by KD Robichaux
“That’s perfect. Thank you…” She holds out the word, and I meet her gaze once again.
“Glover. Brian. Brian Glover,” I fumble, closing my eyes briefly and shaking my head at myself.
“Thank you, Brian.” Her voice is low and flirtatious as she tilts her head to the side with another one of her gleaming smiles.
“You’re welcome, ma’a—um…”
“Clarice,” she supplies. And as I lift my brow—“Yes, like the FBI trainee.”
“I suppose people quote The Silence of the Lambs to you as much as people ask me how tall I am, huh?” I smirk.
“Touché, big guy.” She winks. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner. I’ll see ya around.” And with that, she turns with her camera aimed in another direction, snapping random photos as she maneuvers between tables and benches. The swish of her hips is so hypnotic that by the time I lose sight of her, my macaroni has hardened and my Coke has gone flat.
“So she’s five years older than you,” Doc points out, bringing me back to the present.
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve known each other for eleven years now.”
“Yep,” I reply, popping the P.
“So you knew her before I even approached you about joining my team.”
“I did. She actually helped me make the decision to accept your offer,” I confess.
He ponders this for a moment. I can practically hear the wheels spinning in his mind, putting everything together.
Nine years ago, Doc had approached me just before it was time for me to decide whether I wanted to reenlist in the army. He’d read my story in an article in Sands of Time Magazine. An article that no longer exists anywhere on the Internet. Nothing about me does.
“Clarice Lorenson. The war photographer?”
“The one and only. Well, not anymore. She’s a freelance photographer now,” I reply.
“She knows what you do for a living? Not just Imperium Security, but—”
“Everything. There are no secrets between us.” My knee starts to bounce, my nerves starting to appear.
“And she knows the type of club we run? She’s comfortable with the lifestyle?” he asks, and I can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes me.
“Who do you think introduced me to BDSM in the first place? Why do you think I didn’t even bat an eye when Seth wanted to open up the club?”
“So you have a sexual relationship with her,” he points out.
“Yes,” I state, not wanting to go into detail about the specifics of our… intimate encounters—at least not yet.
“All right then. Well. I don’t want to miss anything, so how about we treat this like any other person coming in for club membership? Our hour is just about up, but I can see you again tomorrow and then Wednesday. That should be sufficient enough,” he tells me.
“Sounds good, Doc.”
“Brian, you are aware she’ll still need to go through her own therapy sessions, right?” he prompts softly, and I grimace. “You said she’s not really open when it comes to feelings.”
There are specific rules in place to become a member of our high-end BDSM club, Club Alias. We open up applications only four times a year, because the process is so extensive. A new applicant must have a sponsor, someone who is already a member to vouch for them, who is responsible for them throughout the entire process. Then they must complete at least four hour-long sessions with Doc. He takes the time to determine whether the person is the right fit for our club. If they pass the Doc test, then they go through a probationary period, and membership costs a five-figure chunk, ensuring only the most serious of Dominants and submissives are allowed in.
Needless to say, the people who are able to afford to join Club Alias are people who want to keep their identities confidential. Well-respected doctors, lawyers, high-ranking military men and women… all wanting to peacefully enjoy their alternative lifestyle without worry of being outed in the real world.
“Doc, I think we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. I was hoping just to bring her as my personal guest. I’ve been close to Clarice for eleven damn years and have never been able to penetrate those walls she’s got around her heart. I don’t believe even you could get past that fortress,” I say low, my voice sounding depressed even to my own ears.
“And in those eleven years, she’s never come to see your home. Yet, she’s coming now,” he says with a small smile, giving me the slightest bit of hope. “I assume you’ve seen her since your days in the army. What do you think has changed?”
“So, uh, yeah… I see her quite often, actually. Nearly every mission I go on, she either meets me there or I pick her up on my way out,” I admit, hoping not to be scolded by my boss for bringing along a distraction on my jobs.
“Don’t look so worried, Bri. You always complete your missions flawlessly. Either you’re very good at not getting distracted by her company, or she’s actually a really good quiet sidekick. Either way, your ability to keep her completely secret from us is surprising.”
I run my hand through my hair, pushing it back out of my face where it had fallen over my forehead. I wanted to get it cut, but Clarice mentioned she loves the way it looks long. And whatever my girl wants…
“But we’ll touch on that on another day. It’s time for my next appointment,” Doc says, and I nod, standing up from the couch as he does the same.
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Yep, but I’ll see you tonight at the club,” he tells me, and my eyebrows lift in surprise.
“Are you actually going to leave your captive at home alone?” I tease.
“Actually, no. Astrid wants to go see a movie with Twyla and Vi. And she’s not my captive. She just hasn’t found a place to move out on her own that I approve of,” he defends, and I smirk, giving him a knowing look.
I reach out and pat his shoulder. “You’ll wear her down eventually. What woman could possibly resist a hot doctor with a beard who has locked her away in his mansion to keep her safe? And if not you, she definitely wouldn’t want to leave ole Scout dog. One look into those mismatched eyes and no woman would dare leave such a lovable, noble steed.”
