THE PANAMA CLUB: Pas de trois // Chapter 7

The part that was hardest for him to comprehend was how London said she suspected what the address was. This was a sex club. Was that what London had suspected?

This man she’d met, Ballard, waved them over to join him, and the fact Ballard shared something like this with London was bothering him. What had Ballard said about this place that made London want to come?

As they crossed the dirty and uneven floor, Alvaro let his eyes roam instead of glaring at Ballard. The palatial place looked abandoned, but was being used temporarily and now appointed with luxury furniture, but all of it plopped down in what looked like a haunted mansion. At the bar there was a woman with her whole hairy cooch showing. Some businessman talking to her. A real slick looking guy. Just the sight of him aggravated Alvaro. It was more than that, though. It was the fact that this was a sex club. The fact that London wanted to come here. The fact that this slick-looking businessman was here made him mad because it challenged his own knowledge of sex. Like London was unsatisfied. And this guy Ballard was the kind of guy who could do it for her. London needed a sex club. London needed Ballard.

His free hand opened and flexed into a fist, getting mad thinking about it. More dudes at the bar; what would they think of a girl like London coming here? Or what about him? What would they think of him? Some of the people wore masks. He was Alvaro Ortega for fuck’s sake. London should’ve told him to wear a fucking mask.

Midway to the table, he paused with London. Got close to her, like they were dancing, whispered in her ear, “What the fuck you getting me into?”

“Don’t be mad,” she said, and her two gentle hands gripped his forearms.

“Why are we here?”

“I told you I wanted to come.”

“Why would you want to come here?”

“You said you’d do it for me,” she said and cupped her hand to his cheeks.

He had told her he would. He put his hand on her wrist, took her hand and gently massaged it, his index finger hooking around the huge emerald-cut diamond. The words formed on his tongue but he wouldn’t say it. What, I don’t do it for you?

But that was stupid. He’d fucked hot girls in every city he played baseball. Fucked girls every weekend in college. And the girls that had hung around the gangs on the streets of Miami...?

He nodded, accepting it. “What are you looking for, London?”

“I just want to look. I don’t even know.”

He kissed her hand, and the relief and love he saw in London’s eyes made his heart beat faster. This was exciting. Alvaro Ortega and beautiful ballerina London Perry doing this thing together. He said, “You suspected this was what it was?” He glanced over his shoulder at the bar, and the congregation of strange people there.

“I kind of thought so.”

“This guy Ballard invited you?”

“Not me. Us.”

“We’re keeping him waiting,” he said.

When you were unsure, there was nothing better than acting like you had it all under control.

“Let’s go meet this man,” he said.

***

London had come this evening with her husband-to-be, as he’d prompted. Alvaro Ortega provided this ballerina with surety. Confidence. She was a full, blossoming flower who’d lost her way. London used her lover as a wellspring.

And he would use Alvaro Ortega as a wellspring also.

The ballerina had responded most favorably to the smallest of disciplines. While he’d spanked her, London had struggled, her body so unfamiliar with being handled. Her mind resisting it. But it only took a few swats before she was melting across his thighs and turning up her rump for more punishment. Even as she traveled nearer an orgasm he was sure she couldn’t believe was coming, London squeezed her knees tighter together, flexing open her bottom, turning it upward perchance for her pussy to be spanked.

What a pussy she must have. He was sure it was exquisite. Probably as foul-tempered and capricious as the woman herself, a true delight to fuck. She would be tight, at times resistant, and other times greedy for more and more, and deeper and harder.

Just the sight of her on Alvaro’s arm got his heart pounding.

***

London watched Alvaro stick out his chest, take Mr. Ballard’s big hand in his own fierce grip. The two men shook hands and locked eyes. Neither of them wavered. Ballard was taller than Alvaro, but Alvaro sported more muscular bulk. She could see the muscles in Alvaro’s jaw and neck flexing.

At last they let each other go; she would never pretend to understand what kind of things transpired between men when they shook hands that way. It was better than Alvaro taking a swing at Ballard, that’s for sure. She’d seen that a few times and didn’t like it. But she’d tamed Alvaro in many ways. She was good for him. Even Dominica said so.

Ballard gestured for both of them to sit, and Alvaro held out her chair. When she sat, Alvaro sat close by her, the two of them opposite Ballard. Ballard raised a hand and looked toward the bar, some sort of signal. He said to them both, “Have you eaten?”

