by L.H. Cosway
Patricia was standing in the doorway. Behind her was a cart with tea and lovely sandwiches and petit fours. And behind the cart, with two serious-looking hotel security guards on either side, was sour-faced Brona O’Shea.
I opened the door wider but stepped to block Patricia from entering. “Thank you, Patricia. I can bring the tea in. Ms. O’Shea and I would like some privacy.”
“See, Patty. I told you, you’re not needed.” This came from Brona. From the way she spoke to Patricia, I surmised the two women were more than acquainted.
Patricia’s gaze was laced with worry, and she shifted a half step forward so as to whisper, “Ms. Catrel, I am very discreet. Send security away if you must, but please reconsider. I’ve…had the distinction of acting as Ms. O’Shea’s liaison while she stayed with us in the past. I must advise you against—”
“She said leave, Patty. Now take your goons away, but leave the fancy tea. I’m parched.” Brona said this as she elbowed her way past the guards and to the suite entrance. She gave me a pinched look as she brushed past, lifting her chin in the air like I was beneath her notice. I did see that she had a manila envelope tucked under one arm. It was bulky, and I guessed it contained something more than papers.
I allowed her to enter and turned a calm smile to Patricia. “All will be well. I’ll call when we’re done with the tea service. Thank you.”
Patricia looked like she wanted to protest again but instead handed the tea cart over to me and then closed the door. I wheeled it into the sitting area.
But before I was quite finished relocating the tea, Brona said, “I like my tea with lemon, milk, and sugar.”
“How nice for you.”
Brona whipped her head toward where my laptop sat on the desk and the sound of Joan’s voice, laden with sarcasm and disdain. Brona turned her attention to me, then the laptop, and then to me. Her big blue eyes gave the impression they might pop from her head.
“What…what’s this? Are you recording me?”
“No,” I said softly.
“Maybe,” Joan teased at the same time. “Ms. O’Shea, allow me to introduce myself. I am Joan Davidson from Davidson and Croft, the firm responsible for Mr. Fitzpatrick’s public image and general well-being.”
Brona stepped closer to the desk and opened her mouth to speak, but Joan cut her off.
“No need for chitchat. Here is how we’re going to do this: you are going to tell me what you want, and I am going to do everything in my power to give it to you, assuming it’s within reason and assuming that whatever you’ve brought in that envelope is worth the price. Now, what do you want?”
“I don’t—I mean—I want—”
“Please, dear. Hurry up. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, and I won’t be made late.”
Brona lifted her chin, her eyes flashing fire. “Fine. I want money, a million euros—no! I want five million euros. And I want a recording contract with one of the big labels.”
Joan gave her a sideways look. “Ooookay—”
“And I want to record a song with Beyoncé.”
Joan smiled then suppressed it, clearing her throat. “Sure. That’s all very doable. Now, what am I buying?”
Brona curled her lip, gave me a smug, hateful glare, pulled the envelope from under her arm, and began to spread the contents on the nearest table. “It’s photos, see? And a tape of Ronan…and me…having sex.”
My stomach twisted uncomfortably as Brona used her pregnant pauses to show Joan and me several eight-by-ten photos and then a mini-DV tape.
It wasn’t precisely jealousy that I was feeling, more like an echo of jealousy that Ronan had ever been with someone else. It was irrational and silly. And yet it made some fierce, shadowy part of me roar with outrage. I wanted to burn the tape. I wanted to slash the photos. I wanted to claw her eyes out.
Instead, I gritted my teeth and returned my attention to Joan.
“Come closer to the monitor. I need to see the pictures.”
Brona did so happily, showing each of the pictures to Joan one at a time and pausing significantly between each.
Then I heard Joan say, “Meh.”
“‘Meh’? What do you mean, ‘meh’?” Brona huffed.
“I mean meh. So what? Who cares?”
