Rendered (The Cass Chronicles Book 3)

by Susannah Shannon

  She sat up straighter when she heard him pulling clothes out of drawers in their bedroom. She was aware of her pulse at her wrists, at her throat… and in her pussy. He spoke, “Now, stand up.” She gulped. “Put your laptop in the drawer.” She did. “Turn and look at me.” Her senses were thrumming at high alert. She raised her eyes to his face. “Do not get your laptop out. I am leaving you your phone so that if the building should burn down you can call and let me know.” He was leaving her? All amped up and no release? What was the point of him taking over if it wasn’t so that she could scream herself ragged coming like a banshee?

  “You will get the laundry done. And put away.” He glanced at the pile of clean folded clothes careening drunkenly off of the dining room table. “Once you have started a load, you will begin in that kitchen. Do not leave it until it's finished. Put that stack of mail and papers in a laundry basket and put it up in the closet; if you start going through that, you’ll end up down a rabbit hole and I’ll come home, again, to a wrecked house and a cranky wife.” She felt her jaw clench. He might come home to an empty house and a gone fucking wife, she thought. “I’ll only be about an hour, don't waste your time. You are in enough trouble as it is.”

  And he was gone. She stood, vexed and growing more furious by the minute. So, he was in charge… So, that worked for them and made her feel cherished and guided. And hot, it made her feel unbelievably hot. But, holy hell, she had created a monster. She reached her phone; she was going to call Jen and complain about her asshole husband. Her shoe stuck in the linoleum, making a squelching noise as she lifted it up. She looked at the counters. Killian had had to clear a space to set her phone down. An iPhone, smaller than a deck of cards. Crap. She left the phone where it was and, moving briskly, gathered up the laundry. She opened the closet that housed the machines and measured the soap and tossed it in. She returned to the kitchen.

  Killian hadn't said she wasn't allowed to listen to music. She hated housework and would prefer to have some music on. Didn't seem like the time to split hairs. Best leave the phone where it was. She unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher. Once that was done, she moved fairly quickly through wiping down counters and putting things away. There were a few dishes that didn't fit in the dishwasher and she doused them with soap and stood while the sink filled with hot water and suds.

  She hated her husband. It was one thing for a sexy man to order you to undress and kneel at his feet… having him tell you you were grounded from your own laptop when you were a tax paying thirty-year old was another thing entirely. Was she a masochist? Co-dependent? Stupid? Was he a chauvinist? A misogynist? A sadist? She could rule out sadist. Except for his appalling propensity for paddling her bottom, he was physically gentle. He was much stronger than she was, and he had never lost control of himself. He was not unstable, that was sure. She would classify him as more “old-fashioned” than chauvinistic. He had supported her career, even moving with her away from his beloved Slick Trench, Alaska. He encouraged her, protected her, enjoyed her. She had never seen him treat a woman with disrespect. He had long, bantering thought provoking discussions with Jen every time they were all together. He had never seemed to belittle her even though they disagreed deeply over the issue of gun control. He clearly respected her opinions. He adored his spitfire of a mother, Hazel. Adored her openly. So he was at least better than those “Reign” assholes.

  She had moved out of the kitchen and was righting the living room, wiping end tables, clearing debris from the coffee table, rounding up remotes and putting them on a tray on the coffee table. That looked so much better. She rotated laundry through and gave the bathroom a wipe down. Dammit, the counter was littered with her crap. Her makeup, her toothbrush, the gob of hair she had cleaned out of her hairbrush and in a hurry just left loitering on the counter, a literal tumbleweed of her carelessness. Seriously? How long would it have taken to throw it away? What had distracted her really? There was no excuse. She was going to have to take charge of herself. She made the bed and noticed how pretty the light coming through the windows was. She felt her spirits lift. This place wasn't so bad. She had put the first load of laundry away when she heard Killian’s key in the door. She was astonished at the lilt in her voice. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  He let out a sigh of pleasure. “Thank you. Much better. I knew you would get this place in shape and I thought these would look nice on the table.” He handed her a sleeve of purple irises. She found a vase and filled it. She stretched out on the couch with her husband, nestling into the crook of his arm.

