Dream Chaser - SETTING

by Ashley, Kristen

  “Yeah, because you’re so hot to get off on the bullshit, you won’t grab hold of what’s good for you.”

  “A macho asshole who thinks his shit doesn’t stink and stalks me and comes on to me when he’s got another woman in his bed?”

  “We’re not exclusive.”

  Seriously?

  “Well, aren’t you proving with all of this you’re a keeper?”

  His gaze moved over my face, down my body and back up. “Christ, you want it so bad, you’re tearing yourself apart.”

  Of a sort, he was not wrong.

  I was holding myself so still, if I moved an inch, it felt like my body would shatter.

  “You’ve no idea what I want, Boone.”

  “One thing I know, whenever I spend time in your space, what I want becomes less and less you.”

  With that supremely successful comeback, he prowled out of my apartment.

  I ignored the nagging sensation that, even with that scene, the loss of his presence felt like a physical blow, something I felt from the first time we met.

  Instead of thinking on that, I looked down at the photos on the hutch.

  When I could trust myself to move, I separated them and took all they displayed in.

  I didn’t mind stripping. I’d embraced my sexuality a long time ago. Not to mention, I made buckets at Smithie’s, even if, at first, I’d done it as a means to an end for my real estate dream.

  And one thing my dad taught me, giving a shit what people thought about you was for the birds. I’d wanted his love, I’d wanted his attention, and I’d learned early wanting either of those things was straight-up stupid, because neither were worth shit.

  That said, my desired life trajectory had never included slithering oiled-up in nothing but a G-string on a reflective stage for horny assholes.

  I’d left a hundred dollars for Angelica that day, raced to her house to take care of the kids, and she was getting a facial.

  In the beginning, I got it. Brian’s descent was dramatic. Good Time Brian became Drunken Buffoon Brian so fast, it was terrifying.

  So she’d kicked his ass out.

  Portia had been two, Jethro one, Brian and Angelica had started early, moving in with each other right out of high school, whereupon Angelica got pregnant in a blink.

  So both of them were young, and she was suddenly a single mom with the man she loved, spent six years with, lived with him for four, bought a house with him, made babies with him…gone.

  So yeah.

  I got it.

  A woman lost all that, she’d need to lick her wounds.

  Five years of that at the same time fucking over someone who looked out for her and her kids?

  No.

  I heard an engine roar in the distance, and I knew it was Boone’s Charger.

  I looked to the window at the front of the house and put my hand to my throat.

  One thing I know, whenever I spend time in your space, what I want becomes less and less you.

  Well, that pretty much said it all.

  And it hurt like hell.

  But I wasn’t going to cry.

  The last time I cried was a couple of months ago. After I’d been in the midst of a firefight in the parking lot of a mall during a kidnapping (mine). But the waterworks only came because I thought a guy I knew and liked had been shot in said firefight.

  So those were kind of stressy tears, and I didn’t think they counted.

  They weren’t heartbreak tears.

  The last time I’d cried before that?

  When I was fifteen and in a frothy, tea-length gown, waiting on Mom’s couch for Dad to show to take me to some father-daughter dance he had going on with whatever club that he belonged to.

  Lions Club?

  The Masons?

  Whatever.

  He didn’t show.

  I sat on that couch all dolled up for a date with my dad, while Mom looked on, appearing openly like she’d gladly murder somebody. And I sat there until ten thirty before Mom got me out of that gown, unearthed the ice cream, and I sat in her bed, snot-nosed and bawling, but still shoving that frozen goodness in my mouth.

  That was the last and only time I cried over a man.

  So now…

  Fuck it.

  I wasn’t going to cry because Boone showed strong signs that he’d be a delicious Dom.

  I wasn’t going to cry because, even if it was vaguely fucked up, finding that shit out about Angelica was something he spent his time and resources doing what he said he was doing, looking out for me.

  I also wasn’t going to cry because Lottie had Mo, and her serenity and contentment at finding a good man to love who loved her floated like pearlescent clouds around her everywhere she went.

  And Evie had Mag, and the adoration they shared for each other sparkled like glitter anytime one was near the other.

  And I had no one.

  And I wanted someone, someone special, someone who would look out for me, someone who would partner with me to navigate life, someone who was mine.

  No, I wasn’t going to cry for any of these reasons.

  I wasn’t going to cry at all.

  So I didn’t cry.

  I gathered the pictures up, pivoted, and walked out my back door.

  Chapter Two

  Garden Party

  Ryn

  I was sitting on Angelica’s bed when she wandered out of her bathroom after her morning shower.

  “Holy shit, Ryn!” she cried, jerking the lapels of her robe closed.

  “So, is it an Aveda salon where you’re getting your facial today?” I asked conversationally. “I know you’re partial to Aveda, since I popped by there a couple of months ago to stock you up on your favorite hair-care products because I felt bad when you said you couldn’t afford them.”

  The color drained from her face.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself to the return of my money you’d already put in your wallet,” I told her.

  She took a step toward me. “Ryn, I can ex—”

  She halted when I stood up, picking up the photos I had on the bed beside me, and I spoke as I turned them her way and shuffled them, one after the other, showing her each.

