His entire space was painted black because he found comfort in the monochromatic darkness. Roar liked to give him shit and tell him it was a pit as black as his soul.
Nasa just liked it because everything matched, and black was his favorite color. Even his D/s equipment and toys were all black.
He looked at the wide space where his St. Andrew’s cross and spanking bench sat. At the Sybian perched on a platform that was the perfect height for him to join his partner's pleasurable play.
Stone made him a custom-sized tantric couch in sexy black leather; his stocks were painted black, the shelves of toys, the metal racks where he hung his whips...
“Fuck,” he hissed, glad Dillon hadn't come down here. If the sight of a shadowy black doorway had been enough to set her off, he couldn't imagine what seeing all his dungeon furniture—especially the whips—would have done.
All of his toys and furniture were unused because he hadn't actually ever brought a woman to the basement.
He trusted no one but his brothers and their women to come down here into his inner sanctum, and looking at all this stuff, it seemed ridiculous to have it set up, even though he had no plans to ever use it on some random chick.
Decision made, he went to the pair of double doors hidden beneath the stairs and pushed them wide.
It had been a huge endeavor to make it happen, but when he'd taken on the chore of rebuilding the new compound, Nasa insisted on expanding their storage system.
Before, all his containers had been above ground. Vulnerable and easily used as cover for enemies with grenade launchers to sneak in and hide behind.
The containers had survived the fire, all his supplies inside untouched, but the attack had brought to light the liability having aboveground storage. So, he'd rented a huge-ass excavator and started digging.
Every member of Perdition now had two 40 foot containers buried beneath the concrete entry lot. One full of survival supplies Nasa had compiled specific to each member’s preferences and needs, and another empty one for the brothers to put whatever the hell they wanted in them.
He'd gotten a deal on buying the containers, so Nasa buried fifty of them beneath the compound, made extra living quarters in case of a fallout emergency, and turned a few more into an underground garage where they now parked all of their vehicles and bikes.
All that extra cost Nasa a huge chunk of the money he'd poured into the club coffers via his stock-market play, but it was worth it. With the addition of the women and children, he was glad for the extra space.
The guys all thought he was batshit crazy and humored him, even though they called him an OG Doomsday Prepper, but if they knew half the shit he knew about the fragility of the US government and the true likelihood of a complete and total shutdown?
Well, suffice it to say, when things finally did fall apart, he was prepared to ensure the survival of the entire club.
CHAPTER TEN
After two days spent in nearly complete isolation, with nothing to really do except replay the events of the last week, Dillon decided knowing more about the person who attacked her would help her feel less out of control.
Mind made up, Dillon hiked down the stairs, narrowly avoiding a pair of commandos who seemed to appear and disappear like magic.
She got as far as the hallway where the basement door was before having a minor panic attack that sent her running back to her room.
It took her another day to drum up the courage to try again, only she'd seen Ruckus and Gee come out of the ominously dark hole covered in white paint and bickering.
“You're supposed to paint the walls, dumbass!” Ruckus exclaimed in his usual overly loud voice, his carrot red hair at wild angles.
Gee followed not long after, liberally splattered with white paint. It was all over his black tee, his face was covered in white freckles, and there were white racing stripes through his short mohawk.
His jeans had hand-sized streaks from knees to thigh, splattered so thick across the top of his Chucks the red canvas was almost obliterated.
“I was in a coma, dickhead. My eye-hand coordination is still fucked up,” Gee was saying.
There was a quietness to Gee that complimented Ruckus's over the top loudness. The eye of calm to Ruckus's tornado.
“That's total horseshit!” Ruckus declared. “It's been two years, and you have no problems catching footballs, even when Raid throws them all lopsided and shit.”
“Muscle memory,” Gee countered reasonably. “I've caught ten thousand passes in my life, and painted like, six walls.”
“Says the butthole who pimps out motorcycles with the hottest paint jobs in town! How the hell can you wield an airbrush like Picasso, and not spill a drop, but can't paint up and down in straight lines with a huge-ass roller brush?”
“Quit bustin’ my balls already, will you?” Gee grumbled, neither of them noticing Dillon hid around the corner, watching their little drama unfold.
Dillon told herself something was obviously going on down there, and they were busy. Too busy for her right now, so once again, Dillon retreated.
Now, she stood with her toes only a few inches away from the huge steel door that led down into the darkness of Nasa's command center.
All the bravery she'd gathered seemed to only extend this far, and not even Elka leaning hard against her leg, steadied Dillon.
The anxiety of lifting her hand to knock made her stomach churn. She was wound so tight, she barely stopped herself from screaming when a little voice piped up from behind her.
“Whatchu doin’, Dilly?”
Clearly more aware of her surroundings than Dillon was, Elka only looked at the boy with mild interest, while Dillon struggled to swallow her