“Are you sure you’re not gay?” he grumbles, and I chuckle, feeling a lot more jovial than I usually am outside of Clarice’s presence.
“Fuck you, bro. See you tonight.”
Brian
Eleven Years Ago
Khost, Afghanistan
“NO WANDERING OFF by yourself, camera girl. Stay with me, and you’ll be fine,” I hear the General say behind me as we exit our Humvee on the outskirts of the village. All that’s stretched out before us is rundown buildings, everything a depressing beige. There isn’t a stitch of color, neither in the setting nor on the people milling about. Even their clothes are a dingy off-white. Some of the walls and roofs look like they might’ve been blue at one point, but years of sunlight have bleached them into a morose gray.
“You really worried about my safety, or you just trying to make sure all my shots feature your handsome mug?” Clarice responds, clearly buttering him up to get away with her sassiness.
The bastard wouldn’t even be out here if it weren’t for her camera, wanting to appear like he includes himself on missions instead of just sending out everyone who’s a lower rank than him. But the second he heard she’s here to do a spread for her magazine was the moment he suddenly got his hooah back. He wants to act the part of the king who rides into battle along with his warriors, when really he stays safely back in his fortress, sending everyone else out to do the real work.
“All right, boys. Show me this school. I’m excited to see it,” Clarice says to our group, and we immediately fall into position. She’s made every single one of us putty in her hands with her beauty and charm. Over the past few weeks, I can only imagine the images she’s captured, because she can get even the most bullheaded and gruff soldiers to do what she asks for a shot with only her perfect smile and a glint in those mischievous eyes.
Weapons resting with a three-point sling, my rifle lays against my front for easy draw. Unlike in the movies, we don’t walk around with our guns at the ready for extended periods—too tiring on one’s arms. Plus, we don’t want to scare the civilian population. But we’ve been trained for countless grueling hours to be able to draw our weapons faster than any gunslinger in the Wild West.
Making our way swiftly but carefully through the alleys between buildings, we make our way toward the school under construction. The American government is building it for the town’s children as a show of support for the Afghani people. And of course, the general wants Clarice to capture images of it to put in her magazine. Look! See how nice we are?
When we arrive, Clarice and the general wait outside while the rest of the team secures the building. When we give the all clear, I watch her expression as she takes in all the boxes that must’ve just arrived. They weren’t here a few days ago when another group of us came to do our security check. And when she reads on the cardboard that the boxes contain children’s school desks and chairs, her face goes soft before she takes a step back and aims her camera at them. The shutter goes off just as we’re ordered to secure the perimeter while they wander the inside, letting her take as many photos as she sees fit.
Even though every cell in my body wants to stay close to Clarice to keep her safe—something that’s been happening a lot since that day in the chow hall—I have to follow the command. I go in the opposite direction than everyone else, knowing each of my fellow soldiers will break off into their own route in and between the shitty little buildings. Everything on this side of the village is abandoned and falling apart. That’s why it was the perfect place to build the school. It would’ve been too dangerous for the Americans to erect it more toward the center of town, without a fast escape route that the outskirts provide.
As I turn a corner, stepping quietly into another alleyway, I hear voices inside one of the shacks. Normally, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. This is a peaceful village, the people always coming out to say hello and gawk at the camo-covered soldiers. It’s another of the reasons they chose this place to build them a school. No, what makes me pause just outside a window of the decrepit structure is the fact the voice I’m hearing has a distinct American accent, as if the person it belongs to lives in the south, maybe Georgia.
The window is high above the ground, but thanks to my height, I easily glance inside. For as big as I am, I’ve been trained to be quiet as a mouse and can go undetected, which is a good thing, since the people inside are only a few feet away from me.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you, pal,” the American says, his jeans and button-up looking completely out of place, and I see him shake the hand of an Afghani man. Spread out behind them are crates upon crates, each open to show rifles inside.
My first thought is to barge in and ask what the fuck is going on. But two and a half years in the army tell me to turn around and find my commanding officer. Right before I do that though, the American man pivots, looking directly at the window I’m peeking through, and my eyes meet his, the left one of which has a small tattoo of a bow and arrow, on his temple.
And then, all hell breaks loose.
Behind me, an explosion erupts, so forceful it throws me forward against the wall I was backing away from. The sound makes my ears ring in a way I can’t tell if it’s human screams I’m hearing instead. My leg tries to give out on me as it starts to burn low on my calf, but I can only think of one thing.
Clarice.
And that thought sends me into action. When I come around the corner of the school building, I hurry inside, searching three different rooms before I find her huddled against a stack of boxes, the general crouched over her, protecting her with his own body. And I take back everything bad I ever thought about the guy.
Shocking me, Clarice springs up, practically knocking the general against the boxes as she grabs her camera in hand, looking a little frazzled but otherwise unafraid. “Go, big guy!” she calls to me, and her order snaps me out of it. I vaguely pay attention as the general calls for the medic as I exit the room.
