PART TWO: NETHERLUST
Peck changed outfits four times before settling on black jeans that actually fit (not the stretched-out ones he wore to rehearsal), a white button-down he’d bought for his cousin’s wedding two years ago, and the one good jacket he owned—charcoal, from J.Crew, purchased on sale. In the mirror of his shared Bushwick apartment, with his roommate’s unwashed dishes visible in the background, he looked fine. Appropriate.
By 8:55pm, he was standing on the sidewalk outside his building, watching for headlights, wondering if this was an elaborate prank. If Bash would actually send a car. If any of this was real.
The Audi appeared at exactly 9:00pm—matte black, sleek, the kind of car Peck had only ever seen in movies or idling outside SoHo hotels. The driver got out, older man in a neat suit, and opened the back door without fanfare.
“Mr. Garrett?”
“That’s—yeah. That’s me.”
“Mr. Lazare is expecting you.”
The interior smelled like leather and something else, something faintly floral that Peck couldn’t name. The seats were heated despite the May warmth. There was a bottle of water in the cupholder, still cold, condensation beading on the glass. The partition between front and back was up, giving Peck complete privacy.
Complete silence.
No conversation to distract him. No Bash to explain what was happening. Just Peck alone with his thoughts as the car glided through Brooklyn, over the bridge, into Manhattan. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. His reflection looked ghostly, uncertain.
What was he doing? Going to some exclusive club with his teacher. About to—what? Have sex? Explore? He didn’t even know what Bash expected, what the night would entail. Just that he’d said yes, and now a car that probably cost more than Peck’s college education was delivering him to a place called Netherlust like he was something valuable being transported.
His phone sat silent in his pocket. He could text his roommate, tell someone where he was going. But what would he even say? Hey, our ballet instructor invited me to a sex club, I’m in a fancy car, send help if I don’t come back?
The car turned onto a tree-lined street that looked too quiet, too elegant for Manhattan. Stopped in front of gates that opened automatically. A mansion appeared—actual Gilded Age stonework, gas lamps, wrought iron, the kind of building that shouldn’t exist but did, tucked between modern construction like a memory the city hadn’t erased.
“We’ve arrived, sir.”
The driver opened Peck’s door. Cool air hit his face. His legs felt uncertain as he stood, as he walked through the gates toward doors that were already opening, attended by someone in black who nodded as if Peck arriving here made perfect sense.
Inside was overwhelming.
The entrance hall stretched upward to ceilings decorated with plasterwork that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking directly at it—baroque flourishes that might have been flowers or might have been something else, something that didn’t hold still. Crystal chandeliers caught the light and scattered it in colors slightly more vivid than should be possible. The floor was black and white marble in a pattern that pulled the eye toward the curved staircase sweeping upward into shadow.
And the people.
Peck had seen faeries before—there’d been two in his cohort at Purchase, several more in gen-ed classes—but never this many in one place, and never dressed like this. Never this openly other.
A woman with skin like polished oak and flowers growing directly from her hair stood near the coat check, wearing a gown that moved like liquid. A man with small horns curving back from his temples leaned against the entrance to what looked like a bar, laughing, his hooves visible below perfectly tailored trousers. A figure with translucent wings folded elegantly against their back moved through the crowd, and people stepped aside automatically, deferentially.
There were humans too, but they wore wealth the same way the faeries wore their otherness—casually, inevitably. Women in dresses that probably cost five figures. Men in suits so perfectly fitted they had to be custom. Everyone here looked like they belonged to a world Peck had only glimpsed through screens, through windows he’d never been invited to approach.
He was going to be sick. Or run. Or both.
“First time?”
Peck turned. A young woman stood beside him—human, he thought, though her makeup was so flawless it looked digital—wearing a crisp black uniform with a small silver pin at her collar. Staff.
“Is it that obvious?” His voice came out thin.
Her smile was kind. “Only because I’ve seen that exact expression on every first-timer’s face. You’re here with a member?”
“Bash. I mean—” His mind went blank. What was Bash’s last name? Had he ever—”He’s a ballet instructor, tall, Black—”
“Mr. Lazare. Of course.” She glanced at a tablet. “He’s waiting for you in the library bar. I’ll show you.”
Relief crashed through Peck so intensely his knees felt weak. Bash was here. Bash was waiting. He wasn’t alone.
He followed her through the entrance hall, past clusters of impossibly beautiful people engaged in low conversation, through a doorway into a corridor lined with portraits whose eyes definitely tracked his movement. The woman walked with casual efficiency while Peck tried not to stare at a painting of a woman whose expression changed between glances.
The library bar was smaller than the entrance hall, more intimate. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined walls, leather furniture that looked a century old and perfectly maintained clustered around a fireplace where flames burned blue at the base. The air smelled like old paper and something sweeter, something that made Peck’s head feel slightly light.
