The Exposé Read online

  THE EXPOSÉ

  By Roxy Sloane

  For Nina Grinstead and Jen McCoy of The Literary Gossip. I’ll take our secrets to the grave.

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  Copyright © 2015 Roxy Sloane

  Cover Design: British Empire Design

  Cover Photography: Perrywinkle Design

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  CHAPTER ONE

  ZOE

  What do you wear to an interview at a sex club?

  I rifle through my crappy wardrobe and groan in despair. I’ve been living in jeans all through college; I’m out in the ‘real world’ now, but without any cash to buy a new wardrobe, I’m stuck with a laundry basket of sweatshirts and a couple of glittery Forever 21 tops that are shedding sparkles over everything they touch. I’m all out of luck.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like a fresh-faced kid who just got out of school—not the kind of classy, sexy woman Dax Ryan would hire. But I need this job, it could be the break I’ve been working for.

  Time for plan B.

  “Hey, Tasha?” I call to my roommate. I don’t have to call far. In our shoebox of an apartment, her tiny bedroom is right across the narrow hall.

  Her door swings open. “What’s up?”

  Tasha is leaning over her dresser, applying eyeliner with the kind of concentration I’ve only ever used for finals and new episodes of The Bachelor. She’s squeezed into a skin-tight mini-dress, with her long brunette hair styled into a perfect sleek cascade that only forty minutes with a hairdryer can achieve.

  I would know. I’m the one who helps her get it just right when she can’t reach the back.

  “Can I borrow something to wear?” I beg. “Pretty please? I’ve got my interview at the club,” I explain, “And I don’t have anything that’s right for it.”

  Tasha’s eyes drift over me. “You can say that again.” She tuts at the sight of my ratty old sweatpants and stretched out T-shirt. Even at home, she always looks like she just stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret ad, in tiny shorty shorts and silky tanks. But under all her mascara and lipgloss, Tasha is really a sweetheart, which is why she takes pity on me tonight.

  “Try this.” She says, pulling down a tiny tube of black fabric and tossing it across the hall. “You’re taller than me, but a little extra leg never hurt anyone, especially when it comes to tips.”

  I struggle into the dress. It’s a glorified band-aid, with half the back missing and black straps wound all across the bodice.

  “Don’t forget the girls!” Tasha says, throwing me a strapless padded bra that could double as a flotation device. But it does the trick: when I yank everything into place and check out my reflection, I could almost pass for someone with curves. The dress is cut low on my chest, and high on my legs, and with the straps and some boots, it’s sexy, kind of a bondage look.

  Perfect for where I’m going tonight.

  “Thanks girl,” I tell Tasha gratefully. “And I promise, I’ll have the rent by the end of the week.”

  “No worries,” she says sunnily. Her brand new iPhone buzzes on the dresser, and she lights up. “Ooh, here’s my ride. Have fun!”

  Tasha picks up her Coach purse, slides her feet into a pair of epic designer heels, and grabs a leather jacket that probably cost more than all my possessions combined. “Remember, you’ve got to wiggle in that thing,” she tells me on her way out the door. “Walk like you’re trying to keep a watermelon clenched between your thighs.”

  She winks and swans out.

  I head to my window. Down on the sidewalk, five flights below our Brooklyn walk-up, an anonymous black town car is waiting for her.

  I let the old bedsheet I’m using as a curtain fall closed. I don’t ask where my roommate gets her money, but I’m pretty sure auditioning for Broadway shows isn’t paying for those new shoes. She’s got a different date every night of the week, but she always meets them at some fancy hotel downtown, and never brings anyone home.

  You do the math.

  Still, I can’t judge. At least she’s able to pay rent on our rodent-infested shoebox. I’m the one a month behind and still no closer to getting a job.

  I flop back on the bed with a sigh—landing right on a loose spring.

  “Oww,” I curse, rolling over. “Dammit!”

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I graduated college with a portfolio full of student newspaper clips and dreams of being the next big thing in journalism. My boyfriend, Troy, was a year ahead of me. He’d already moved to NYC and got a great gig at a news blog; he said as soon as I came out, we’d get a place together and he’d help hook me up with a job.

  But I guess his plans changed. Because when I arrived on his doorstep with my beat-up old Civic packed full of my worldly possessions, he had a change of heart.

  And that change was a six-foot model-slash-DJ named Anya.

  “I didn’t think we were serious,” he said, shrugging off every long-distance promise he’d ever made. “It was just talk, you know?”

  I sold the Honda, found a roommate and a waitressing gig, and turned all my rejection and anger into pure determination. I’d show him exactly what I’m made of. I applied for every job going and papered the city with my resume, certain my big break was just around the corner. But here I am, two months later, I can’t even get an interview for an unpaid internship, let alone a real job.

  ‘We’re not hiring.’

  ‘Your application has been added to our list.’

  ‘We’re seeking candidates with more experience.’

