Rebecca's Lost Journals: Volumes 2-5

by Lisa Renee Jones

  It was enough for the moment.

  And then the nightmare came . . .

  I was floating in the icy bay facedown again, alone. So cold and so alone. Everything went black and icy and then black again . . . and then I was above my body, watching it float.

  In a heavy gasp for air, I sat up, shaking from the impact of the dream.

  He was there, sitting up with me, his strong arms wrapping around me from behind. “Easy, baby. You’re okay. It was a bad dream.”

  I sucked in a hard-earned breath and tried to bring the room into focus, the tension in my body slowly easing. He stroked my hair, reminding me he had gentleness in him and that it had been a long time since he’d let me see it.

  “You haven’t had a nightmare in months,” he murmured.

  “They’ve come back,” I whispered and let him pull me back down so that we were on our sides facing each other. He grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and pulled it over us. I rested my head on my pillow and he did the same on the spare beside me. Had we ever lain face to face like this in bed before?

  “What time is it?” I asked, since the clock was behind me.

  “Five.”

  “No wonder I’m still tired.”

  “You’re off today. You can sleep. Tell me about the nightmare.”

  “I can’t.” How did I tell him what I didn’t understand? And I didn’t want to, anyway. The nightmares are like my journals. Sacred and for my knowledge and viewing only. “If I do I won’t get any rest.”

  He didn’t push me, like he usually does. He simply took my hand, pulled it between us, and covered it. “Then sleep,” he said again, and this time I heard the familiar command in his voice.

  I went to sleep. I suspect maybe we both thought it was because he ordered me to, but later, we both realized the truth. He’d already lost his control over me.

  The next time I woke up, sunlight pierced my sleep-heavy eyes, and the bed was empty where he’d been. I was alone, just like I had been in the water. Any distress I felt over “his” absence faded into a replay of the nightmare, the sensation of floating facedown in icy water making me shiver.

  An overwhelming urge to go to my mother’s grave washed over me. I had to go. Today. This morning. My chest tightened painfully and my guilt twisted in my gut. I hadn’t been to see my mother in a year. I just . . . I don’t like to think about her betrayal.

  “Coffee?”

  His voice startled me and I sat up, the blanket falling to my waist. He was in my doorway, shirtless, in only his boxers, and rippling with sculpted muscles. His gaze swept over my breasts and I tugged the blanket up to cover myself. That drew an arched brow from him.

  I’m sure it did. It’s not like modesty has been at the forefront our relationship. Scratch that, and correction: our agreement. But he was in my home, and what I wanted from him had changed.

  Okay, scratch that again. What I wanted hadn’t changed; I’d wanted more than a contract from the beginning. I just wasn’t willing to settle for less anymore.

  I arched a brow back at him. “You made coffee?”

  “I make coffee at my place.”

  He did, but something about his doing it at mine didn’t fit his Master image, though I can’t say why.

  He sauntered forward, muscles flexing, and he was the most delicious breakfast a girl could ask for. The mattress shifted as he joined me and offered me the cup. “I added your favorite creamer.”

  He did those things for me. Bought the creamer I liked. Stocked my favorite bubble bath. But then, Masters cared for their subs’ needs, often in a quite sexy, sensational way. For us, though, I felt more like a child and he was the parent.

  I sipped the hot beverage without taking my eyes off him. “Thank you,” I murmured, wondering about the way he was silently studying me. He was giving off a weird vibe. Uneasiness? Was he nervous? No. Surely not. Not him.

  We stared at each other and neither of us spoke, an indicator that we both knew we were at a crossroads. We frequently talked politics, art, and whatever else came to mind, but we didn’t talk about us. About what we were, or could be, or would never be—and that was what was in the air. That was the crossroads.

  “Come home,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “You mean go with you to your home.”

  “We live there together.”

  But he didn’t call it my home. “This is my home. Your home is where I stay when our contract indicates I do so.”