I saw Brona’s back stiffen as she straightened with surprise. “He’s got a spreader bar on me! I’m gagged and tied up, and there’s a collar and leash, and—”
“Yes. My eyes work quite well. I can see all that. I just don’t see why these pictures would be worth five million euros to anyone, least of all Mr. Fitzpatrick. I assume the tape is more of the same?”
I tried to school my expression, but my heart was thundering in my chest. As nonchalantly as possible, I crossed to the couch and sat on its arm. A spreader bar? A leash? What the hell? Is that what he likes?
“But—but…uh….” Brona stuttered.
Joan’s voice lifted. “The fact of the matter, my dear, is that a sex tape and dirty photos like those will only help Mr. Fitzpatrick’s sex appeal and our overall campaign. You see, he’s in the dominant position. He’s holding your leash, not the other way around. Meanwhile, they’ll make you look weak and pathetic. They’ll kill any aspirations you might have of becoming a pop princess because parents don’t want their little girls to grow up to be submissives in dog collars. You see, you can sell those photos and that tape to some filthy tabloid, and they’ll fetch you about five hundred thousand euros; but that would be the end of your singing career, wouldn’t it?”
Brona turned slightly away, giving me her profile. I saw that her face had drained of color and her hands were balled into fists.
Joan tsked. “Poor dear. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. How about I give you two hundred thousand euros, and you give us the photos and the tape? But really, that’s my only offer.”
Brona’s bottom lip quivered, so she flattened her mouth into a stiff line. “What assurances do I have that you won’t just release it?”
“We have our plan. It’s been working quite well so far. I see no need to throw a sex tape into the mix. So, you have my word that we won’t make it public for…oh, let’s say two years. Tick tock, tick tock. I’ve got that meeting, and I really must dash.”
“Fine!” Brona shrieked, turning back to Joan and using the back of her hand to wipe away two tears. “Fine. When do I get my money?”
“Are there any other copies?”
“No. It’s all here. I’ve got media arseholes breaking into my apartment all the time looking for shite. They’ve taken my computer twice. So I kept this in a security deposit box. There are no other copies.”
“Well, good. Just leave those with Ms. Catrel, and she’ll have the money transferred into your account.”
“Today?”
“Actually, she can do it right now. Write your account number down, and have some tea. You’ll have the money in less than twenty minutes.”
Brona was losing steam; her shoulders slumped. Her gaze flickered to mine, and I saw her eyes were rimmed red with unhappiness and exhaustion. I almost felt sorry for her.
“Fine.” She pushed the envelope and pictures away from her, sending several photos to the floor.
“Good. Well!” Joan clapped her hands together, her smile very shark-like as she added, “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. O’Shea, but I really must be going.”
And without a goodbye or another word, Joan clicked off.
***
Brona didn’t stay more than a half hour, just long enough to confirm that the money had been transferred. Nor did we talk…at first. After I placed the call for the bank transfer, I poured myself tea. She sat quietly on the desk chair, holding her face in her hands, and not looking at me.
All her earlier pomp and venom was gone. She looked tired.
This was not the first time I’d had to pay someone off on short notice. The Starlet—Dara—had assaulted a woman and her children at a florist just two blocks from my apartment. I had to run down to t
he scene and negotiate a payout before the woman took the story to the press.
But this felt very different.
I hadn’t yet studied the photos. I’d only overheard the conversation between Joan and Brona. In my mind, I was imagining the worst-case scenario—Ronan hitting Brona with a whip or chain or riding crop while he held her down, her legs spread by a spreader bar, her mouth gagged so she couldn’t scream, a tight collar around her neck.
I shivered, and my stomach churned. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want someone hitting me and getting off on it. I might love Ronan, but I wouldn’t love that. I’d narrowly escaped abuse my entire life; there was no way I would succumb to it willingly now that I was an adult.
Frustrated, I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, tried to sit very still.
I was psyching myself out.
I needed to look at those pictures, but I couldn’t, not yet. Not while Brona was in the room.
“I’m not stupid, you know.”