Bash sat in a wingback chair near the fire, one leg crossed over the other, looking perfectly at ease in a black suit with subtle sheen to the fabric. When he saw Peck, his expression shifted—something that might have been relief, might have been satisfaction—and he stood in one fluid motion.
“You came.”
He sounded genuinely pleased, like there’d been real question. Like Peck telling the driver to turn around had been a possibility Bash had actually considered.
Maybe it should have been.
“I said I would.” Peck was hyperaware of his J.Crew jacket, of how everything he owned was off-the-rack, obviously cheap. “This place is—”
“A lot?”
“That’s one word for it.”
Bash nodded to the staff member, who disappeared without a word, and gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. Let me get you a drink. What do you like?”
“I don’t—” Peck sat because standing felt too exposed. The leather was soft, worn in the way that only came from decades of use. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“I’m having a Sylph Reviver, which is mostly gin and absinthe. I guarantee you won’t like it.” Bash’s smile was amused, warm. “Be honest. What do you actually drink?”
“Beer. Sometimes whiskey, if—” If someone else is buying. If Jasper ordered it and I wanted to seem like I could keep up. “Whiskey’s good.”
Bash caught the eye of a passing server—a young man with pointed ears and silver hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail—and said something too quiet for Peck to hear. The server nodded and disappeared.
“So.” Bash settled back into his chair, completely relaxed, like he did this every week. Maybe he did. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Peck said carefully, “that this is the kind of place where my entire monthly rent wouldn’t cover the cost of one drink.”
“The whiskey I ordered for you is sixty dollars a pour.”
Peck’s stomach clenched. “Bash, I can’t—”
“You’re not paying.” Bash leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Peck. Tonight, you don’t think about money. You don’t think about rent or student loans or whether you can afford to stay in New York. You’re my guest. Everything is handled. All you have to do is be present. Can you do that?”
The server reappeared with a cut crystal glass containing amber liquid. Set it on the small table beside Peck’s chair, along with a small dish of candied ginger.
Peck picked up the glass. The whiskey smelled like smoke and honey and something darker he couldn’t name. He took a sip. It was smooth enough not to burn, complex enough that he couldn’t identify all the flavors, expensive enough that he could taste the difference between this and the rail whiskey Jasper used to order.
“Good?” Bash asked.
“Terrifying,” Peck admitted. “I don’t know how to be in a place like this.”
“You’re doing fine.” Bash’s gaze was steady, assessing. “Better than fine. You walked in here looking lost, and now you’re sitting in that chair like you might actually belong. That’s adaptability. That’s dancer training—you know how to occupy a space even when you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Liar.” But Bash said it warmly. “It’s okay to be scared. New experiences are scary. That’s what makes them worth having.”
Peck took another sip of impossible whiskey and tried to let that logic settle. Around them, the library bar hummed with quiet conversation—people who belonged here, who moved through this world without questioning their right to exist in it.
“Tell me what you want, Peck.”
The question landed heavy, loaded. Peck’s hand tightened on his glass.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said.” Bash’s voice dropped lower, more intimate. “You came here because you’re curious. Because you’re tired of feeling like you’re not enough. Because maybe some part of you wants to know what it feels like to be the center of someone’s attention without having to apologize for it.” He paused. “So tell me. What do you want tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Peck said honestly. “I’ve never—I mean, I don’t really know what this place is.”
“It’s whatever you need it to be.” Bash settled back, watching him with that focused attention that made Peck feel simultaneously seen and exposed. “For some people, it’s fantasy fulfillment. For others, it’s escape. For you…” He tilted his head slightly. “What did Jasper teach you?”
The subject change caught Peck off guard. “What?”
“In three weeks. What did you learn?”
Heat crawled up Peck’s neck. “That’s—”
“I’m not asking for details.” Bash’s tone was clinical, curious. “I’m asking what you discovered about yourself. What you liked. What you didn’t. Jasper’s not subtle, and he’s not patient. So what did he show you?”
Peck wanted to deflect, to make a joke, to do anything other than admit the truth. But Bash’s attention was so focused, so genuinely interested, that deflection felt impossible.
“He showed me,” Peck said slowly, “that I don’t know how to ask for what I want. That I wait for permission. That I—” He stopped, took another drink. The whiskey made his throat warm, loosened something. “He said I was clingy. That I needed too much reassurance.”
“And was he right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” Peck stared at the fire, at flames that shouldn’t be blue. “I just wanted—I wanted to know that he wanted me there. That I wasn’t just convenient.”
“You wanted reciprocity,” Bash said quietly. “That’s not clingy. That’s basic respect.”
Something in Peck’s chest loosened.
“Tell me,” Bash continued, “when you were together—when it was good—what did that look like?”
Peck closed his eyes briefly, remembering. “Fast. Everything was fast with him. He’d text at midnight, I’d go over. We’d—” He stopped, uncertain how explicit to be.
“Go on.”
