Will do.”
    “Have a good time on your date tonight….”
    He paused. “Who said I had a date?”
    “Shiny shoes, fresh shave, thousand dollar suit. Says it all.” Logan winked and jogged on.
    James laughed and twirled his keys around his forefinger. Zach’s plan to bring Logan back to life with a threesome seemed to have been successful. It wasn’t his idea of a good time, but one could not argue with results.
    An hour later, at five minutes to seven, he handed his keys off to a valet driver. A red square corset framed her generous breasts perfectly and a filmy white shirt opened to show the cleavage. Tugging his wallet out, he traded the valet slip for the plain black card with the silver lettering. Dallas’ Sybarite Club offered every pleasure from music to food to companionship and private rooms. Unlike some exclusive clubs, it catered to men and women alike as long as they presented an all-access pass.
    The doorman—a tall, lanky figure dressed in a topcoat and tails who seemed to have stepped right out of the roaring twenties—accepted the card and scanned it with a small palm device. The technology wasn’t in keeping with the man’s old world atmosphere, but he returned the card with a pleasant smile.
    “Welcome to the Sybarite Club, Mr. Westwood. Your dining companion arrived ten minutes ago.” He motioned toward gothic-style doors carved from dark cherry and decorated with woodcuts of a man and woman engaged in cunnilingus and fellatio. As the doors parted, each figure seemed to cry out. James wasn’t sure if their silent mouths were opened in pleasure or frustration.
    The carpeted entryway descended four steps into a lounge with a dark, almost jazzy pseudo-gothic atmosphere. Flickering candles complemented the low lighting. Long shadows twisted across the textured booths, bar stools, and tables. Three couples swayed together on the dance floor to the smooth sounds of blues. Instruments on the empty stage suggested a potential for live music.
    He’d heard a lot about the Sybarite Club but never had the occasion to visit the establishment. Surveying the room, he noted the servers in black outfits slipping in and out of the lounge, ghosts who didn’t disturb the guests except to take orders or deliver them. Three tables held couples or threesomes chatting over drinks. A fourth held only empty chairs.
    Probably one of the dancing couples.
    The booths were tucked into the wall making it harder to see who sat there.
    “Mr. Westwood?” A slim waitress smiled up at him, a tray tucked between her arm and torso.
    “Yes?”
    “Your party is this way, sir.” She beckoned him down the red-carpeted steps into the lounge proper, and he followed her path through the club to a tall-backed booth in the back. Still acclimating to the low lighting, he couldn’t make out the occupant save for the slender feminine arm reaching for her wine glass on the table.
    A curl of excitement twisted in his gut. He’d planned to keep the date low key, but the club, the music, and the atmosphere teased his anticipation. The waitress halted with a sweep of her arm to allow him to precede her.
    “Can I get you anything, Mr. Westwood?”
    “Soda water with lime, please.” He preferred to keep his wits about him. “And bottle of whatever the lady is having.” If they were going to have a dinner, he could do at least provide her with her preferred wine.
    “Of course.”
    Free of the waitress’ distraction he turned back to the booth. A golden-haired goddess stared up at him. Sea-blue