The Fire Saga (The Club)

by Katherine Rhodes

  “I'm so sorry.” He scrambled to sit up in the bed.

  “I didn't call to take your apology, Dox. I called to check up on you. You've left a lot of messages.”

  He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect himself. “I have.” Lamest thing he could have possibly come up with.

  “Are you okay?”

  The laugh was short and ugly. “Do you want the polite answer or the real one?”

  “Not doing well at all.” Her sigh came through the phone.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Maddox, you can't do this to yourself. You have to move on. You need to get yourself right.”

  He stared straight ahead. “Can we talk? Have lunch?”

  “No. Dox, you have to figure this out without me. Seeing each other isn't going help either of us. But, I wanted to let you know that I don't hate you. We can't be together, but… I don't hate you.”

  “Claire, can't we…”

  “There's no we, Dox. I'm sorry. I'm having enough trouble with this. I mean, for fuck sake, you preach about God's Love and acceptance every Sunday and then beat my ass black and blue the next night. It's too much. You won't be able to keep this dichotomy, and I'm not interested in giving up my submissive masochism. My beliefs allow me to seek pleasure in sex, and I don't want to muck up your life with that.”

  “My life is pretty fucked up, Claire-bear.”

  She grunted on the other side of the phone. “I'm sorry, Dox. I have to go. Please try to get over this. If I see you at the Club, I won't acknowledge you. If I see you in the streets, I won't say hello.”

  The phone went dead in his ear. Maddox stared at it and took only a moment before throwing it and smashing it against the wall across the room.

  She was gone.

  There was no chance to win her back.

  Not while he was still here in the church. But the church had been his life since he was a little boy.

  He looked at the nightstand. The tequila bottle was empty.

  Chapter Six

  Claire looked at the calendar.

  Six weeks.

  Six weeks since she'd walked out of Dox's life.

  Five weeks since she'd resolved to never speak to him again.

  Four weeks since she'd last heard his voice.

  Three weeks since she told Gramma Bitsy's off for being a cunt about church.

  Two weeks since Dox's last message.

  One week since his last no-message call.

  Eighteen hours since his last text.

  Maybe he had finally started to get the hint? As long as he was Pastor Devereaux, this was never happening. She did admit to herself she'd fallen in love, but she had a life outside of being his submissive that she had to be a part of. And her being a preacher's wife, with her bend for Wicca and hoodoo?

  Not happening.

  She had thrown herself into school and avoiding Bitsy the Bitch as much as possible. She had only gone to the Club three times since…the *incident* and made sure to avoid Dox's normal haunts there. Though, curiosity did get the better of her at one point and asked if Master Maddox was in.

  Kimberly looked contrite. “I'm sorry, Claire. Did he not tell you? He's taken an extended leave. Said he had some personal issues to take care of. Master Abernathy is available…”

  Claire waved her off. “No, thank you, though. I'll just enjoy.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  She'd wandered the Club, watching, observing, drinking, and eventually leaving, deciding she wasn't ready to move on yet. She needed time.

  So school it was. But even there, she felt like an outcast. Giggly millennials who complained about everything and wanted trigger warnings posted everywhere. She just wanted to yell at them life didn't come with trigger warnings or cushions.

  When your parents died in a fiery, drunken blaze on a highway, it was time to get over a lot of shit. And she didn't have time for that crap.

  Sitting down in the student center, next to some girls she kind of recognized from her sociology class, she pulled out her book and flipped to the questions the professor had assigned. Essays for each, so Claire opened her laptop up and started a new document.

  One of the girls tapped her on the arm and startled her her. “Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. Claire, right?”

  She nodded. “You're Grady.”

  The girl nodded. “You live down by Karim, right?”

  “Twenty miles outside, actually.”

  “Damn. I was hoping you heard something…”

  “About?”

