Tricked

by Claire Thompson

  She drew her mother into a hug. “I need to do this, Mom. I want to. Don’t you see? If I stay here in Wisconsin, then that bastard has won, even if he’s in jail. He’ll have succeeded in taking something from me. He’ll have turned me from an empowered, determined young woman”—she couldn’t help but grin as she used this phrase, so often repeated by Dr. Fisk when encouraging Callie to find the inner strength the psychologist was certain she possessed—“into a frightened rabbit always ducking back into her hole.”

  She let go of her mother and took a step back to look into her eyes. “I know that’s not what you want for me. And it’s definitely not what I want for myself.”

  Her mother smiled and nodded, though her eyes were bright with tears. “You truly are amazing, Callista Jean Anderson. And you’re right. I’m being selfish, wanting to hold on to you when it’s clearly time for you to leave the nest, this time for good.”

  “And it’s not like I’m going that far. Chicago’s only an hour’s flight from Milwaukee. Once I’m settled in my new place, you guys have to come out. You, too, Harry. I’ll get tickets for the theater.”

  She turned to her brother, who grinned at her as he held out his arms for a hug. “Don’t worry, Cal,” he said. “Mom’ll be fine. She’s still got me to spoil during my college breaks. You go out there and knock ‘em dead. And when you get that settlement, you can pay off all my student debt.”

  Callie laughed. “It’s a deal, baby brother. Take care of Mom and Dad, okay?”

  “Will do.” Harry sobered, adding, “Gonna miss you, big sis.”

  “We’ll see each other before you know it.” Callie blinked back her own tears. While she was eager to get on with her life at last, it would be hard, and a little scary, to leap back into the fray.

  The six-month hiatus had been both difficult and wonderful. It had been hard to have old friends and acquaintances tiptoe around her. They had been kind, horrified and intrusively curious by turns. Even people she barely knew turned their heads to stare at her in the supermarket or at the gas station, especially when Damon’s trial began in Chicago. The criminal case was covered extensively in both local and national news. Callie had flown with her dad to Chicago several times to testify during the trial. It had been harrowing and a little terrifying to take the stand with what felt like all the world now watching her.

  Buoyed by the hard work she’d done with her therapist, Callie had stood her ground, even when the defense attorney, a high-powered, high-priced lawyer Damon’s millionaire father had retained, went after her. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to get her to somehow admit her culpability in what happened, based on her interest in BDSM, which he tried to characterize as a “perversion.” Fortunately, the prosecuting attorney had shut that down pretty quickly, reminding the judge and jury that Callie was not the one on trial, and reiterating that she had done absolutely nothing wrong.

  But most of Callie’s time at home was spent healing, both physically and spiritually. She went to counseling three times a week for the first month, and then twice a week in the five months following. She did a lot of painting, a passion of hers she hadn’t really had time for since leaving home for university.

  She and her mom took long walks, connecting in a way they never had before. Callie cherished that time, which had given her a better perspective and greater appreciation of her mom as a person. On the weekends, she went hunting and fishing with her dad, or hiking with Harry when he was home from college.

  The job back in Chicago she’d never shown up for had been filled in her absence, but there were new opportunities, some even better, opening up all the time. When she finally felt ready, she’d gone for several interviews. She’d received an offer to be associate curator and archivist at a small but well-funded, prestigious art institute, and she’d leaped on the opportunity. She and her mom had found the perfect apartment nearby, close enough that she could even bike to work, weather permitting.

  It was time. Time to reclaim a life interrupted.

  When the plane was in the air, Callie opened her laptop to check her email. Before logging on, she clicked once more on the link to the newspaper article she’d read at least a dozen times before.

  Millionaire Playboy Sex Fiend Sentenced to Forty Years

  After only two days of deliberation, a jury of seven women and five men unanimously found Damon Carlisle, international playboy and one of the heirs to the Carlisle Industries fortune, guilty of all 12 charges related to the kidnapping and aggravated sexual assault of Callista Anderson, whom he held captive in a luxury villa in Peninsula Papagayo, Costa Rica for twenty-seven days.

