Page 55 of Tamed Enemy
The Sawgrass operatives move with the careful choreography of a drill team. Larson follows the lead car so closely we could be chained together. Someone clearly scouted the entire route before we arrived.
Before it seems possible, we’re rolling through the type of Brooklyn neighborhood tourists never see. Deserted warehouses huddle along the waterfront, twilight glinting off broken windows. An entrance to the subway yawns beneath dirty streetlights. Larson pulls up in front of a deeply recessed door.
“You two wait here,” Jacobson says over his shoulder. “Larson? You’re on watch. The rest of us will clear the premises.”
As Kate and I settle back on the leather seat, Larson undertakes a serious study of his mirrors. After a few minutes of uninterrupted silence, I say, “Sorry you drew the short stick.”
“It’s an honor to work for Sawgrass in any capacity, sir.”
I wonder if Best requires his men to memorize that phrase.
Another five minutes go by. “How long does it take toclear the premises?” I ask.
“That depends on the layout inside, sir. And whether they encounter any hostiles.”
Larson suddenly pulls to attention like a hunting dog, eyes affixed to his side-view mirror. His right hand slips beneath his jacket in the precise area of a shoulder holster. A man and a woman are making their way down the street.
He has his arm around her shoulders. She’s teetering on sky-high red leather stilettos, clutching a trench coat that’s knotted tight around her waist. As they step up to the club door, I’m willing to bet she isn’t wearing anything under the coat.
I glance at Kate, who raises her eyebrows. The couple passes inside, and Larson returns his right hand to the steering wheel.
We wait five more minutes. “This is ridiculous,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“Please do not exit the car, sir,” Larson says.
“I’m supposed to meet a man in three minutes.”
“I understand, sir.”
Before I can argue, Jacobson steps out of the club. For the first time since I’ve met him, he looks ruffled. He walks to the car and opens Kate’s door. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice strained. Both of us hurry from the Cadillac, crossing the sidewalk as if it’s made of lava.
Stepping over the threshold, we find ourselves in a room that looks like the lobby of a superior boutique hotel. A woman sits behind a polished mahogany table, wearing a dark blue suit that would be appropriate for any boardroom. Pins on her lapel indicate she speaks French, Spanish, and Japanese.
Gage Rider stands beside her, a scowl on his face, his hands bunched into fists. His flawless tuxedo was clearly tailored for his height and his athlete’s shoulders. He looks like he could take a swing without splitting a seam.
Five Sawgrass operatives stand in a tight circle in the far corner of the room, varying levels of rebellion on their faces. They’re flanked by two massive men in tuxedoes who might as well haveBouncertattooed across their bald heads.
Jacobson takes up a position between his team and our host for the evening. “Sir,” Jacobson says to me. “We have not been able to secure the premises in a satisfactory manner.”
I nod so he knows I’ve heard him and then I turn my finest disarming smile on Rider. “These are Sawyer Best’s men.” I say, invoking our joint membership in the Diamond Ring. “They’re just doing their job.”
“And I’m doing mine. Keeping my club safe for all my members.”
Jacobson says tightly, “Every person on my team is a trained professional.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Rider isn’t giving an inch. “That’s why you were allowed access to the greenrooms. Men’s and women’s.”
Now I understand why the driver of the lead car was a woman.
Jacobson says to me, “We have not been able to determine the safety of the rest of the club, sir. Including the room where you will conduct your meeting.”
“Gage,” I say, refreshing my smile. “Can’t we work this out?”
He barely shakes his head. “Every club member passes through metal detectors on their way out of the greenrooms. My security team patrols the floor. I cannot subject my members to armed guards from the outside.”
Jacobson is unhappy. His team clearly feels attacked. But Rider’s explanation makes perfect sense. If I were a Dom playing a scene with my sub inside, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Back to the cars,” I say to Jacobson.