  “This apartment is merely a backup—”

  “No. This is my home and it’s going to stay that way.” I suddenly wanted to get away from him, but the hot coffee made a fast departure impossible. It also made covering my naked body impossible. And I wanted to be covered. “I’m going to go shower. Can you please let me have some privacy?”

  A flicker of hard steel flashed in his eyes before he took the cup from me and set it on the table. Before I could blink, he’d stalked to my side of the bed, scooped me up, and was carrying me to the bathroom. He set me down, turned on the water, and then wrapped me in his strong arms. “You want to shower, you can shower with me.”

  He didn’t give me time to think, dragging me behind the curtain. And, damn it, I was weak. I did a whole lot more than shower with him. That man had me pressed against the tile wall and his cock buried deep inside me before the water was even hot. The sex had been hot.

  An hour later, dressed in jeans and a gallery T-shirt, with tall black boots, my dark hair brushed to a shiny mass, I was determined to be stronger. I walked into the living room to find him facing away from me on the couch, watching the news. He was so determined to stay with me that he’d grabbed his suitcase from his car and changed into clean clothes. I knew he was determined to do whatever he had to do to get me back to his proverbial castle where I’d be his submissive.

  He twisted around, clearly sensing my presence.

  “I need to run out for a while,” I told him before he could speak.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, pushing to his feet to face me.

  My lips parted in surprise at how far he was taking this. “It’s nothing you’ll enjoy.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Is it important to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s important to me.”

  I didn’t take these as encouraging words to indicate he wanted more depth to our relationship. A Master made his submissive’s needs top priority—some of them, anyway, I had learned. He was simply trying to figure out where he gained control again.

  For an instant I considered telling him “no,” but the need to go to my mother’s grave was growing more insistent. If I let myself get into a confrontation with him, my time to visit her could slip away from me. “Okay.”

  His eyes lit with victory. “I’ll drive.”

  Of course he would. He hated the practical used car I’d insisted on buying myself, when he’d wanted to buy me something fancy. Besides, even if I had a fancy car, the passenger seat just wasn’t the place for a Master.

  The drive to the town of Colma on the northern end of the peninsula is a short ten miles. It’s a quaint little place with only two thousand residents, and I’d like it, if not for the fact that it has seventeen cemeteries and about five million dead people. Even though I’m not superstitious, it bothers me. There is nothing that steals your control more than death, and death loves Colma.

  “He” knew where Colma was when I told him our destination, and I was thankful that he didn’t ask questions. It fit our pattern. We don’t talk about our families, aside from the basics like who was alive and who was dead. So he knew I was visiting my mother. Or her grave. My mother was no longer anywhere I could visit her.

  He parked near the grave and I didn’t wait on him to get out of the car. I tugged my jacket around me and started walking through the cold, breezy cemetery, feeling as if there was a concrete block strapped to each of my lungs, crushing them inside my chest cavity. He fell into step with me, and rig
ht then, seeing him as my Master and protector didn’t seem all that bad.

  When I got to the tombstone, a simple white square with my mother’s name on it, I stood there, unable to stop the memories from playing in my head.

  “How could you not tell me?”

  She’d straightened in her hospital bed. “How did your knowing help anything?”

  “You thought letting me think that he simply didn’t want me was better than letting me know who and what he was?”

  “He was involved with dangerous things I didn’t want you involved in. He still is.”

  “I want his name.”

  “No. I will not die knowing he might drag you to the grave with me.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, guilt assailing me. She’d been dying, and I’d confronted her with anger. But what was I to do? She’d smoked and taken horrible care of herself. She was dying and leaving me, and still she wanted to deny me my only other family member? The bite of more memories, of her dying, of the casket, of the pain, overcame me. One after another, I relived the moments that had left me alone in this world.

  “Are you okay?”

  I blinked to realize I was on my knees and “he” was actually there with me. How had I ended up on the ground? “Yes.” I pushed to my feet and he helped me. “I’m okay. I’m done here.”