  She raised her eyebrows, happy to pass on gossip. “Well, apparently sometime on Friday, the congregation out in Greenwater found out their pastor was a sadist. Like he really enjoyed kinky sex. On Saturday, his congregation decided they would quietly ask him to leave, but the church in the next town over decided that the hedonism club he belonged to needed to be destroyed, and him with it. They beat down the door at the place on Sunday afternoon, but the security was too tight for them to really do damage. Someone, though, found the pastor at the Parsonage and they took him outside and beat the shit out of him.”

  Claire's heart plunged into her stomach. “Oh, God…”

  “I was just wondering if you'd heard anything else.”

  “I…I hadn't even heard that much…” Claire fumbled for the phone in her bag. She swiped open the face.

  Dox: They're coming to ask me to resign today, Claire-bear. I'm not going to fight. I'm going to pack my things and leave quietly.

  As she was reading the phone started ringing with a restricted number. She stared at it in horror and finally forced herself to answer.

  “H…hello?”

  “Claire. It's Tally from the Club. I need you to get to Karim Medical Center. Correction, Dox needs you at KMC. Can you?”

  Claire didn't hesitate. “I can. Give me an hour.”

  She closed the connection and threw her books into the bag. Tossing thanks at the girls next to her she took off like a bat out of hell from the student center to her car and onto the twisted, two lane hell that was the only major road between there and Karim Medical.

  Mak, the co-owner of the Club was standing just inside the main door as she ran in from the parking lot.

  Grabbing her arm, he pulled her over to the side. “One. I need you to calm down.” He was firm, but not unkind. “Two, catch your breath. Three. Do you know what happened?”

  Claire nodded. “He was jumped at the parsonage.”

  “No.” Mak shook his head. “It's worse. He was beaten, sodomized, tied to the bed and left to burn in a fire.”

  Claire was grateful he hadn't let go of her arm—she came very close to passing out. “Oh, God.”

  “Hang on, hang on. Doreen, the secretary, was there when they broke in. He hid her in a closet. As soon as they were gone, she called the cops and dragged him outside. The building went up like dry straw, but they weren't in it.”

  “Let me sit, please.” Claire nodded to the chair there. Mak held on to her while they maneuvered over. Dropping down on to the plastic covered chair, Claire covered her face with her hands. “He's alive.”

  “But not unharmed.” Mak pulled the chair over to sit in front of her. “In fact, he's badly injured. He's drifting in and out of consciousness, and Doreen was the one who finally realized he was mumbling a name. Your name, specifically. She remembered the incident in the church from a few weeks ago--”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Maddox was one of our lead Doms, he and Tally and I were always talking. He told me about you there. Not by name, but when I told Tally what he had been mumbling, she knew it had to be you.” Mak shook his head. “Tally warned him, a thousand times, he was going to get found out. I'm sorry it had to involve you.”

  “How bad is the Club?”

  “That fortress? They broke the front door, and Stevens had them pinned the next instant. Two shots in the air from him and Liam, and it was all s
olved.”

  “Grady made it sound like they had busted the place up.”

  “No. They focused on him.”

  “How bad is he?”

  Mak paused. “Do you love him?”

  “Through no fault of my own, yes.”

  “Then get him out of here. As soon as the doctors say he can go, take him away. He has nothing--no clothes, no house, no family here. He doesn't even have a job now. Take him away from here and heal him.”

  “Mak…”

  “Don't say no yet, because I know that's what you're about to say. I get that. He lied to you. He withheld the truth. But he struggled with everything he didn't tell you. Let's go see him. Then you can decide.”

  Claire nodded, and Mak helped her up from the chair. He led her past the sign-in desk without a second thought and through the maze it seemed every hospital was built around.

  The intensive care unit was an assault on the senses. Bleach and disinfectant feted urine, and flowers, brash white lights, and beeping monitors. Sliding doors that were made of glass revealed the sickest patients the medical center could handle before they were transferred to county trauma. And it wasn't easy to see all the awful conditions that rested behind the glass.

  Mak stopped before the last door. Claire recognized Liam from the club standing there in a suit, scrutinizing each and every thing that was going on around him.

