Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
As we step into a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, he lowers his voice. “Our clientele expects the best. We cater to a select demographic that values privacy almost as much as its kinks.”
“I’m used to dealing with spoiled rich assholes.” I’ve met quite a few over the ten years I worked touring with Steel Pulse.
“That will come in handy. Almost all our members follow the rules but there’s always a few troublemakers no matter how much you screen.”
The main lounge is dark, empty, and full of the electric charge places get before opening. A few black booths line one wall facing a stage glowing with discreet footlights. I catch a glimpse of two staffers prepping the bar, moving with silent efficiency, black gloves and crisp shirts. No wasted motion, no side chatter.
We cut through to a second corridor, and Roman stops in front of a frosted-glass door.
“First stop,” he says, palming open the latch, “is the heart of the operation.”
He gestures me into a room the size of a small classroom and twice as sterile. A bank of wall monitors dominates the back, each flickering with feeds from every conceivable angle in the club. At a long counter, two operators in matching polo shirts type and click with the bored vigilance of NASA ground control. Not a stray hair or loose thread on either of them.
“Jesus,” I mutter, sweeping the room. “You think you’ve got enough security?”
Roman smiles, his lips pulled into a tight line, a hint of tension beneath the surface. "There’s never enough. You wouldn't believe the threats we get," he says, his voice carrying a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Blackmail, political activism, your garden-variety psycho. Just last year, we had an actual priest break in, searching desperately for a parishioner who had strayed from his spiritual path."
"If you aren't pissing off at least one organized religion, you're doing the whole sex club thing wrong," I quip, a wry smile playing at the corners of my mouth.
Roman gestures toward the array of monitors that flicker with a steady stream of data. "Everything's encrypted. No recording, no archives, unless the law demands it. Privacy is gospel here," he assures, his tone firm and resolute.
One of the operators, a woman with the lithe build and poised stance of an Olympic fencer, flicks her eyes toward me, assessing. Roman acknowledges her with a slight nod as a silent communication passes between them.
“This is Cara, my day-shift supervisor,” he says. “She doesn’t miss a thing.” She ignores us while staring at the large screen in front of her.
The other operator is younger, a kid with a buzzcut and a crisp posture screaming “first job out of college” vibes.
“This is Joran,” Roman claps him on the shoulder as the younger man turns to give me a nervous nod.
Roman leans over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the screen, and points to a specific security feed. “Keep a vigilant watch tonight for our illustrious mayor. I need to know the exact moment he attempts to swipe his membership card.”
“Has he been stirring up trouble?” I inquire, curiosity piqued.
Roman shrugs, a slight frown creasing his brow. “He’s a persistent thorn in my side, and I’m doing my best to minimize any potential risk.”
He turns to me, dropping the CEO voice for the first time. “All this expensive hardware helps but nothing replaces good instinct which is why I hired you to take over as head of security.”
He’s not wrong. In my time running security for Steel Pulse, I saw fans climb twelve-foot fences, crawl through crawlspaces that would suffocate a rat, and—my personal favorite—hide in the luggage compartment of a tour bus for nine hours with nothing but a protein bar and a signed headshot for company. I got stabbed once in Tulsa by a guy who thought my jacket was “too corporate.” If there’s a rule in personal security, it’s this: paranoia is a full-time job.
Roman gestures again, and I follow him out.
He leads me down a back staircase, each step padded with industrial-grade rubber. We hit the basement, which is about as far from the opulent lobby as you can get. Cement floors. Strip lighting. More doors, most with palm scanners.
He pauses at one, plants his hand on the panel, and the door snicks open with a hiss.
Inside we find more screens, another operator, this one older and dressed in a tactical vest that’s seen real use. On the far wall, an honest-to-god gun locker containing a neat row of sidearms, a couple non-lethals, and what looks like a defibrillator for good measure.
Roman doesn’t bother with introductions this time. “We rotate shifts. Three teams. Nobody works more than a twelve, ever.” He eyes me sidelong. “We learned the hard way.”
I don’t need to ask. Burnout is a given in this field and no one wants to deal with that shit.