  It’s a catch-22: I can’t get experience if nobody’s willing to hire me, and nobody’s hiring me because I don’t have experience! I spent four years on my college newspaper, working my way up to editor. I freelanced for blogs, even had a couple of stories published in the local paper, but here in New York City, all that work means nothing.

  I’m back at square one.

  Today was my last hope—and my best shot. The New York Daily called me in for an interview: my first time actually getting in the door. I was so excited when I walked through the newsroom and felt the buzz of all the ringing phones and people typing at their computers. But my high lasted about as long as it took for the news editor, Charlie Granger, to glance at my portfolio and toss it on his desk.

  “I’m sorry, we’re cutting back staff right now, not hiring more.”

  I blinked at him, my hopes crashing to the ground. “But, why did you even call me in if there’s no job available?”

  He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Look, I like your clips. You’ve got some good stories here. Good instincts. But I can’t use instincts. What I need is stories. Bring me something good, something juicy, and maybe I can swing something.”

  Which is why I’m trussing myself up in this ridiculous outfit, layering on the mascara and squeezing my feet into Tasha’s knee-high stiletto boots. Because I need the story of a lifetime to get my career off the ground, and right now, getting this hostess position is the best chance I’ve got. My instincts say there are some serious stories to be discovered at The Underground, and my i
nstincts are never wrong.

  I grab my purse and go downstairs, wincing at the boots digging into my toes. But my budget doesn’t stretch to a cab, so the subway it is for me tonight. I head for the station, my stomach jittering with nerves.

  What kind of interview is this going to be? Will I have to do regular hostess things like showing customers to a table and checking for reservations, or does the position come with other demands? I mean, it’s not a regular club. The Underground is a super-secretive sex club, catering to the most exclusive clientele.

  It was Tasha who turned me on to the place. She heard about a sex club uptown, private members only. The place where New York’s elite go to indulge their dirty secrets. Where politicians, celebrities, and Wall Street hide away under the cover of darkness and let their inhibitions go.

  She laughed it off like it was an urban legend, but I did some digging, and quickly found out it’s the real deal. Ruled over by Dax Ryan, the club is totally secretive, completely exclusive—and my ticket to the biggest scoop in town.

  If I can get a job here, I’ll be able to snoop around and discover everything that’s going down. If I can get proof of a few big names who use this place, and just what kind of scandals they’re hiding, that should be more than enough to get me a job at the paper, and my first big byline as well.

  I can see it now: Zoe Warren, junior reporter, the New York Daily News. I’ll be able to write stories that really matter, pulling in an actual paycheck and learning from the best in the business.

  “Aight, sugar?”

  A voice snaps me back to reality. A couple of guys are checking me out from across the subway car, their eyes leering. Even under my jacket, this dress is giving them plenty to stare at. “Where you goin’?” One asks. “You got a man tonight?”

  Thankfully, we reach my stop and I quickly get out, hurrying to the exit.

  There’s only one man I care about tonight: the one guarding all the secrets I’m out to expose. He’s the one I need to fool if I’ve got a hope in hell of pulling this off.

  Dax Ryan.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAX

  ‘I know what you’re hiding.’

  The note is slipped in with the rest of the mail: a single page with printed text.

  I sit back at my desk, then grab the envelope I just ripped open. It’s plain and cheap, the kind you get in packs at the post office. Just my name printed on the front, no address or postmark.

  It was delivered here to The Underground in person.

  “Griffin!” I yell, and a moment later, my head of security appears in my office doorway.

  “What’s up, boss?” he yawns. Six foot three of muscly ex-Navy Seal -- nothing goes on inside the walls of this club without him knowing about it.

  “Did you see who delivered this?” I ask, holding up the envelope.

  “I don’t know, what is it?” Griffin comes closer.

  I make sure the note is hidden beneath other papers on my desk so he doesn’t see. I pass the envelope. He turns it over in his hands and shrugs.

  “No idea, sorry.”

  “It was with the rest of my mail,” I say, trying to hide my irritation.

  “That’s Dominique’s thing,” Griffin says, passing it back. “You know she grabs the mail when she opens up every afternoon. Want me to ask?”

  I nod. “But don’t make a big deal about it. Pull the security footage from earlier today, the cameras by the front entrance. Take a look, find me whoever dropped it off.”

  If Griffin is surprised by my unusual request, he doesn’t show it. He gives me a nod.

  “And talk to the rest of your guys,” I add, as he heads back out the door. “Ask if they’ve seen anything suspicious here the past couple of weeks.”

  “What kind of suspicious?”

  I keep it vague. “Anything out of the ordinary. Members with any issues. People trying to get in who aren’t on our books. I want a full security briefing by the end of the night.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Griffin heads out, leaving me alone in my office. I turn in my chair, facing towards the two-way mirror that looks out onto my domain.

  The Underground. The most exclusive members-only nightspot in the city. The place where fantasies are brought to life, and people become free to explore and indulge their most explicit desires.