  She skimmed past the lurid details of the trial, which were permanently imprinted on her brain, to read once more the paragraph regarding Damon’s sentencing.

  Carlisle will serve a maximum of forty years at the Illinois Department of Corrections, with the possibility of parole after twenty years served. Once released from prison, Carlisle will have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. Sources have confirmed that Ms. Anderson is considering a sizable private settlement in lieu of pursuing a civil action against Mr. Carlisle, though we have been unable to ascertain the details at this time.

  As if on cue, her email pinged, and she saw it was the attorney who had been handling the settlement negotiations with Bradley Carlisle, Damon’s father, in his ongoing effort to keep the dispute out of civil court.

  From: Randall.Smith@SmithJenkinsAttorneysatLaw.com

  To: Callista.Anderson@gmail.com

  Subject: Carlisle Settlement

  Dear Callie,

  I’m pleased to inform you that we have reached a settlement agreement that meets or exceeds our expectations in this matter. In exchange for your signing a binding non-disclosure agreement (attached herewith as Addendum A), you will receive a lump sum of five million dollars ($5,000,000.00), payable by the end of the month. I believe this is our best possible outcome, and counsel that you accept the terms.

  Please review the details of this agreement below, and get back to me at your earliest convenience with any questions or concerns.

  Sincerely,

  Randall Smith

  “Holy shit,” Callie breathed, staring at the incomprehensibly large sum on the screen.

  “Excuse me?” the young man seated beside her queried with a quizzical look. He was a good-looking guy, maybe thirty or so, with longish blond hair and friendly, intelligent hazel eyes. He wasn’t model gorgeous, but just a regular guy with a kind face and nice, broad shoulders.

  “Oh,” she said, blushing a little as she smiled. “Sorry. Just got a surprising email.”

  He smiled back, his eyes crinkling appealingly at the corners. “Good news, I hope.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, still shell-shocked at the amount of the settlement. “Very good news.”

  “Sweet,” he replied. “It’s good news for me, too, then.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Callie replied, confused.

  His smile widened. He nodded toward her laptop. “To be perfectly honest, I was looking for an excuse to strike up a conversation with such a beautiful girl without being one of those annoying plane neighbors who strikes up a conversation when all you want to do is get some work done.”

  In spite of herself, Callie laughed, charmed. “It’s okay. It’s not work.” She closed the lid of the laptop, surprised at her immediate attraction to this young man she knew absolutely nothing about. In the six months since Costa Rica, she hadn’t so much as looked at a guy. She’d been far too focused on reclaiming herself, and working past the trauma. She had told herself she was in no hurry to leap back into dating, and she remained firm in that resolve.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t talk to a guy, did it?

  “You heading home or heading away from home?” he asked now.

  “Away,” she replied. “But also to.”

  “Okay, now I’m the one who’s confused. I’m Mason, by the way. Mason Levi.” He extended his hand across the
empty middle seat.

  “Callie Anderson,” Callie replied, holding her breath in dread of his recognition of the name from all the headlines as she put her hand briefly in his.

  But his expression didn’t change. “A pleasure to meet you, Callie. Now, can you explain that sentence?”

  She grinned. “I was spending some time back home, but now I’m heading to a new job and new life in Chicago.” It occurred to her as she said this that, with five million dollars heading her way, she probably didn’t really need to work. But at the same time, she was excited to start her chosen career. Whatever money was left after the attorneys took their healthy cut, she would use to pay off her and her brother’s student debt, and maybe take her family on an all-expenses paid vacation to Europe the coming summer. She would invest and save the rest for a future she couldn’t yet quite imagine.

  “Sweet,” Mason enthused. “Same here. What’s your new job, if you don’t mind my asking?

