Life Outside The Elysium Ch 08

This is another chapter in Part 2 of a series that began with Life in the Elysium, which you can find here - https://www.literotica.com/series/se/494113320. I strongly suggest you read the first series before starting this one. For those who just skip to the sex scenes, there will be no issue if you pick up here, but if you want to understand and enjoy the plot more fully, please take some time to read the series, as it will make more sense.

Be aware, this series includes a variety of adult situations, including bisexuality, interracial sex, light incest, group sex and other taboo subjects that not everybody may be into. If any of these subjects bother you, there's an entire site here filled with things you may prefer more. In any event, thanks for reading!

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It was unseasonably warm this early Wednesday afternoon in Las Vegas. Two thousand four hundred miles east, in Washington, it was unseasonably cold.

Gabby, Lionel, and Diego sat in the thirteenth-floor conference room, in the heart of Sinclair Group LLP's headquarters in the Elysium Hotel. Arrayed around the table, besides the three members of the undercover team that had successfully infiltrated the Bloods, were Sinclair Chief of Security Chris Stoneman, Nyla Sinclair, Miles Sinclair, and Emily Fisher. Behind Nyla was Lucy Lawson, her assistant. Behind Emily was Jimmy Crosetti, newly promoted to the position of Emily's executive assistant.

When Nyla asked Emily why she'd chosen Jimmy, who had spent most of the last two years working the front desk as the company's receptionist, to be her executive assistant, Emily had been glib.

"He's competent. He's smart. He knows everybody and everything. And, because he's white, he's somebody I am completely uninterested in fucking."

She had a type, and it wasn't Jimmy. For Emily, having an executive assistant she didn't want to spend all day riding was critical. Her last assistant, a 67-year-old matron who had been with her for years, had retired at the start of the year.

The assembled crew sat quietly, drinking coffee. On the table in front of them was a well-used, silver MacBook Air X, with the letters "LVTR -- AL" scratched into one of the corners.

Last night had gone off perfectly. Gabby and Diego, in their capacities as Lara the Whore and Detour the Gangster had loudly and very visibly left the motel in Naked City Tuesday evening in a non-descript rental car, a white Honda that would blend in with the hundreds of thousands of similar makes that filled airport rental lots across America.

Later that night, after midnight, the pair had returned clandestinely to the dry cleaners that housed the Blood's headquarters. Picking the lock, which took Gabby all of three seconds, they absconded with Avery's stolen laptop, trashing the office, leaving an empty baggie of meth, and pissing in the corner, to make it look like a random tweeker had broken into the back, not knowing who owned the place, and used it to shoot up.

Diego expected Twitch would fly into a rage, and he felt a bit bad because he knew the Bloods would be kicking the ass of every methhead they found in retaliation for this outrage. His alibi was set -- plenty of people saw him and Gabby leave hours before the break-in. Their extraction had gone as planned.

Diego was content, flushed with happiness at the success of his mission. He looked around the table at his friends and new family. These were his people, and he had worked long and hard to make it to this table, to be in this room, with them. They accepted him, they liked him, they wanted him here. And while he had grown up with the Bloods, he had never really felt that comfortable with them. He was gay, they weren't, and some were virulently opposed to his lifestyle. Twitch had kept those guys away from him, but while they all preached brotherhood and equality, some brothers were more equal than others. Hispanic in a Black gang, gay in a straight set, he'd always been a bit of an outlier. But not here. Not at Sinclair, not in the Elysium, where every sexual orientation and kink was accepted and even lauded. Here he was valued, loved, praised, and he never had a problem finding someone to play with. It had felt good going back and being welcomed by the Bloods, but this was his home. And it felt even better coming back here than going there.

Gabby felt refreshed, more like herself than she had in weeks. She had spent a solid two hours this morning at The Fields, scrubbing off all of the temporary tattoos and makeup she'd worn the last week and looked like herself again, and completely unlike Lara the Whore. She thought she would enjoy playing an unregistered sex worker, and there were certain parts of the undercover job she'd enjoyed -- the gangbang with the Bloods being front of mind. But because of that, she'd gotten too popular, and the last few days had been rough. Still fun, but rough. It was good to be home. She was looking forward to asking Lionel out and seeing if her feelings for him were more than just stress induced intimacy. And she would be incredibly happy to rejoin Chloe, Nyla and Lucy. She'd missed her sisters in the Terrible Trio immensely. She was looking forward to sleeping in their big communal bed, on silk sheets that didn't crawl when you turned the lights off.