The next few minutes are a blur, as if I’m running on autopilot. I locate where the IED went off in one of the alleyways the rest of my team was securing. Their bodies—some moving, some not—are lying in various positions, the scene horrifying with its splashes of blood and remnants of the explosive.
“Bright red blood,” I remind myself, and then get to work, knowing it’s up to me to keep as many alive as possible until the medic gets here.
“Tell me what to do, Brian,” Clarice says behind me, and I jerk around, my arm out in a halting gesture.
“No! Stay back. There could be another IED. I’ve got this,” I tell her.
“But, there’re so many of—”
“Please. I won’t be able to help them if I’m worried about you. Just stay back. For me, okay?” I plead.
She looks like she wants to argue, but finally she nods, and I breathe a sigh of relief as she raises her camera instead. Turning back to the soldier over who I crouch, I see the light in his eyes has gone out, and trying my best to ignore the pain in my heart, focusing on the adrenaline rushing through my veins and remembering my training, I move to the next man. He’s still alive, but badly wounded. “Bright red blood,” I repeat, and I use my knife to tear off scraps of fabric to tie around his bicep to stop the bleeding near his elbow.
Soon after I get to the fourth soldier, the medic arrives.
The critical control point is determined.
The 9-line is used to call in our location.
Helicopters arrive.
And the last thing I’m conscious of is Clarice’s gasp beside me as my big frame finally collapses sideways, and her small arms catching me as she cradles me to her.
“So she was with you the entire time, when probably the most traumatic experience of your life happened,” Doc states, bringing me back to the present.
I look around his office, taking in the leather seating, dark wood furniture, and filled bookcases, reminding myself I’m no longer in that godforsaken place. “Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat, sitting up and regaining my bearings. I don’t usually allow myself to delve into my memories of that day in so much detail. Maybe a flash here and there, but never from the time the day began until my lights went out. Doc and I had skimmed over it in our initial therapy sessions all those years ago. But he got most of the information about the event from Clarice’s article, with a photographic recap. She’d kept her distance as I’d asked, but the images she was able to capture were incredible and haunting.
“My first instinct would be to warn you that relationships that spring from traumatic experiences rarely last. But here it is eleven years later, and you are still close,” he muses.
“Yeah, the weeks after the IED kinda sealed the deal for me that I wanted to keep her around for the rest of my life,” I tell him, and he lifts his brows.
“Care to explain?”
“Like I have a choice,” I murmur grumpily, but it’s all for show. These are memories I dream about often, in great detail, and willingly recall every moment I got to spend getting to know the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.
Brian
Eleven Years Ago
FOB Salerno, Afghanistan
“WAKEY, WAKEY. EGGS and bakey.” I hear her sweet voice singsonging to me, bringing me out of my restless sleep. I open my eyes, and there she is, the light coming in behind her, making her look like an angel holding a tray of food. “There’re those perdy eyes. Now sit your booty up and eat this plate of breakfast I slaved over myself.”
“Clarice?” I croak, and then take in my location. I’m on a cot, surrounded by medical equipment. The tent is way cleaner than the one I’ve been living in for the past few months.
“Damn, it’s like we’re living in that movie 50 First Dates. I should record this conversation so I can just play it for you over and over. But the doctor assures me
you’ll come out of your short-term memory loss pretty quickly.” She comes over and sets the tray on a chair next to me, and then grasps my arm. As she helps me sit up, she stuffs some pillows behind my back to keep me propped up.
My head pounds, and I groan, closing my eyes for a moment. And that’s when I feel her soft hand against my cheek, her thumb stroking me there as she says softly, “It’ll pass in a second, big guy. It happens every time you sit up.”
My eyes open and find hers, and the softness I see in them does something funny to my stomach. “What happened?” I murmur.
“The short version? IED. You’re a big hero and saved a bunch of your teammates. They brought you to FOB Salerno to take care of your leg and to keep an eye on your traumatic brain injury. And I’ve been playing your personal nurse since it happened four days ago.”
As she says the words, flashes of the event play through my mind, but it seems more like a movie I watched once instead of something I actually went through.
She lets go and turns to grab the tray, placing it in my lap, and when she lifts the lid, the smell of the eggs and bacon makes my stomach growl in anticipation. “The cooks have gotten used to me taking over their space for a few minutes so I can whip you up a special meal.” She whispers conspiratorially, “No one else besides you gets real fried eggs and crispy bacon done on the griddle. They get the powdered eggs from a box and limp bacon they just nuke.”
“Over medium is my favorite,” I sigh, my mouth watering as I pick up a slice of toast and use the corner to rip open the yoke.
“I know. You told me the day you got here, when they brought you the scrambled crap,” she replies, and I look up at her. “And I made it my mission that day to make sure you had every damn thing you needed. After seeing everything you did for all those men, you deserved at the very least to have your eggs over medium instead of scrambled.”