Her voice was watery but firm, like she was trying valiantly not to cry. I opened my eyes and gave her my attention, keeping my face passive, patient.
“I’m not stupid. I had a plan.” She was sitting upright in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest. She was inspecting me as though trying to determine what my plan might be.
“A plan?”
“Yeah, and it was good; it was working. But Ronan, he’s just so fucking stubborn. I finally, finally figured out a way to get that ring on my finger and that fucker, he wouldn’t set a date. He kept putting me off.”
“He asked you to marry him and then wouldn’t set a date?”
“Nah. I just bought one and started wearing it, let the press make up the rest. And it worked. Except…it didn’t. Because he flat out refused. Said he’d always take care of me but that we weren’t getting married. He gave me an allowance, like I was a child, like I was his responsibility or something. Fuck that. I was good enough to tie up, but I wasn’t good enough to have my name on his bank account.”
I considered her for a moment. Her frustration was a tangible thing, giving her an aura of electric instability. I decided silence was probably my best recourse.
But she continued unprompted, “So what was I supposed to do? Huh? That money is as much mine as it is his; I earned it! I supported him through everything, let him use me for his sick fantasies, put up with his bitch mother and annoying sister.”
“You never loved him,” I said, more to myself than to her. Despite my decision to stay quiet, the words slipped out, my heart hurting a little on Ronan’s behalf.
“What? Love him? Love Ronan? He doesn’t want love. He wants a fuck toy. He’s messed up. All he wants, all he’s ever wanted, is just someone to play with, to control, boss around. He said he wanted to take care of me, but what he wanted was to control me. Of course I didn’t love him.”
My phone chose that moment to chime. I held her gaze for a beat, her words distressing me for so many reasons. I didn’t even know where to start. So I turned my attention to the screen.
“You can check your bank balance. The funds have been transferred.” I was impressed with how composed I sounded.
She stood abruptly, pulled a glittery pink thing from her glittery pink purse and began tapping away at the screen. She also continued speaking—mumbling to herself, really—though I wished she wouldn’t.
“You know this already. I don’t have to tell you how sick he is, how he won’t touch you unless you can’t touch him. But maybe you like it, maybe you’re just as messed up as he is….”
Mercifully, she was finally quiet. I saw the exact moment she read her bank balance because her eyes brightened. She sniffed, wiped her hand across her nose, and then actually smiled.
“Well, screw all of you. I’m about to be a star, and you can all go to hell.”
Without even a backward glance, she strolled to the door and left, slamming it on her way out.
I waited maybe three seconds then bolted for the pictures, sending a few skidding toward the wall in my haste. I forced myself to calm down, again gritting my teeth, and then flipped the first one toward me. Every muscle in my body was tense as I consumed the image.
Then I frowned at it, confused, because for all of Brona’s ranting about how sick Ronan was, I didn’t see anything all that objectionable. If this was her Hail Mary pass, if this was what she’d been threatening Ronan with and ranting about for months, then it won the award for most anticlimactic blackmail moment in the history of the world.
Yes, she had a collar on, but it looked like one of those fashion collars. There was a leash or a strap attached to it, but Ronan held it almost absentmindedly around his wrist. It wasn’t tight. She wasn’t being choked.
She was bent over the arm of a chair, wearing a black leather bustier with feathers, and her hands were tied with what looked like the same material as the leash, likely a leather strap, and her legs were cuffed to a spreader bar, holding them open. She wore nothing else. Ronan was behind her. His eyes were closed, his hands were on her hips, and he was taking her from behind.
I checked the rest of photos, and they were basically time-elapsed images of the same thing. I then searched the photos for other things like whips or implements of pain. I found none. I noted in one of the pictures you could see clearly that Brona had a scarf or silk tie over her mouth, but it looked loose. She’d hardly been gagged.
Feeling both relieved and oddly excited, I was struck by the anomalous irony of the situation. I was looking at photos of Ronan having sex with another woman, and rather than jealousy I was picturing myself in her position, with my legs held apart and my hands bound as Ronan used my body for pleasure.