Nyla and Emily were running on fumes. Anybody who knew them would have seen the signs. Drawn faces, bags under the eyes, large cups of coffee that kept being refreshed by Lucy and Jimmy. They'd both been putting in monster hours for Elysium Productions, and Emily had the dual role of negotiating and putting the finishing touches on the Chesterfield Hospitality merger. They had just begun a recruiting process for a new General Counsel for the Sinclair Group, but until they found a new lawyer who was smart, good looking and willing to join their sexually charged company -- she knew it wasn't for everybody -- she was wearing three hats at the same time. Partner, General Counsel and whatever her amorphous role at Elysium Productions was. Nyla, on the other hand, had been pushing herself to the brink, working hundred-twenty-hour weeks, terrorizing the IT staff, and taking out her frustrations through furious lovemaking sessions with Lucy, Chloe, Emily, and anybody else who got in front of her when she was in a mood. It was almost over, though, and things could get back to a normal pace. Having Gabby back would be a big boost to her, and she had loved getting to see her soon-to-be little brother in DC. She laughed when she thought about how much she'd hated him when he first arrived in Vegas. Now she missed him fiercely, was reminded of him every time she came home and saw the Coco Jackson tiger painting he'd gotten her for Christmas, one of the greatest gifts she had ever received. May and his graduation couldn't come soon enough for Nyla.

Miles Sinclair sat quietly, staring into his coffee mug. He knew he should be happy, but he had a feeling of foreboding that he just couldn't shake. It was the middle of the week, effectively his weekend since the actual weekends were when he was busiest with the Vespers nightclub and overseeing entertainment for the Elysium. The last two weeks had been some of the best of his life. It was too bad he couldn't share that with anybody. The reason they had been so happy was his reunion with his teenage boyfriend Michael Romano. He knew Mikey had been back in Vegas for a while but given their fathers' animosity and their families being competitors, he had stayed away. That ended New Year's Eve, when Mikey had found him at the NARC Gala. He was shocked and then elated by the fact that Mikey still loved him, still wanted to be with him, and their furious coupling in a VIP restroom off the ballroom still left him feeling warm and fuzzy. He felt slightly guilty that he had been burying his cock deep in Mikey's willing asshole when his father and Jack had been defending the family from the ADL attackers just a few yards away, but he knew he wasn't a fighter and would have just been cowering under the table with the Governor's sister/wife. Since that day, he'd been escaping as often as he could, finding random locations around Las Vegas for quiet assignations with Mikey. While he didn't think Sol, Emily or Nyla would give a shit that he was back with Mikey, he knew that if Mikey was caught with him by anyone in the Romano household, it was a death sentence -- maybe for him, but definitely for Mikey. Vex Romano hated gays, and his rage would be fierce and swift if he had any inkling that his only son and heir was happiest when he had Miles' black dick in his ass. Miles knew what had been happening between the two of them was unsustainable. But he wanted to sustain it. He just didn't know how. And he lived in constant fear that the two of them would be discovered.

Lionel Jefferson was also on edge. His role in the undercover op had been a background one, one which he discovered he had become ill-suited to, despite having played this role so many times in the past. He had been responsible for monitoring Gabby and Diego, making sure they were safe and had everything they needed to do their jobs. The fake kidnapping that resulted in Diego's welcome home party had been one of the most stressful things he'd had to endure in years. And coming so soon after his old partner Chet Biggs' betrayal, it almost broke him. He'd been so afraid he'd be too late, afraid he'd arrive just in time to see the gang put a bullet in Gabby's head, he almost locked up. He knew he couldn't intervene, not with his arm still in a sling from the shooting at the Empire Luxe, where he'd taken a bullet for the Sinclairs. By the time he'd gotten in position to see what was happening, getting to watch Gabby's gangbang from a perch across the street, he had been as close to quitting as he'd ever been. This was too much like his old life in the FBI now -- high stress, friends always in danger, no relaxation. He knew some of the stress was just the fear of missing out. He had wanted to be in that line, watching Gabby take cock after cock close up, and getting his turn. He thought he was falling for her. She was brash, funny, loved sex, and was clearly fond of him. It had been a long time since he'd felt this way about a woman. The last time that happened ... well, it hadn't ended well. He knew Sunny was still with the Bureau, in the Washington Field Office now, but he had barely spoken to her in years. They'd met, oddly enough, on the Lena Sinclair airplane crash investigation. A fast, furious relationship that ended when the investigation ended, and in a similar way -- inconclusively. Lionel snorted to himself. He hadn't thought of Sunny in years.