  “I kinda wanted to kill you earlier,” she confessed.

  “Oh back at ya, sugar cube,” he said, kissing the crown of her head. “Now listen. Clutter sucks the creativity right out of you, babe. It makes you squirrelly.” He had a point. “I am not going to let things get to that point again. And no more wasting whole days reading that crap.”

  Goddammit, this being a bossy submissive was so freaking confusing. Should she be taking umbrage? Did this mean she was somehow defective, needing to be shepherded around the adult world by her more capable husband? What did it mean that she was being ordered by her husband to not read a blog committed to the notion that women needed to be told what to do by their husbands?

  He continued, “I want you to be able to do all the amazing things you do without getting bogged down in a quagmire. You don't see it happening when you are in a creative state, but it creeps up on you. You are so amazing at what you do. The world hasn't seen anything like what you can do.” He continued, “I know that you really struggle with labelling your submissive side. I don't need the labels so much.”

  “I wonder why that is?” Cass mused. She had always assumed it was just a character flaw on her part. Killian was comfortable in his skin, and she fought against hers like a hostage tied in a sack. “I think maybe it's because you being dominant just fits you all the time. It's just who you are. And I’m not submissive all the time.”

  He feigned shock. “You? You must be joking. I think of you as meek and obedient.”

  She giggled and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Hey dommy dom master alpha wolf—bite me.”

  Umbrage could wait. She was relaxing into her own skin again. She would have preferred going over his knee, but she tried to rein herself in. He was looking out for her, for them, and she would yield to his wisdom. It would have to come from within her, he was not going to always impose it upon her. Being submissive to a spanking was a whole different ball game than allowing her life to be ordered by her husband. She glanced around at the tidy apartment. She felt her spirits lift.

  Chapter Six - The Ballad of Too Damn Many Jars

  She got to the studio at the crack of dawn. She could not, in all seriousness, remember ever getting up before her sourdough of a husband. She had kissed him warmly, quizzed him on the intricacies of taking the L and then dashed out into the rising sunshine.

  She barreled through her recipe, she had decided on a layered salad in small jars. She had developed a tiramisu parfait for some friends and had been thoroughly won over to the way of the jar. She made croutons, blanched green beans and diced heirloom tomatoes. She gathered up the ingredients she needed to demonstrate the recipe, packed a box with her jars and headed to the studio where Evan’s show taped. Traffic took her a few minutes. She was harried by the time she got there and she raced in. The show had already started. A person in headphones, Cass was reasonably certain it was a producer since a show apparently needed a hundred of them, waved her in the direction of a conveyor belt. She glanced around. She didn't see anyone, but she could figure it out. They would do their demonstration in front of the cameras and then at Evan’s cue, their dishes would roll out. Clever. Clementine was going first. It looked like her dishes were already in the chute ready to be delivered camera side. She piled her jars, they really did look delicious, as best she could. There really wasn't a lot of room.

  A young woman in an oversized flannel shirt waved to her frantically. Cass dashe
d over and was led to the makeup room. Clementine Burroughs was seated in a makeup chair. She had brought her own hair and makeup staff. They flittered around her in their pink polo shirts emblazoned with an ornate CB monogram. Cass was confused. “Umm,” she whispered to an aggrieved looking young woman who sported a network ID that bore the words “Scarlett Marley. Make up Dept.” “Should I have brought my own make up artist?”

  “No,” snapped the woman. She had the most luscious eyelashes Cass had ever seen on a human being. “That's what they pay me for.” A headphone wearing member of the CB emblazoned polo team dashed in. “The food stylists here are fucking retards. Really, Clementine, we can do better.”

  “Oh, thank God. I mean about the make up artist—I think the food stylists here rock.” Cass moved to take a seat and was stopped by an imperious, eye rolling Ms. Burroughs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sitting down.”