  “Now, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna cancel your facial. You’re gonna go to the store and buy eggs, and bacon, and whole grain bread, and carrots, and other shit that’s good for the kids. Then, after you do the laundry, put shit away, and vacuum the freaking floors, you’re gonna dust off your résumé because, tomorrow, you’re gonna go out and look for a job.”

  “You had someone follow me?” she asked, her gaze riveted to the pictures.

  “No,” I answered. “Though someone who was concerned about me followed you. I didn’t ask for it and I didn’t know it, until he gave me these.”

  I waved the photos.

  She lifted a hand and shook it in the air. “Okay, I’ll admit, it was a crap thing to do.”

  A crap thing to do?

  Seriously?

  “I just…” she went on. “Things changed so fast, with your brother. I mean that was a big blow, for the kids, for me. I needed some time—”

  “Five years, Ang?”

  “You don’t know,” she said miserably, and with not a small hint of accusation. “I fell in love with your brother in high school. There’s been no one but him for me. I—”

  “No, I don’t know. I also don’t care. Bi-monthly massages, Angelica? Lunch with your girls? I don’t even want to think about how much cash you accepted from me, because honest to God, if I did, I’d rip your goddamn hair out. Cash I made fucking stripping.”

  She took a step back and said, “Come off it, Ryn. Smithie’s is a huge hotspot. I know you make crazy-good dough there.”

  “Yeah,” I bit out and slapped the photographs to my chest. “I do. I dance for money. I straddle creepy assholes’ laps for a fifty and a tip. How in the fuck have you twisted it in your head any of it should go to you?”

&nbs
p; “Your brother fucked me over,” she spat.

  “Is that what you call him giving you two thousand this month? Fucking you over?”

  “Ohmigod!” she yelled. “How do you even know that?”

  “Who cares!” I yelled back. “The pity party is over, Angelica. Taking your woes out on everyone around you is over. And if you don’t pull your head outta your ass, Mom sees these.” I waved the photos at her again. “And Brenda sees these,” I threatened her with her mom too.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Oh yeah.

  Brenda clearly spoiled her girl rotten.

  But Brenda was good people.

  She was also saving for retirement, a little house in a mature-persons’ development in Arizona. She even had the place picked out and was mentioning finding a job down there, selling her house here and going early, she was so sick of snow, and maybe, having a second family her daughter gave her to raise in her fifties.

  So even Brenda would balk at Angelica being a straight-up grifter.

  “Get your shit together. Get a job,” I demanded. “Pick up this house. Vacuum. Look after your children. Trust me, I know how much it sucks to have to grow up too fast to take on the role of an absent parent. Portia is facing that, times two. And one of her parents is camped out on the couch. Seriously, Ang, sort yourself out.”

  “God, you know, it’s rich, you’re a fucking stripper, and you think you can stand in my house and act like you’re better than me?” she sneered.

  “I don’t have to act, Ang. I showed up. I got your kids to school. They aren’t even mine, and I helped them pack lunches and cleaned up their breakfast dishes and took them to school while you snoozed. So yeah, I don’t have a real hard time feeling I’m better than you.”

  “I had a migraine.”

  “You’re a goddamn liar.”

  Her spine straightened and her voice was cold when she declared, “I think we’re done.”

  “You think?” I asked and made a move to get out of there.

  “Ryn,” she called.

  I stopped at the door.

  And I braced at the catty look on her face.

  “Forget seeing my kids again,” she said.

  My stomach plummeted.

  “Ang—”

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate, them hanging around an aunt who strips for a living.”

  Two could hit below the goddamned belt.

  “You know,” I said quietly, “a mystery is unraveling. Suddenly, with this new, awesome you that you’re showing me, I’m finding it not so difficult to believe my brother preferred to spend time at the bottom of a bottle.”

  “Fuck you, Ryn,” she snapped.

  “You’ve already fucked me, Angelica. Ongoing for five years. But if you don’t allow me to see those kids, knowing what they mean to me, what I mean to them, after all I’ve done for them, for you, you’ll be killing me. More, if you care, you’ll be taking something crucial from them. Think about that, if you can tear yourself away from thinking about nothing but you.”

  So, apparently, Boone wasn’t the only one who could deliver an awesome parting shot.

  Because with that, I turned and walked right out.

  * * *

  “Hey, Rinz, you okay?”

  I looked to the side, at Hattie, my friend and fellow stripper, who was sitting three makeup stations down from mine.

  Her attention on me.

  I knew why she was asking.

  One, I was not a girl who hid her mood.

  I wasn’t bitchy or impolite, I just kept to myself.

  But don’t get up in my face when I wasn’t feeling you, or my lock on those two things went out the window.

  Two, I was putting on a thick coat of red lipstick rather than taking it off.

  And Hattie noticed.

  Our shift was over at Smithie’s. Last call was done and gone, and the bouncers were clearing the place out while the girls were in our dressing room, showering or wiping down and changing in order to go home.

  I usually showered. I didn’t like getting oil all over my civvies.