Chris Stoneman was also on edge, but for a different reason. She was in over her head, and she knew it. In her two and a half decades in the Marine Corps, she had developed a reputation as a gritty, hardworking, no-nonsense asskicker. She was the kind of Marine you wanted with you in a foxhole, and she'd proven her mettle in combat time and time again. She hadn't earned a Silver Star and a Bronze Star with Combat V cooking potatoes in the mess hall. And she was used to seeing the enemy, developing a strategy to combat that enemy, implementing it, and winning. She wasn't built for the world of intrigue that she suddenly found herself in, and she was floundering around. She hadn't seen the attack at the Empire Luxe coming. She hadn't realized her job as security chief would be less about being the head security guard for a casino and more like the Director of Central Intelligence for the equivalent of a small country. She knew she was woefully behind the curve on things like cybersecurity. Physical security? She was an expert. Not a single member of the Anti-Debauchery League had made it inside the Elysium, and she'd kept everyone in the hotel safe, while they were in the hotel. But the ease with which Avery Locke had breached the security of Vespers in late December had stunned her, and the revelation that Chet Biggs, a man she had hired and knew well, was apparently a spy for the Russians had shaken her self-confidence. This wasn't the world she was used to, or for what she thought she had been hired. But she knew she had to step up and perform. She was a Marine. She was always faithful, and she would do her job to the best of her ability. She just hoped her best would be good enough.

The doors to the conference room burst open, and Solomon Sinclair, CEO of the Sinclair Group, and hero of the Shootout at the Empire Luxe, strode into the room. Sol, black as night, bald as an egg, was a pillar of strength and stability, self-confidence personified. His dark blue, double-breasted, pin-striped, custom-made business suit, his bright crimson tie and matching silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, his snowy white shirt with French cuffs and stylized Sinclair "S" cufflinks, the muted red of his cordovan leather wingtips all emanated an aura of raw power, sex appeal, and money.

That was outside. On the inside, he was a swirling, roiling, raging ball of emotion. He slept poorly. He woke up with nightmares, images of his family being gunned down in front of him while he locked up and couldn't fire the shots at the killers bearing down on him in the Empire Luxe ballroom. Or, the other variation of that dream, where he was killing tens, dozens, hundreds of red sash wearing thugs, knowing they were still coming, and he was running out of ammo and time. He would wake up screaming, Emily rushing to calm him, assure him everything was all right. The deaths of the two men he had killed wore on him heavily. The weight of the entire Sinclair Group was on his shoulders and that was an immense weight. Billions of dollars, hundreds of thousands of square feet, tens of thousands of guests, thousands of employees, hundreds of elected officials he supported, the half dozen members of his family, all counting on one person. Him. And above it all, like a giant, foul-smelling cloud of shit, was the knowledge that someone had killed his first wife, Lena, somebody had tried to kill him, his future stepson Jack, and his fiancée, Emily, and

he didn't know who they were.

He didn't care about the why -- the why to him was irrelevant. The who was everything. But he was here now, in this room, meeting with the people he trusted most in the world, hoping he was one step closer to learning the answer to the question he asked himself nightly, almost hourly.

Who? Who was after him? Who was after his family? Who had corrupted Biggs? Who was funding the ADL? Who had set Sheldon Weissman against him? Who was behind the political attacks on the Governor?

And the biggest question of them all, the one he had been grappling with for twelve years, ten weeks and three days.

Who had killed Lena Sinclair?

The laptop sitting on the table in front of him could hold the answers to many of those questions.