She nodded, but Alvaro stared at him, still some male aggression there.

Now the bartender came around from the bar, bringing to their table a bottle and some glasses held on a tray. He set it down without a word, and Ballard didn’t even acknowledge him. Alvaro regarded the bottle.

Ballard said, “I know it’s your favorite. Or at least you’re their spokesman.”

Alvaro regarded the bottle of gold tequila, unscrewed the cap. He poured them each a shot but there were only two glasses. Ballard held up a finger and said, “Not for London. She’s not drinking tonight.”

That got her squirming in her seat. It was presumptive. Alvaro could protest.

But Alvaro looked to her and she nodded. She wasn’t sure, but there was something that flashed in Alvaro’s eyes that made her think he was amused by this.

“What’s the occasion?” Alvaro said, passing over the short glass of tequila to Mr. Ballard. Mr. Ballard held the rim of the glass in the tips of his fingers and rolled it in contracted circles. He lounged in his chair. He wore a suit jacket in steel, a pale blue linen shirt open at the neck showing off his tanned collar. No watch, just leather bracelets. He looked like a gringo you would see in an old movie who’d been doing shady business in South America a long while.

Ballard said to Alvaro, “I think you can lose the tie. We can be more casual here.”

Alvaro said, “London told me there might be a dress code.”

Ballard smirked, looked aside to the group of sexual circus performers standing at the bar. Then he and Alvaro both chuckled, lifted their glasses and touched them together. London watched them both drink then set down empty glasses.

Alvaro said, “No one tells London what to do.” Then to her: “You’re not having a drink?” And there was a glimmer in his eye. Not anger. Once again: enlivened.

Ballard said, “I think it’s best in these situations if the subject isn’t dampened by spirits.”

She nodded again, hating that she liked this. But now with these two gorgeous and powerful men staring at her, she felt small and ineffective. London Perry, all her grievances and responsibilities taken away from her. Just a girl the subject of two men. But still, there was a nature she couldn’t deny. A certain defiance. Dominica had called her a crusader, and Dominica wasn’t far off. She said, “I wanted to come tonight. I wanted to come after what happened.”

Mr. Ballard eyed her, some mirth in his eyes, but his expression gone serious.

Yes, she could ruin this all with the snap of her fingers. With the right turn of phrase right now, she could reduce this asshole who’d spanked her to a bloodied pulp. She reached under the table and held Alvaro’s hand, making sure Ballard saw that she did it.

Alvaro said, “And what is it that happened?” He looked to Ballard and said, “London won’t tell me.”

London eyed Ballard slyly, smirked for him. The equivalent of pointing the muzzle of a gun his way.

Ballard said, “London was rude, and I taught her a lesson.”

***

London’s hand slipped from his, and she rose like she was leaving the table. He took her wrist and pulled her back. He looked to Ballard and said, “What kind of a lesson?”

“You know your fiancée well, you know the sharpness of her tongue.”

At first when Ballard said it, anger flared up, but for some reason his heart rate stayed steady. He put London’s hand back in his. She looked confident a moment ago, but now he swore her cheeks had paled.

Ballard said, “London likes to be in control, doesn’t she?”

Alvaro said, “She doesn’t like to be controlled. I don’t think she likes that.”

“London’s trying to control me right now. Trying to use you against me.”

He said, “How would she do that?”

Ballard said, “She’s defiant.” Then he put up his palms to show he was no harm, almost laughing saying, “And she’s using you to threaten me.”

London tilted her chin down and her hand went limp in his grip. He’d never seen her look more defeated. Although, he remembered watching her in a ballet in Atlanta, and at the dance’s finale she collapsed to the stage, spotlight shining on her . . . Then London, the injured bird, struggled to her knees, and when she did, she showed this same expression to the crowd. This downturned, downtrodden, childish pose. One meant to garner sympathy, to inspire protection.

An unexpected desire to laugh welled up within him. Ballard was right. He patted the back of London’s hand and she looked his way sheepishly.

Unlike the London he knew at all.

Ballard said, “And I thought she came here to learn something valuable.”

Alvaro said, “And that’s something that you teach?”

“Only to the willing,” Ballard said. “Your woman was unruly in that secret room your workers discovered. Very rude to me. I put her over my knee.”