  “Not there you are not. You will have to find somewhere else.”

  The make up artist winced. This was her space after all, but Cass had the sense that she didn't dare confront the rude guest. “No problem,” Cass said, addressing the downtrodden Scarlett, not the Loch Ness sea bitch who was her fellow guest. She turned, laying a reassuring hand on the forearm of her new comrade. “We can go anywhere you want, I don't mind.”

  Clementine rose. “You might as well just stay here. I’m done.” She strode towards the door, every inch of her tailored and perfect. She gave a withering glare at the young women who ducked out of her way. “Good luck with these two,” she said over her shoulder with a nasty snarl.

  Killian had not yet spanked all of the cursing out of his wife. “Fuck you and fuck the glittery, under-seasoned unicorn you rode in on,” she whispered. The laughter that filled the room began as a nervous titter and then blossomed into a genuine guffaw.

  Cass was pleased with her make up, it looked good. She waited in the green room for them to call her. On the television that was mounted above the door she could watch the show as it transpired. Somewhere between the makeup chair and the front of the cameras, Clementine had undergone a radical transformation. She was now warm and friendly. Evan appeared smitten. She was making sweet corn soufflé served in a puddle of chive cream. There was something about the recipe that seemed odd to Cass. She wasn't sure what it was. Clementine was stirring pureed corn, egg yolks and flour into the beaten egg whites. She was a pro. She managed to fold her ingredients without breaking eye contact with the camera or dumping anything upon her perfectly groomed self. Cass had so much to learn. Evan flirted with his guest in a sort of puppyish way, and Clementine rewarded him with a dazzling smile.

  “We have a finished one right here.” And, on cue, the conveyor belt moved. Cass froze in horror. One elegant plate glided along. It looked perfect. She thought of the gaggle of jars she had crowded onto the belt. This would not end well. She had visions of the belt rolling forward and her jars lurching over the edge like lemmings over a cliff. She had to stop them. She left the green room at a flat out gallop. She had to get there before they started the segment. She wasn't sure what she would do; visions of the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ethel try to keep up with a candy conveyor belt rose unbidden in front of her eyes. She wouldn't exactly be able to hide twenty canning jars in her bra. She careened to the belt contraception—only to be hissed at by a headphone wearing man, “You’re up.” He hitched her microphone to her collar and shoved her towards the kitchen set. She glanced around frantically. She waved at the two young women leaning against a brick wall. When they glanced at her, she pointed at the assembly line contraption and hissed, “Too many!” Just when she thought that one of them was about to take a step towards her, Evan announced, “And here’s the cook that always keeps it interesting...”

  Ahem. She cast a final, nervous look at the opening that would shortly be spewing a tidal wave of highly breakable glass jars full of salads onto the floor. Evan was all charm. He took her hesitation for nerves and reassured her with a quick side hug. Nothing for it. She would figure this out as she went along. Never mind that that had never worked out for her in her whole entire life.

  “Tomatoes, huh,” Evan said, trying to jump start their patter.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “Nothing is better. Now, this has a few steps, but they are easy. Timing wise—we are starting with the croutons.” She held up the basket of cubed bread. “Now—I’ve got a hot pan here—I am pouring in some garlic infused olive oil. More than you think, about two-thirds of a cup, but this salad will feed a lot of people. Well, most of them anyway.” She dumped the bread in and stirred like a lunatic. “We want to distribute that oil, so don't be shy.” She then poured the fragrant now, golden cubes onto a baking sheet. “Bake at 400 degrees for ten minutes.” She gestured to a large pot of boiling water. “This is one of those pasta pans, it has an insert that makes it possible to drain things. You need your biggest pot for this. We are blanching our green beans, so a lot of water won't cool down when we add the beans—they will cook faster that way.” She poured a handful of salt in.

  “Wow, that’s a lot of salt,” Evan interjected.