Did it?

"Tell me what you've found," he said, taking a seat at the head of the table.

* * *

"Jack, I'm so sorry," Maggie told me again. We were sitting in Starbucks, one of dozens that lined Wisconsin Avenue, walking distance from the Bad Boys Club and Maggie's apartment. It was quarter to eleven, and the place was still bustling. We probably looked like mother and son. Maggie had bought us steaming hot cups of coffee, and that purchase entitled us to the use of one table and two chairs for as long as we kept sipping. Outside, people were walking up and down Wisconsin, bundled up like they were about to do extended deep-sea diving. The temperature had plunged into the low twenties during the day, even worse at night.

I felt like shit. I slept like shit. Avery had held me as long as she could, and Ainsley had tried to make me feel better, but it hadn't worked. I trudged off to class, freezing, the knowledge that this might be my last week of Georgetown weighing heavy on my mind. I was between classes now, so I had hopped into a taxi -- no phone for an uber, I'll explain later -- as soon as I got out of my nine o'clock digital marketing class. I had entrepreneurship at one and then my global political economy class with Mom's ex-girlfriend, Sarah Harker at three. At some point, I would have to go back to my dorm, find the thick envelope with the death sentence for my college career inside, but that could wait. In the meantime, Dr. Margaret Callahan, the Dean of Student Conduct and a lover of mine, had called in sick and was meeting with me to discuss my impending expulsion.

"I don't understand how this happened, Maggie," I said to her, rubbing my eyes. "You told me you were going to find me not in violation. How did that suddenly change to in violation and dismissal?"

"Jack, I'm the Dean of Student Conduct. Most of the time -- honestly, every single time except this one -- it's my final call on whether someone is found in violation or not in violation. We used to use disciplinary hearings, but none of the panels would ever find anybody in violation, even in the face of overwhelming evidence, so the regs were changed a decade ago. That gave final authority for adjudication of student conduct issues to the Vice President of Student Affairs, who delegates that authority to the Dean of Student Conduct. I do the investigations, with help from my team -- one campus investigator and two work-study student assistants -- and handle all the disciplinary conferences, and I make the final call on guilt, and I determine the punishment. Fortunately, the case load is pretty light. Anything really heavy gets referred to MPD and the legal system deals with it, right?" Maggie took a sip of her coffee.

I nodded, understanding, but I didn't give a shit about any of this. "Maggie, I don't need a history of your fucking department. I want to know how this happened. Why did this VP overrule you?"

"I'm getting there, Jack. I told you this case started with some weird anonymous complaints. Those complaints weren't sent to me, they were sent to Dr. Chao, my boss," she explained.

"Dr. Chao? He's the Vice President of Student Affairs?"

"Yes, Dr. Zhihao Chao. He's been at Georgetown for two years now. Used to work at UNLV. He emigrated from Hong Kong when he was a boy, went to Yale, been a college administrator his whole life. He goes by 'Zee' and he's kind of a dick, honestly," Maggie told me, taking a sip from her coffee. "I don't know why he's in this business. He seems to dislike people, students especially."

"Did you see the complaints?"

"Yes, I told you I had them. They were weird, in stilted language, like they'd been run through an AI translator or something. I told him that because whatever you did happened off campus, it wasn't really in our jurisdiction, but he overruled me, pulled out some obscure part of the Code of Student Conduct that said off-campus authority could be extended to off-campus acts that 'have a negative impact on the University.' He said such a public admission of incest certainly made Georgetown look bad, so he directed that I bring you up on charges," she said.

This was similar to what she'd told me at the disciplinary conference itself, in more detail though.

"Okay, I know all this. What about after the conference?"

"I made my recommendation on Monday, told them you hadn't had sex with your mom, but had done other things," she started to squirm in her seat, and I knew the memory was turning her on. "I told them the Code allowed for us to find people in violation for committing 'unlawful sexual intercourse,' and lawful sexual intercourse, by the definition in Nevada law, which should have been controlling, meant penis-in-vagina. No penis-in-vagina, no sexual intercourse. So, since I determined you'd not had vaginal sex with your mom, you weren't in violation."

"That makes sense to me, and that's how I understand the law."