  Callie told him, and then asked, “What about you?”

  He paused a moment, as if making a decision. “Promise you won’t judge. It’s not exactly a traditional career path.”

  “No judgement,” Callie replied. “Promise.”

  “Okay. I’m taking a position as head trainer at a private BDSM facility. I’m going to be running a program to train and educate Doms and subs in the scene with a focus on responsible, informed consent.” He ran a big hand over his face and up into his hair, looking chagrined. “Oh god. TMI, right? I’m so into the scene that I forget most folks have no clue what I’m even talking about.”

  “No, no,” Callie hurriedly assured him, intrigued. She’d talked extensively with her therapist about her continued interest in the concept of D/s, despite the experience she’d endured at Damon’s cruel hands. Happily, Dr. Fisk, while not personally into BDSM, had been extremely perceptive and surprisingly knowledgeable. She had sent Callie several links online about BDSM as a healthy, natural sexual impulse that made a lot of folks very happy. Callie understood that, as Wolf and Greta had assured her, what Damon had done had less than zero to do with a loving, consensual BDSM relationship.

  Who knew, maybe, sooner than she thought, she’d be ready to give it another chance.

  Just then, a flight attendant stopped beside them in the aisle. “Can I get you two something to drink? How about you, sir?” She nodded toward Mason, who was by the window.

  “Champagne for me,” Mason said, smiling at Callie. “Can I get one for you as well?”

  “Why not?” Callie agreed, finding his easygoing, positive spirit infectious.

  Once the flight attendant had moved away, Mason lifted his plastic champagne flute in Callie’s direction. “To new lives and new careers,” he said.

  Callie tapped her flute to his. “And new friends,” she replied with a smile.

  Did you enjoy this novel?

  Check out Taken on Amazon:

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B086X9MD8C

  Also check out more sizzling dark abduction tales available exclusively on my website: https://clairethompson.net/series/dark-obsession-series/

  Ready for something lighter? Check out my extensive catalogue of sweet BDSM romance here: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JS32ES

  To get you started, here’s a sneak peek at this BDSM Romance Bestseller

  No Safeword - Chapter 1

  It had been way too long since she’d savored the sharp sting of leather and the binding hug of soft, strong rope. Jaime’s anticipation grew as she walked along the back alley toward Asheville’s only real underground BDSM club, The Garden.

  As she approached the unmarked entrance, she took off the denim jacket she’d worn over her leather vest for the long bus ride from her apartment and shoved it into her gear bag. A thrill moved through her as she gripped the large door handle.

  Please, please, please, let me in.

  She shook her hair from her face and blew out a breath as she pushed the heavy metal door inward. The doorman, Barry, had let her slide once before. With luck, maybe he’d do it again.

  Jaime’s heart sank as she saw, not Barry, but a forty-something woman with dark, short hair framing a narrow face, her lips painted a shiny crimson, standing behind the counter that separated the entrance from the rest of the club.

  “Welcome to The Garden,” the woman said, her eyes moving over Jaime in subtle but obvious appraisal. “You here alone or with a partner?” She tilted her head slightly, looking past Jaime in case someone else was about to appear.

  “Alone.” Jaime’s nipples were already responding to the thrilling crack of leather and whoosh of cane emanating from the room beyond the entrance. She could hear the breathy cries and squeals of the lucky subs engaged in scenes at the various play stations scattered throughout the club. Though it was only ten on a Friday night, the place was already in full swing.

  “That’ll be twenty dollars, please.” The woman waved toward a framed flyer on the shiny wooden counter that outlined the cost of entry for single men, women and couples. Though single women got a discount, it was still more than Jaime could afford. Beside the price list was a stack of consent waivers that absolved management of responsibility for any mishap during play sessions. “Do we have your waiver on file?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Jaime replied. “It’s been a while since I was here. Uh, is Barry here?”

  The woman shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t know any Barry. I’ve been here going on two months now. Did he used to work the door?”