  “Claire. I'm not kidding you when I tell you he's in bad condition. It was just a step below transfer, and if he worsens, he's off to County.”

  She took a deep breath. She'd been the one to identify her mother from the car wreck because Bitsy couldn't handle it. Made her granddaughter ID her own burned mother. Claire nodded. “I understand.”

  Mak took a step out of the way and let Claire see what was beyond the glass. And it speared her through her very soul.

  Maddox was on the bed, left leg in traction, right arm in an inflatable cast. His shoulder that wasn't cover by the hospital gown was brilliant purple and deep red. There were *hand prints* around his throat. His hair had been shaved on the right, and a series of stitches were just above his ear. His right eye, in fact, his cheek and his lip as well, we're covered in more deep purple bruises, and lacerations spread to the left side of his face. One nostril was packed with gauze, and there were three stitches at the corner of his mouth.

  Claire managed not to throw up. She walked to the left side of the bed and slipped her hand in his. Even his knuckles were bruised.

  “You can only see what they did to his outsides,” came a voice across the room. Claire looked up and found Doreen sitting in a chair, a tissue clenched in her fist. “They tore him apart. I'll never forget their laughter over his silence.”

  “Doreen…”

  The kindly woman shook her head. “No, child. No apologies. No explanations. They aren't needed. No one, no matter their sin, deserves any punishment beyond what God sees fit to deal us.”

  “What…what happened?”

  Doreen gave her a kindly smile. “Oh, daughter. He was crushed when you left. He couldn't find it in his heart to do more than go through the motions of leading his flock. He was lost, alone. He turned to drink at first. But when you called that one time, he seemed to rally a bit. He stopped the liquor. But he… he went to that Club, instead. The place was unseemly for a man of God, but he'd been able to balance it before. Now, though it was every night, stumbling in at the crack of dawn. There were bruises and he was tired.”

  “He came back and played submissive,” came Liam's voice from the door. “Tally played along, at first, hoping he'd get over it. But the longer it went on, the more numb he became. She took over from the other Domme to make sure he wasn't hurt. But it he was falling into subdrop and not able to climb all the way back out each time.”

  Claire stared at the unconscious man on the bed. “Maddox. A submissive.”

  “It where a lot of Doms start,” Liam explained.

  “I know. I just can't imagine…”

  “Are you a part of this club place too, Claire?” Doreen seemed put off.

  Claire nodded. “It's where we met. All the time we spent together, I had no idea he was…”

  She gave a light chuckle. “All the time I knew him, I had no idea he was…” Doreen studied her. “Do you love him?”

  “I do…did…”

  “He needs to be taken away from here. His parents are out of the country on a mission in South America. There is no one else.”

  “Can't we--”

  “There are already threats,” Mak said from the door. “They'll be handled, but he needs to be away from here.”

  Claire stared at the beaten, bruised face of the man she called Sir, Master, Maddox. His brow wrinkled, clearly pained somehow. “I have classes. I can't lose my spot in school.”

  “I'll handle everything,” Mak answered. “Your school, your enrollment, your tuition. It'll all be handled.”

  Claire paused. “Away from here.” She glanced at Mak and Liam, and then over to Doreen. “Let me make a phone call.”

  Chapter Seven

  It really was a relief to drive down the dirt rut road again. Claire felt at peace here, and this time, she knew she had time to enjoy the bayou and the misty mornings.

  This time, though, she and Mamere had a purpose.

  Glancing to her right, the tired, rumpled figure of her Sir sat in the passenger seat. His leg was in a walking cast, his arm in a sling for his shoulder. The bright purple bruising had started to fade a few days before, leaving his skin with a jaundice tinge to it. His hair had grown enough that Claire clipped all of it to the same short length. The stitches would come out in three days, at the local clinic.

