Ray’s face softens at the mention of his wife, Sia, the owner of the tattoo parlor in the massive warehouse that houses Redemption. “She’s eased up on me since Sam was born,” he says. “As long as I pull my weight.”

    “Which you’re doing by lounging on Amanda’s couch and reading the paper?”

    “I was reading about the fight.” He turns the paper around and shows me a grainy picture of Rampage in the cage.

    “I’d never been to a professional MMA fight before.” I top up my coffee and add more cream. “It was very different from the amateurs and those underground events you like to go to. Very glitzy and very public. You could see every drop of sweat, every grimace… I couldn’t do something like that. I’m a shy, retiring type of person.”

    Ray barks a laugh. “You try to make people think that, with those frilly clothes, but there’s a lot more to you than you let on. Cotton candy girls don’t like death metal, Pen. They don’t jump up on stage at a concert and go fucking crazy with the front man. They listen to their friend when he warns them the guy’s no good…”

    My lips press together, and I shoot Ray a warning look. He knows better than to go there. I haven’t dated anyone since Vetch, and Ray knows it. Ray also knows what happened in the alley behind Vetch’s hotel shortly after I walked into the office covered in bruises, although he has never talked about it. No one hurts people Ray cares about, and although we’re just friends, he cares about me.

    “Cotton candy girls.” I huff as I walk into my office, a cozy room just off the reception area, with big windows overlooking the street. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

    “Shy and retiring,” Ray mutters behind me. “That doesn’t add up.”

    Amanda goes straight into a client meeting when she arrives, and I help her associates, Jill and Dana, get her documents ready for her court hearing in the afternoon. When she comes into my office to collect her boxes a few hours later, all dressed up in her new dove-gray suit, I feel a little stab of jealousy. My mom wore a suit every day for her job as a marketing executive. I used to dress up in her clothes and carry a briefcase around the house, dreaming of the day I’d go to work in a suit, too. But it was never meant to be. Now, I’m on the outside looking in, watching someone else live my dream.

    “Did the process server show up yet?” Amanda loads files into her briefcase. “We need to serve papers on Club Sin tonight. It took me longer than I thought to draft the claim because the tenant hasn’t breached any terms of the lease, but I promised Gerry Turner we would get his lawsuit started before he leaves for vacation tomorrow. He wants that sex club out of his building as soon as possible.”

    “I just got a call that the process server is running late,” I say. “I was planning run some errands after work and it’s on my way home. I don’t mind dropping them off. That way we can be sure they get served tonight.” Amanda’s new client, Gerry, is a real estate magnate who owns almost an entire city block in the South of Market (SoMa) District as well as other properties in the city that he leases out at exorbitant rates. Although he could get Club Sin to vacate the premises with proper notice under its lease or by waiting for the lease term to expire, he doesn’t want to wait because he’s had an offer from a developer who wants to tear down the building and turn the block into a shopping center. The deal is time sensitive and worth a lot of money, and Gerry is getting desperate.

    “They don’t open until eight tonight…” Amanda’s voice trails off, but she looks so hopeful that I can’t let her down.

    “No problem. I was planning to be down there for a few hours. Plus, I’ve never been to a sex club before, and I’m curious to see what goes on inside a place with a name like Club Sin.”

    Ray offers to drive Amanda to court, and I leave our receptionist, Mari, to close the office while I head downtown. I run my errands and browse the racks at Nordstrom, lingering over the suits for so long I’m sure I’ve attracted the attention of the store’s undercover detectives. Just after eight, I head over to SoMa and park a few blocks away from the club.

    My phone GPS leads me to a massive brown four-story brick building that goes back half a city block. All the ground-floor tenants have Going Out of Business signs in their windows, but I can’t find a door or a sign for Club Sin. After my second walk up and down the street, I spot a woman dressed in a black corset, skirt, and thigh-high boots. I follow her down the alley to a gray metal door. When she slides a card through a reader on the wall, I kick it into gear and catch her before she enters the building.

    “Is this Club Sin?”

    She startles and frowns. “Why do you want to know?”

    I show her the envelope with the company name on it. “I have to give this to Damien Stone.”

    “Come on in.” She motions me forward. “I’ll let Master Damien know you’re here.”

    Master Damien. A thrill of excitement shoots through me. Although I’ve heard about BDSM clubs, I never thought about actually visiting one. Except for Vetch, I’ve led a pretty conservative life as far as sex and relationships go.

    My pulse kicks up a notch, and I follow the woman down the brightly lit stairwell and into a spacious reception area decorated with framed pictures of people suspended from the ceiling, attached to giant wooden crosses, shackled to tables, and hanging from what look to be giant swings. Despite the photos, which are at once terrifying and titillating, the foyer is tastefully decorated in red and gold, with sparkly tiled floors, gilt mirrors, and a large red velvet couch. A crystal chandelier twinkles above the ornate gold reception desk.

    My guide introduces me to the receptionist, Kitty, and excuses herself to find Master Damien. I catch the clink of glassware, the murmur of voices, and the distinctive sound of a scream as she exits the reception area through a heavy wooden door.

    “It’s early, so it’s still quiet,” Kitty says. “I don’t think Master Damien is busy, so you won’t have to wait long.” She smooths her hand over her electric blue corset, heavily embroidered and trimmed with black lace that barely covers the crescents of her breasts. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.