“I saw Brona on my way out.”
I stiffened, straightened, sucked in a sharp breath, and my eyes flew to the door.
Ronan stood just at the entrance, his eyes wary but intent as they searched my face then dropped to the pictures in my hands. He stepped all the way in and shut the door with a soft click.
“She said you were sick, just like me.” His words were teasing, though they carried an edge of something that sounded a lot like hope. He stalked toward me, looking painfully delicious in a charcoal grey suit.
I gathered a deep breath then let the pictures fall to the desk, arranging the images so he could see them as he approached.
“Joan convinced her to sell them plus a tape of the two of you.”
He nodded absentmindedly, glancing at the pictures. “Have you watched the tape?”
“No. I don’t have a mini-DV player.”
He turned his gaze to mine, ensnared it. He looked cautious; his stare was probing. “But you would have? If you had a player for it?”
I met his stare and gave him honesty. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. The pictures paint a pretty clear picture on their own. Ronan, do you think…?” I paused, trying to figure out how to ask my next question. At length I blurted, “Do you think there is anything else? Do you think Brona might blackmail you with something else? Or is this it?”
“This is it.” He indicated the photos with a tilt of his head. “As far as I know, this is the worst of it.”
“The worst of it….” I echoed, scanning the pictures.
“And what do you think? Of the pictures.”
“I think….” I swallowed with effort, tilted my chin up to fight my instinctive urge to look away. “I think I don’t like seeing pictures of you with someone else.”
The corner of his mouth curved upward, and he took the top picture and turned it face down. “Don’t look at the pictures then.”
I pressed on before I lost my nerve. “I also think that we should maybe talk about how you—I mean—what it is that you….” I licked my lips nervously. Again, I didn’t know how to ask the question.
Just how kinky was Ronan?
Just how kinky was I?
“Go on,” he said, the beginnings of a smile now melting some of his caution, his gaze turning warm an
d curious. He reached for my hand and then began pulling me while he walked backward toward the bedroom.
“What I mean is, do you like the collar? Do you want to…leash me, too?” My voice broke on the last word, making me cringe. I wasn’t good at communicating about sex because I’d never done it. Everything I’d done prior to being with Ronan was vanilla to the extreme and hadn’t required any discussion.
He shook his head as we crossed over the threshold into the bedroom. The curtains were open, and sunlight served as the only light source.
“No. The collar was Brona’s idea, as was the leash, and we used them only once. I think now, now that I’ve seen the pictures, she must’ve done it only for the sake of the camera.”
“And the spreader bar?”
“Oh, now I’d like you in that very, very much. And maybe later, once you’ve grown used to the bar, we could use a sling.” His gaze darkened as he led me to the bed. Ronan guided me to a sitting position at the edge of it, but instead of sitting next to me, he backed away until he was standing at the wall, next to the dresser, putting at least five feet of distance between us.
“So….” I stared at him, feeling dichotomously aroused and worried by the idea of a spreader bar or a sex sling. What we’d done so far, what we’d been doing with restraints and ice cubes, that felt entirely normal to me—frisky but well within the confines of normal.
Ronan was the first guy who’d ever wanted to tie me up during sex. Even though we hadn’t actually discussed it beforehand—or after—it felt… right. It was good.
But toys? A collar and leash? Leather and feathers? Full-on kink?
His left eyebrow lifted, very slowly, as he watched me struggle for words, his lips twisting a bit to the side.
Finally he prompted, “Annie, what do you think we’ve been doing so far?”
“I guess—I guess I thought we were—” I sighed, blinking at a spot over his shoulder. “I thought you just liked things to be intense during…and I like it, too. But I wouldn’t call tying me up or blindfolding me BDSM.”
“It is and it isn’t. What we’ve been doing is what I like—restraint, dominance, and submission. I’m not keen on sadomasochism. I don’t get off on hurting people, but I do like to be in control.”