“We’d barely talk. Just—hands, mouths, everything urgent. Like we didn’t have time. Like if we slowed down it would stop being good.” Peck opened his eyes, found Bash watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “And then after, he’d fall asleep, and I’d lie there wondering if I was supposed to leave. If staying made me clingy.”
“Did you ever ask?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was afraid he’d say yes.” The admission came out quiet, ashamed. “That asking would prove I needed too much.”
Bash was silent for a moment, just watching. Then: “What did you want to ask for?”
“I don’t know. More time? Conversation? To—” Peck laughed, bitter. “God, this sounds pathetic. To know what we were. If we were anything.”
“That’s not pathetic. That’s clarity.” Bash leaned forward again, close enough that Peck could smell his cologne—something woody, expensive. “Here’s what I’m hearing. You gave Jasper exactly what he wanted—your body, your attention, no demands, no expectations. And he still made you feel like you were asking for too much by wanting basic acknowledgment.”
“Yeah,” Peck said. “That’s—yeah.”
“So tonight,” Bash said, voice dropping even lower, “I want you to practice something different. I want you to ask for what you want. And I want you to believe you’ll get it.”
Peck’s pulse kicked up. “What if I don’t know what I want?”
“Then we’ll figure it out together.” Bash’s smile was slight, promising. “That’s what this place is for. Discovery. Permission. Saying yes to things you’ve been too scared to admit you’re curious about.”
The fire crackled. Someone laughed at the bar, the sound warm and slightly too loud. Peck took another sip of sixty-dollar whiskey and tried to imagine what saying yes might look like.
“What did you like about being with Jasper?” Bash asked. “Physically, I mean.”
The heat in Peck’s face intensified. “I—”
“No shame. Just facts. What felt good?”
“He was—” Peck searched for words that didn’t sound too raw. “Confident. He knew what he was doing. I didn’t have to think, I just—responded. Followed his lead.”
“You liked being directed.”
It wasn’t a question, but Peck nodded anyway.
“What else?”
“I liked—” God, why was this so hard to say? “I liked when he was rough. Not mean, just—intense. Like he really wanted me.”
“Did you ever ask him to be rougher? To do specific things?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that felt like—like demanding something. Like being high maintenance.”
Bash’s expression shifted slightly, something that might have been frustration or sympathy. “Peck. Communicating what you want isn’t demanding. It’s giving your partner information. Jasper should have been asking you what you liked, what you wanted more of. The fact that he didn’t says everything about him and nothing about you.”
Peck stared at his whiskey, at the amber liquid catching firelight. “I guess.”
“Not ‘I guess.’ Yes.” Bash’s voice was firm now, almost stern. “You deserve to be with someone who wants to know what makes you feel good. Who asks. Who pays attention.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “That’s exactly what I do.”
The air between them felt charged again, heavy with implication. Peck’s hand was shaking slightly when he set down his glass.
“I don’t—” He stopped, tried again. “I don’t want to be on the bottom.”
The words came out rushed, defensive. Admitting something he hadn’t even said to Jasper, who’d just assumed and Peck had let him because pushing back felt like too much.
“Okay,” Bash said simply.
“But I will,” Peck continued, the admission tumbling out before he could stop it. “I know that’s probably what you expect, and I’ll do it, I just—I wanted you to know I don’t—”
“Peck.” Bash’s smile was slow, slightly wicked. “I don’t expect anything you’re not enthusiastically offering. If you don’t want to bottom, we won’t do that. Simple.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Bash leaned back, that dangerous smile still playing at his lips. “Though I have to say, ‘I don’t want to but I will’ is possibly the saddest thing I’ve heard all week. We’re going to work on your ability to say no.”
“I can say no.”
“Can you?” Bash’s eyebrow raised. “Because you just told me you’d do something you don’t want to do because you assumed I expected it. That’s not saying no. That’s preemptive capitulation.”
Peck’s face burned. “I—”
“It’s okay.” Bash’s voice gentled. “That’s learned behavior. Jasper taught you that your preferences don’t matter as much as keeping him happy. We’re going to unlearn that tonight.”
“How?”
“By me asking you questions, and you telling me the truth. And then me giving you exactly what you said you wanted.” Bash’s smile turned darker, more promising. “Nothing you don’t want. Everything you do. Think you can handle that?”
Peck’s mouth was dry. His heart was racing. Every rational instinct said this was too much, too fast, that he barely knew Bash outside of class, that going upstairs—because they were definitely about to go upstairs—was reckless.
But God, he was so tired of being careful.
“Yes,” he said. “I can handle that.”
“Good.” Bash stood, offered his hand. “Then let me show you something.”
Peck took his hand. Let Bash pull him to standing. Let himself be led toward the door at the back of the library bar, toward the stairs that would take them deeper into Netherlust, into whatever came next.
Behind them, the fire burned blue and gold. The whiskey sat abandoned, still half-full, sixty dollars’ worth of liquid courage Peck no longer needed.
Whatever he was walking into, he was walking into it with his eyes open.
That had to count for something.