  Jaime nodded, her heart sinking as the prospect of a BDSM scene that night slipped away. She turned at the sound of the front door opening. Several people entered, dressed in leather and hoisting gear bags, clearly ready to play. They were talking and laughing as they approached the counter behind Jaime.

  Jaime fingered the two folded five-dollar bills in the back pocket of her jeans as if, by touching them, she might make them miraculously multiply. “Uh, the thing is,” she said as she turned back to the woman, “I’m a little short tonight. Is there any way I could maybe, uh, skip the cover, just this once?”

  Jaime saw the flash of sympathy in the woman’s eyes, but after a moment’s hesitation, she replied with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry, hon. I don’t have that authority.” The group behind Jaime had quieted, and she wondered if they’d heard the humiliating exchange. She turned, ready to flee, when the woman reached a hand across the counter, placing cool fingers lightly on Jaime’s forearm. Her smile was kind. “Let’s just get these folks taken care of and then I’ll see if Anthony, the owner, has time to talk to you.”

  Jaime stepped aside as the woman took the other people’s money and their signed waivers. As she watched them enter the club, Jaime felt like a kid with her face pressed up against a candy store window.

  “I’ll be right back,” the woman finally said. “You stay put, okay, hon?”

  Jaime nodded. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.” Though she was now thoroughly embarrassed, the woman had been so kind, she knew she’d have to see this through, no matter how humiliating it might be to admit her impoverished status to the owner of the club.

  It wasn’t long before the woman returned, followed by a tall man with silver hair. “Good evening,” he said in a deep, sonorous voice as he stepped through the opening. “I’m Anthony Gerace, owner of The Garden. Charlotte informs me you might like to visit the facilities before committing to a play session?”

  Though the man was easily over sixty, he remained handsome, with dark eyes in an angular, strong-featured face. He was impeccably dressed in a pale gray tailored silk shirt over broad shoulders, his legs encased in form-fitting dark gray leather pants that looked soft as butter and molded alluringly over his sizable package and muscular thighs. Sixty or not, the guy was a total hunk. “What is your name?” His voice was soft but commanding.

  “Jaime. Jaime Shepard.”

  The man extended his hand and Jaime did likewise. To her surprise, instead of shaking her hand, Anthony lifte
d it to his face and lightly brushed it with his lips. She could feel power emanating from him like a force field, and the touch of his mouth against her skin sent a shudder through her loins she couldn’t control. His dark eyes moved over her like laser beams and she had the uncanny feeling he was assessing not only her features and clothing, but the very depths of her being.

  “You are submissive.” It wasn’t a question.

  Jaime nodded, and then found herself adding, “Yes, Sir,” the title of respect a natural addition to the sentence.

  “It has been a long time—too long—since you have had the opportunity to serve, am I right?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Jaime whispered, something inside her unfurling like a flower blossom.

  Anthony stepped back, breaking the spell, at least momentarily, for which Jaime was both grateful and a little let down. “I would be delighted if you would be my guest at the club this evening,” he said.

  Jaime’s heart lifted as she glanced shyly up at the owner, wondering if he was offering to scene with her? She quickly dismissed the idea as unlikely in the extreme. Anthony Gerace didn’t strike her as the type of guy who engaged in casual play at a public club, even if he was the owner.

  “I really appreciate it. Usually I would have the cover. It’s embarrassing—”

  “Not at all.” Anthony cut her off with a wave of his hand, his smile kind beneath those dark, compelling eyes. “I well understand how hard it can be to make ones’ way in this world. I’m glad you came here tonight. It’s my privilege to host you this evening.”

  Jaime smiled. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Before you play,” Anthony continued, “I have something I would like to discuss with you, if I might have a moment of your time.” As he spoke, he let his eyes move once over her face and body as if she already belonged to him. She nodded, unable to help herself, the thought of refusing an impossibility.