  I look out at the main bar, set with luxurious leather banquettes and rich decor. It’s empty now, but come tonight, the place will be packed. Celebrities, politicians, the top business people in New York City -- all free to do whatever they want under the cloak of total anonymity. No names. No press.

  They trust me with their reputations, and in exchange, I provide them with a playground. A place where the responsibilities and stress of every day life are left at the front door. Within these walls, there’s only pleasure. Excitement.

  Lust.

  I’ve built this club up from nothing into New York’s most sought-after venue. Our waiting list is a thousand people long, and our vetting process for prospective members would put the CIA to shame. Every staff member signs non-disclosure agreements and our guestlist is kept under lock and key.

  I guard a thousand secrets for my members. The intimate details of what they do here -- and who they do it with. In this world, discretion is gold. Without it, my entire empire would crumble -- and hundreds of people would be ruined in the scandal.

  I pick up the note again, thinking hard. Someone’s threatening me. But with what, I don’t yet know. Could it be blackmail on one of my members?

  Or a more personal threat?

  My intercom buzzes, breaking through my thoughts.

  “The girls are here, to interview for the hostess positions.”

  It’s Dominique, my manager.

  “Put them in the lounge,” I tell her. “I’ll be right there.”

  I get up, taking my suit jacket from the back of my chair and shrugging it on. I hate to have to invite newcomers to work at the club, especially with a note like that on the table, but I have no choice. Three girls have left me in the last few weeks, and with the club’s popularity at an all-time high, I need replacements to work the floor. We’ll be packed to capacity by midnight tonight, and my guests demand five-star service to match their five-star membership fees.

  I step out into the hallway, reaching to lock my door behind me. That’s when I see a strange girl peering into one of the rooms down the hall.

  “Excuse me,” I call.

  She whirls around, looking guilty as hell.

  “Can I help you?” My voice is anything but helpful as I stride towards her. I’ve never seen her here before, I would remember her for sure. She’s wearing a tiny bandage dress cut low in the front and high on her legs to show off the swell of her ripe breasts and long, tanned thighs.

  “I, uh...” The girl mumbles. She stare at me with blue eyes under choppy blonde bangs, but I can see her brain is thinking fast. Any other time, I’d find her hot. Sexy and tough in those kinky boots of hers, but right now, all I see is an interloper in my damn club.

  “Well?” I demand. “What are you doing back here? How did you get in?”

  She swallows, pulling herself together. “I’m here for the interview.” She flashes me a smile. “I’m sorry, I went to freshen up, and then I guess I got turned around. This place is like a maze! It’s hard to keep track.”

  I pause. She’s giving me a confident beam, no sign of the guilt I saw on her face when I caught her. Did I just imagine it? That note has me on edge, and I don’t like it.

  “The lounge is this way,” I tell her gruffly. “I’ll escort you.”

  “Thanks, that’s so nice of you.” She hitches her purse up her arm and heads in the direction I point. “It wouldn’t be a good start if I got lost before I even got the job!”

  “Luckily, a sense of direction isn’t on the required skills list,” I tells her dryly, following behind. What is required is for my hostesses to be beautiful, courteous, and discre
et.

  She has one out of three, at least.

  I admire the view of her shapely ass and leather boots until we arrive in the side lounge room, where several other girls are waiting. “Someone should tell the guy to turn on a few lights,” she says, looking around. “Everything’s so dim and dark.”

  “People like the dark corners,” I say, looming over her. “All the better to hide dark deeds.”

  She looks startled, then covers it with a laugh. “You’re right. I forgot, I’m not interviewing at a normal club here.” She looks around the room, then leans in. “Can you do me a favor and point out the boss? I want to know who I’m supposed to impress.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “It’s a little late for that,” I tell her, and enjoy the look of dawning realization on her face.

  “Shit,” she curses. “It’s you.”

  “It’s me.” I repeat. “I’m sure we’ll be introduced later. If you’ll take a seat, it’s time to begin.”

  She slinks off to a chair at the back of the room, but I pause, watching her a moment longer.

  Whoever sent that note is either in possession of damaging information -- or they want it. Badly enough to send a spy to infiltrate my club? I’m not yet sure. Either way, I’m on my guard. And any girl here tonight could be a risk to me.

  Somebody is hiding something. I’m going to make sure I find them out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ZOE

  How could I be so dumb?

  I cringe lower in my seat, wishing the floor would open and swallow me up. Getting caught snooping around before I even get the job? And by Dax Ryan himself?

  I try to pull myself together. I can’t have blown my best chance at the story within my first five minutes of stepping through the door. After all, I was just looking around, that’s not so bad. And maybe he bought my cover story. After all, he doesn’t have any reason to suspect I’m here to infiltrate and expose his whole club. For all he knows, I’m just another dumb girl who can’t read an ‘exit’ sign to save my life.