  Also, I endeavored total makeup removal with hydration at the end of a shift, because I was no raving beauty, but I wasn’t tough to look at and I wanted my skin to serve me well…and for a long time.

  But I was not preparing to go home and crash.

  I was preparing to go out and get laid.

  I’d only told my closest friend and fellow stripper Pepper about some of my more interesting life pursuits. The rest of my posse, Hattie and Evie, didn’t know (I didn’t think). Though Lottie guessed, I knew, since she picked Boone for me.

  And fortunately, Pepper wasn’t there, because she was the kind of chick who got up in my face about my moods.

  Loved the woman, but that was annoying.

  Hattie was soft-spoken, often just plain quiet, and with dudes (at least ones she was attracted to), she was shy.

  Her breaking this ice was unusual.

  “I’m good,” I said, turning back to the mirror, adding another coat of ruby red and then rubbing my lips together before I finished with a smack.

  “You know, if you need to talk about anything, I’m a good listener,” Hattie said.

  I looked to her again, understood the depth of her concern was what was making her crawl out of her protective shell to take a chance and broach things with me, pushed up to my feet and walked her way.

  I then bent down to press my forehead to hers and pulled away, lying, “Honestly, I’m good. Really. Just some stuff on my mind. But it’ll sort itself out.”

  If I blackmail my niece and nephew’s mother into allowing me to spend time with them by holding those photos over her head, I did not add.

  I went back to my station, avoiding the eyes of the other gals with us, Dominique and Champagne, thankful Lottie’s set was over a while ago and she’d gone home, so she wasn’t around to interrogate me. Because she wasn’t one of those in-your-face sister friends. But she was the queen of our hive and she didn’t let shit slide for very long.

  I tossed out a fake-breezy good-bye to everyone as I took off.

  Smithie always had a bouncer waiting at the end of the hall to walk us to our cars.

  That night, it was Dorian, and I realized I was really not keeping my shit tight when, after I opened my car door, he asked, “Things smooth?”

  I looked up into his brown eyes in his handsome mocha face and lied, “Always.”

  Dorian didn’t like my answer, but he’d been at Smithie’s for a while, was actually family (he was Smithie’s nephew), so he knew not to push it.

  At least with me.

  He shut my door after I folded in, slapped his hand on my roof, and shared he wasn’t all that thrilled with me blowing off his attempt to look after me by standing in the parking lot and watching me drive away with a look on his face so broody, I could see it in my rearview mirror.

  As soon as I could when I was away from the club, I pulled over, and reached to my GPS.

  I was involved in a few BDSM groups. It wasn’t frequent, but it was regular that there were parties happening and we’d get the news of them via group texts.

  Parties as in scenes. Get-togethers of tight-knit, vetted players, where you could find a play partner and they were safe.

  I’d searched out these groups and jumped through their hoops after that Dom who was a little too into pain and did not play by the rules got done with me (or I got done with him).

  I didn’t go often, but a girl had to get off, and if she could, she had to do it the way she liked.

  Pepper knew about this arrangement and didn’t like it. She thought it was dangerous.

  She also knew about Bad Dom, and she wasn’t in the life, so this was why she thought it was dangerous.

  It wasn’t.

  At least these folks weren’t.

  That said, truth be told, I was only twenty-nine, not exactly ancient, but still, I was kinda done with the scene.

  I wan
ted a man all my own.

  And in that particular capacity, I wanted to belong to somebody who did it for me.

  Variety, I was finding, was not the spice of life.

  But I’d had a tough day and finding someone who could put me through my paces, even if he wasn’t great at it, as long as it ended in a climax…

  Well, I needed it.

  I needed to let go.

  I needed to give over.

  I needed to let someone else work it out of me.

  Tonight’s party was at Corinne’s. Small, intimate, but there would be a new sub, and two new Doms.

  Man, I hoped one of those Doms held promise, and he was into me, because I was a deft hand with my vibrator, and that baby got a lot of use, but lately, it was getting old.

  I also hoped, even though it was officially tomorrow, my shitty day would have a decent end.

  I’d only been to Corinne’s place a couple of times, so I needed to find her address in the GPS.

  She lived out in Englewood in a massive six-thousand-square-foot house. She was married, she and her hubby were swingers, they liked to watch other people going at their spouses, among other things, and even though she was a Domme (so she rode the other side of my fence), we got on and I liked her.

  We had a lot in common. And I admired the fact they were in that six-thousand-square-foot house not only because her husband owned a mortgage company that specialized in jumbo loans, but mostly because she was an attorney that specialized in kicking ass in the courtroom.

  I found her address in my GPS, scheduled the route guidance to GO, and pulled back out onto the street.

  It was late, but I hadn’t received the text the doors were closed, and with functions like these, they didn’t start getting really going until midnight or later, so I thought the party was not over.

  But when I arrived, there were only five cars in their massive drive.

  It happened that people connected and took off to do their thing elsewhere.

  Corinne had a playroom where she allowed multiple-person play, so it also happened that folks connected in her basement and, when they were done, they’d come back up to the common areas to have a drink.

  She further had a guestroom where she allowed private play, and ditto with the done and drink.