  “Is your father here, too? Do you want to visit him?”

  I’d told him I didn’t know my father, but “he” had not listened.

  That hurt. It hurt badly, reminding me how alone I am. “He’s not here,” I bit out. And apparently my Master had never been “here,” as in fully present in our relationship, either. I charged toward the car.

  Once we were on the road, I thought of how bitter my mother was about men. How much I now think my father affected everything she was and everything she became. Maybe she’s warning me from the grave that I am headed there, floating in the dark, miserable waters of my own creation. Or maybe it’s just my mind using her as a tool to warn me of the same.

  He drove us to some oceanside café, and the instant he placed the car in park, I turned to face him. “I won’t sign another contract. If you want to see me, ask me on a date.”

  He just sat there, unmoving as stone, his expression an emotionless mask, until finally, he said, “You know that isn’t how I operate.”

  My stomach clenched and I faced forward. “Yes. I know.”

  More silence. More unbearable silence. “Why don’t we go inside and talk about the contract?”

  “No. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to go home.” I cut him a look. “To my apartment. My home.”

  His eyes narrowed; his jaw clenched. He looked like he might refuse, but he put the car in gear and backed away.

  At my apartment, he walked me to my door. I turned to face him. “Thanks for . . . everything.”

  “I’m coming inside.”

  I shook my head. “I need to be alone.” And it was the truth. It was time I learned how to embrace taking care of myself again.

  “We can make the contract work.”

  I opened my door and stepped inside before facing him again. “I don’t want to make it work.”

  He grabbed me and pulled me to him, kissing me with wild, sultry passion before setting me back from him. “This isn’t over,” he said, and turned and walked away.

  I shut my door and leaned against it, hugging myself as I slid slowly to the floor. I had never wanted him to be right more than I did now.

  I didn’t want “us” to be over, and yet somehow, I found myself reaching down and sliding the delicate rose-shaped ring he’d given me from my finger. I could no longer be his unless he was truly mine. And he isn’t. I’m not sure he ever will be.

  The Master Undone: An Inside Out Novella

  While Rebecca’s Lost Journals can be read in any order, if you plan to read the rest of the Inside Out series, The Master Undone should be read after Being Me to avoid a major spoiler. The reading order would be If I Were You, Being Me, The Master Undone, Revealing Us. If you don’t plan to read the rest of the series, please read on now and enjoy!

  Lisa Renee Jones

  One

  * * *

  Another scotch and soda, Mr. Compton?”

  On any other day I’d stop at one drink—but not today. I hand the flight attendant my empty glass. “Leave out the soda this time.”

  “You got it,” the woman says, smiling brightly. “Scotch straight up, on its way.”

  Her overly cheery tone hits a raw nerve, reminding me of just how fake much of the past two years of my life has been. But then, I let it become that way. I chose to ignore things I shouldn’t have, and someone I cared deeply for paid the price.

  As if that isn’t enough, I’m rushing to see my mother through her unexpected cancer diagnosis and emergency surgery. There’s nothing fake about that. It’s as goddamn real as it gets.

  Loosening my tie, I sink down into the deep first-class seat, attempting to get comfortable despite feeling shredded. I’m hoping a little more alcohol will give me some much-needed sleep between San Francisco and New York, and maybe slow down the demolition process going on in my mind.

  Yeah. That would be good. Anything to stop my mind from running wild. I’m supposed to be able to control my thoughts. I’m a Master. A title that defines who I am and how I stay grounded. My thumb is always on the pulse of everything that happens around me—or so I thought. For the first time since college, I’m not sure if that’s true. I’m not sure it was ever true, and I don’t know where that leaves me. I don’t know who that makes me.

  “Scotch straight up.”

  Inhaling a heavy breath, I turn back to the attendant and accept the drink. “Thank you.” My gaze touches her badge and I add, “Ms. Phillips.”