  “Yes, I know. We are seasoning a few pounds of beans here, don't be shy.” She held up a sample bean—thin as a baby’s forefinger. “Aren't these gorgeous? Ah well, no reprieve even for the pretty.” She dumped them into the boiling inferno. “Now,” she turned to Evan, and in all seriousness, stated, “Two minutes. Exactly. While these blanch, let’s talk tomatoes.” Evan laughed. He liked her, she could tell. She didn't allow herself to focus on the fact that very soon any good will Evan felt for her would evaporate. “Tomatoes. I have a variety of heirloom tomatoes here. I got these from Bountiful Farms—they are at the Broadway farmers market Wednesdays and Saturdays. Give them your business.” She moved back so the cameraman could get a close up of her bowl of diced tomatoes. They ranged from deep red, tiny yellow cherry tomatoes, to almost brown and very pale green. “Don't let the color fool you—these are all ripe. Ask the vendors at your farmers market—they will steer you right. NO chill chest for these voluptuous beauties—it kills the flavor compounds. Set them out of the sun on the counter. NOT a windowsill, that will result in solar powered gazpacho.” She danced a large knife over a pile of tomato strips. “We want them diced small. SAVE the juice,” she said with a dramatic flourish. She ground on some pepper and then hoisted the colander out of the boiling water. “Hello, little Sheba’s,” she crooned to the bright green beans. She dumped them into a sink full of ice water.

  Evan raised an eyebrow. “Why are we cooking them and then icing them down?”

  “Because, ma frere, perfection isn't straightforward. We blanched them to tenderize them, but we want them to hover, right on the brink of being cooked. A sort of vegetal adolescence. So, we use ice to…” Blam! She brought the palm of her hand down unto the counter with a slap, “…stop the cooking in its tracks.” She maneuvered around Evan. Very soon she would be finished and she was going to have to dive in front of the machine. Evan looked at her quizzically and stoutly stepped around her.

  “All right, let’s assemble this.” She tossed in the beans, the tomatoes with all of their juice and the croutons. “Your hands are best for this.” She reached in and turned the salad aptly. She stepped behind Evan. “Now, this rocks because it is best after sitting a while.” He glared at her, and stepped back. “Panzanella was devised as a way to use up stale bread. Essentially we are using the oil from the croutons and the juice from the tomatoes as the dressing of this salad. This incarnation allows us to take this on a picnic easily. I’ve used ja—”

  She aggressively lunged towards the chute. “Allow me!”

  Evan was looking over the camera clearly trying to make sure that whoever was in charge knew that his guest was being a lunatic. Cass cupped her hands under the coming onslaught. A whir of machinery and one beautifully packed jar emerged, dead center on the conveyor belt.

  Cass gave a sigh of
relief. “Haha,” she faked-laughed. “I was thinking this might be like in a science fiction movie—you know, my one jar accidentally got multiplied by, oh I don't know, twenty?”

  Evan wrapped up the segment, “Say what you will, but the girl can cook and it’s never boring when my friend Cass visits us.”

  She had survived. She was gathering up her purse when Tabby texted her Go look at #she’sdelicious on Instagram.

  She did and saw a picture of the girls from the makeup room and several other young people all happily eating her jars of salad. A few of them were giving a cheerful thumbs up.

  “She’s nice as can be and she fed us all! Love her! Note that not all the dishes we saw today tasted this great.”

  She could have cried with gratitude.

  Chapter Seven - Sarah’s Smile

  She was seated at a long farm style table, light from the fake windows pooling onto its shiny surface. “Hi, Everybody, I’m Cass Harper-Nelson and welcome to Cass Cooks, here on the white gown network.” She gestured to Sarah who was sitting beside her at the table. “If you caught my show stopping appearance on Good Morning with Evan, then you might be surprised to see my lovely guest.” She paused and they played the clip. They had decided to face it head on. Sarah’s smiling face made it easier for her to plow forward. “I screwed up. I was trying to be funny, but I didn't think through that what I was saying could cause actual people pain.” Sarah accepted her apology with a gracious nod of her head.