  Claire smiled. Doc Raphy was as country doctor as they came, and he might be able to elicit a response from Dox. She sighed as she slipped the car into park. Dox was at least not staring straight ahead with the dead man's stare like he had been at the hospital. Now he was leaning against the window.

  She had gotten no answers from any questions she, or anyone, had posed to him in the days since he regained consciousness. He said nothing. The most she'd gotten was to find him staring at her with tears in his eyes. No objections or agreements as she explained that he was going with her to Mamere's house on the bayou. That's where he was going to convalesce and heal. He offered no resistance as they'd loaded him into her car, his only possessions the pair of thrift store jeans and discount flannel he was wearing, and the wheelchair they had loaded in the back of her car. He had been a horrible road trip companion, offering no conversation or even primal grunts. She'd stopped to use the restroom, and offered to bring him a drink or get him to the restroom, but there was nothing.

  Still, there was something going on in his head. He walked from the bed to a chair. From the chair to the wheelchair. Wheelchair to the bathroom. All the tests had shown no brain damage and no damage to his vocal cords.

  “Progressive mutism.” The very dapper psychologist pulled her glasses off as if she had just stepped out of a soap opera. “He can speak, he has spoken, but now he's choosing not to. PTSD or myriad other things can cause it. But the distance I see in his stare let's me know it's progressive mutism. We can't treat him until we break that down to at least selective mutism. He has to speak to be treated.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Keep talking to him. Just keep carrying on your conversations and include him, but don't expect an answer. He will either start to recover or head further into catatonia. We'll have to see what happens.”

  “That's it? That's your diagnosis? Wait and see what happens?”

  “The human brain is strange. Sometimes there's nothing more we can do than wait.”

  It was a bullshit answer, but Claire hadn't had time to argue. They were leaving in less than an hour, and she had things to do.

  And now, Maddox leaned against the window, staring at the bayou.

  Mamere appeared on the porch, hair wild, apron filthy, flour dotting her clothes. Sh
e had a huge grin on her face, and her African heritage shown bright in her milk chocolate skin. Her hazel eyes and high cheekbones were a gift from her half-Irish, half-Cherokee mother. Claire imagined that her grandmother was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous when she met Papa.

  There was so much beauty in this woman, and Claire was so glad she got to share her life with her.

  “Bonjour, ma cheri!” Mamere called from the doorway. “Get on in here. I got gumbo waiting for you.”

  “Do I smell frybread, mamere?” Claire couldn't mistake that scent for anything else.

  “You surely do. I know you love it. And you do that Eye-talian thing your mama taught you, scooping up the gumbo with it.” Mamere made a face that was mocking disapproval.

  Claire walked around the back of the car and pulled out the wheelchair, rolling it to Maddox's side. She opened the door and in another sign that he was there, just choosing not to interact, he didn't fall out of the car and was easily maneuvered into the chair.

  Claire grabbed the bag in the bag seat and rolled him toward the house. Everything Maddox Devereaux owned was in the bag on her shoulder: three pair of jeans, five shirts, a dozen pairs of boxers and 6 pairs of socks. He was wearing his only shoes.

  Mamere was grinning ear to ear. “My, my, cher. This one is handsome!” She clapped her granddaughter on the shoulder. “I promise you we will fix him up.”

  “I can't tell you how nice it is of you to let me bring him here, mamere. There's a mess behind us, and I didn't know what I was going to do if you said no.”

  “Sweet girl, you and anyone you know is always welcome here. Don't you forget it.” She stepped back and pulled the door open. “Now, roll the Reverend right in here, and off to the kitchen. There's gumbo, frybread, and some chicken I cooked up cause I don't know what your man there eats.”

  “He'd be a fool to turn down your cooking, no matter what.”

  * * *

  “So, the parsonage?” Mamere leaned forward on her elbows.

  “Nothing left.” Claire shook her head. “I drove by to see if there was anything salvageable and it was barely recognizable as a building. The whole thing burned so hot and so fast it collapsed into itself. I mean, Mak warned me it was bad, but that…”