  “Call me Emily,” she encourages, and her tone is far warmer as she asks, “Is there anything else I can get you?” There’s no mistaking her flirty, lingering emphasis and I study her, taking in her attractive features in a completely removed fashion. She is pretty, a brunette, which I favor, and well-endowed in all the right places, but she is not what I need. And I do need. Sex is my drug, not booze, but it’s no escape right now. Not when I don’t have control. Never without control.

  I down my scotch and hand my glass to Ms. Phillips.

  She arches a delicate brow. “Another?”

  “Not this time. I know my limits.” And I value my minimal control too damn much to give any more of it away to a bottle of scotch.

  Ms. Phillips’s lips curve seductively. “I bet you do,” she purrs. “I’ll be around if you need me.” She walks away.

  Turning back to the window, I assure myself that I do know my limits. What got me in trouble was forgetting my rules, getting too close to my sub when I knew she wanted more than I had to offer. Silently, I curse. I can’t bring myself to think of the woman I’ve lost as just that—just a sub—but I struggle with the emotions her name stirs inside me. And I have to stop struggling. I have to get control of myself.

  Rebecca. There it is. Her name. And with it, her eternal absence that I can never mend. The news of what became of her is still too raw, only forty-eight hours old. I’m struggling to deal with how my mistake led her into the path of another jealous woman with a horrific outcome. This is twice in my life I’ve let someone get close to me, only to see that person hurt. I’ll never let that happen again.

  Never.

  Once my flight lands in New York, I’m anxious to get to the hospital. I quickly make my way to the baggage claim and locate my carousel. With some fast footwork I’m at the front of the crowd and I’ve just snatched my single piece of luggage, besides the one hung over my shoulder, when I hear, “Mr. Compton?”

  I turn to find a pretty blonde standing before me, her long, silky hair draping the shoulders of her pale pink, primly cut suit jacket. I arch a brow at her. “And you would be?”

  “You are the Mark Compton, correct?”

  “I’m Mark Compton,” I
confirm, wondering where this is headed.

  “I thought so. I recognize you from your picture at Riptide.” Her perfect pale cheeks flush. “Oh. Sorry. I should introduce myself.” She offers me her hand. “Crystal Smith, the new head of sales for Riptide, and thrilled to be working at one of the most prestigious auction houses in the world.”

  I don’t reach for her hand. But my need to avoid touching her isn’t control, it’s weakness—and I hate weakness. I close my hand over hers. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Smith.” My palm warms, and I don’t want to be warmed by this woman, or by any woman I haven’t chosen as a submissive.

  Her lashes lower, and I know she’s hiding her reaction to the touch. Despite myself, I am intrigued. Even more so when, almost instantly, she smoothly recovers and her lashes lift, her eyes directly meeting mine. Any sign of whatever she’d felt is gone.

  Impressed by her rapid recovery and quick control, I’m surprised by how reluctantly I release her hand. I’m rarely reluctant about anything. “Since when is it the duty of the sales manager to pick someone up at the airport?”

  Her brows dip and she gives a delicate snort. “It’s not like you’re just anyone. You’re your mother’s son.”

  I inwardly cringe at the sore spot she’s hit. I love my mother, but there’s a reason why I opened my gallery across the country. “She ordered you to pick me up.”

  Her lips curve. “Your mother’s as feisty as ever from her hospital bed.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I manage tightly. Just thinking of my mother in a hospital bed creates a dull throb in my gut. “She’s impossible to say no to, even for me.”

  “I thought for sure her pride and joy would be the one person who could.”

  Fighting a wave of something dark I’d rather not name, I struggle to maintain my normal steely composure. “My mother is the only person I can’t say no to.”

  She gives me an odd, quizzical look. “The only person?”

  “Yes, Ms. Smith. The only person.”

  She frowns. “I’m sorry,” she says, and then waves me toward the door. “My car’s parked in a fifteen-minute spot. We’d better run before I get towed.” She turns and starts walking, expecting me to follow.