by Lauren Rico
Glenn senses where I’m headed, and puts a hand on my sleeve lightly. “Okay, Mr. Bell. If you’d wanted this to go to the police, it would have gone to them already. What is it, exactly, that you do want?” he fishes.
I know what he wants, and he’s not going to get it.
“Jeremy, it’s simple,” Brady begins with a smile. “We want you out. Same deal as before, you resign immediately, and we’ll pay out six months of your salary. No one wants any negative press associated with the orchestra, so you sign a non-disclosure agreement and we’ll agree, in writing, not to give any more information about your departure than a press release, over which you’ll have final approval.”
I lean across the table and fix my hardest stare on Doug, who is mopping his disgustingly sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “Seriously, Doug? You going to trust this suit to protect your … best interests?” I menace.
Brady waves a hand at me. “Oh, I already know about the threats, so don’t bother trying to intimidate Doug, Jeremy. And that, by the way, is non-negotiable. The second you even breathe in the direction of him or his family, or even his pets, we will take this recording straight to the police and prosecute you. And let me assure you, Jeremy, we may be trying to avoid the publicity now, but if we feel you are in any way a threat to this organization – or anyone in it, we will use our media juggernaut to destroy you.”
Brady slaps the folder in front of him closed, sits back in his cushy leather chair and taps his pen on the table.
“So, there it is, Leave now with your reputation intact and some money in your pocket. Or, leave later when you’re dismissed on the grounds of the morals clause in your contract and hauled into court for grand larceny and blackmail.”
Glenn clears his throat, glances at me, and then at his counterpart across the table. “We’re going to have to think this over,” he informs the other attorney.
But Brady Bell shakes his head. “This deal expires the moment you leave this conference room. I’m happy to give you a few minutes to consider right now, but if you walk out that door without signing the agreement I’ve drawn-up, the next visit you get will be from Detroit’s Finest.”
“Fine,” Glenn agrees, indicating that they should leave the room.
Doug goes the long way around the table so he won’t be within my reach. Little shit probably knows I’d like to strangle him right about now. He practically runs the last five feet.
When we’re alone, Glenn takes his glasses off and rubs his temples. “Jeremy, my friend, you never cease to amaze me,”
“What’re my options?”
He shakes his head without looking at me. “You don’t have any options. Not if you want to avoid a trial, possibly some jail time, and the destruction of what’s left of your career not to mention your reputation.”
He puts his glasses back on and looks me in the eye.
“These people want you out, and bad. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t set this whole thing up as one elaborate plot to paint you into a corner.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“What? No! You can’t go around saying shit like that. You stay away from Doug Lavery, you hear me?”
“I was talking about Jimmy Woo, but Doug’s on my list, too,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Glenn takes a deep breath before he speaks again.
“You, my friend, are well and truly fucked.”
So it would seem.
Jeremy 16
When the glass hits the wall, it splinters into a million tiny shards and leaves a waterfall of beer streaming onto the floor. I’d never give those assholes at the Philharmonic the satisfaction of seeing me frustrated. But, now that I am in the privacy of my own home, I give in to the anger. I’m so furious that I can hardly see straight.
Within half an hour of walking through the front door of my little house on Chester Street, I have thrown over a bookcase, smashed half of my dishes, and I am seriously considering pushing my air conditioner out of the window onto the neighbor’s car below. Yes, that might just make me feel a little better. Then I can beat the shit out of the nosy prick when he comes over to complain.
Glenn advised me to take the deal, saying that nothing good could come out of me staying there, unwanted. He explained I would eventually be fired anyway, and with the added expense and nuisance of a prolonged lawsuit. Normally that kind of shit doesn’t faze me. But the guy made a good point when he said my reputation would be in tatters by the time it was over, even if I won the case. He was also quick to mention that the bill for his fees at the end of it could climb into the six figures. Fucking shyster.
I hear the squeak of the mail slot in my front door, followed by a smack as my correspondence hits the hardwood floor. I walk around the foamy lake of glass tidbits to the hallway, where a few pieces of mail are waiting for me. I pick them up and head into the kitchen to pour myself another beer. Most of the glasses are broken at this point, so I take a seat at the table and have a long swig right from the bottle, just the way my father drinks his beer. Correction. Drank his beer. The thought of him clawing at his throat, gasping for air makes me smile.
As I start to flip through the bills and junk mail and takeout menus, one item catches my eye. It’s a cream-colored linen envelope, embossed with the seal of the Kreisler International Music Competition. Maybe the idiots have finally come to their senses and are going to reinstate my concert tour and recording contract. I slip my finger under the flap and tear a jagged opening across the top of the thick envelope. I pull out what looks like a wedding invitation, all raised gold lettering on vellum.
‘You are cordially invited to attend the recording release celebration for Kreisler International Music Competition winner Julia James Ayers, to be held the evening of Saturday, October Twentieth at the Beau-Radcliff Gallery, New York, New York.
Recital program at seven o’clock, followed by a cocktail reception and CD signing by Mrs. James Ayers.
Black tie. RSVP.’
Holy fucking shit. This is not happening. What stupid ass thought it was a good idea to put my name on the guest list for this thing? And since when is Julia considered the Kreisler International Music Competition winner? Last time I checked, I was the one with the gold medal.
I’m about to toss the invitation in the trash when I notice something stuck inside the envelope. Julia’s ‘Plain Jane’ freckled face is staring back at me from a glossy color postcard. She’s sitting, cello between her knees, bow in hand, as she looks off into the distance. Ornate script lettering reads ‘The Sound of Silver: Julia James Ayers, cello.’
No, this is just Too. Fucking. Much.
I should be looking at a picture of me and my horn. The goddam sound of gold is what the album should be. I throw the thing down on the table in disgust and stand up to pace the kitchen, raking my hand through my hair. This is insane. This is not how it was supposed to be. I planned this perfectly, and there is absolutely no acceptable reason for me to be in this position. Orchestras should be fighting over me. My recordings should be flying off the shelves, and I should be packing concert halls all over the world. So, what the fuck happened?
Julia is what happened. Julia and Matthew. They ruined my reputation and tanked my career before it even started. Now, I can’t even keep a gig at an orchestra without a cloud of suspicion hanging over my head. I mean, sure, I arranged for the kid to take Jennifer’s horn. But I wouldn’t have had to do that if orchestra management had just given me the principal horn spot, which I won fair and square. That is, once I managed to get myself onto the audition list that I would have been on anyway, had Matthew and Julia not started a campaign accusing me of killing Cal Burridge. Like Cal was ever going to amount to anything anyway!
Why do these imbeciles keep getting in my way? If they’d just mind their own goddam business and do what they’re supposed to do, everyone’s life would be so much easier. So much more pleasant. I like pleasant. But I have absolutely no problem embracing the unpleasant
when necessary. And it’s been very necessary in the last couple of years.
The house is starting to feel small and stuffy to me, so I grab another bottle of beer and go out back to sit on the steps overlooking my little patch of lawn. In the fresh air I can feel my head clearing. My mind drifts back to the day I had that drink with Brett. He didn’t even bat an eyelash when I called him out for choosing Julia over me, over his own brother. After everything I’ve done for him over the years.
My brother seems to be under the impression that he can have whatever he wants. But the truth is that I can take anything of his. His fiancée, his job. His life. I can find a way to make any of those things go away. Anytime, anywhere. Instead of showing gratitude and loyalty, the stupid fuck chose everyone else over me... even Mom. He could have stood up for me, and forced her to give me my share of the inheritance. But no, he has to be a pussy little mama’s boy.
I’m jolted from my thoughts by the sound of the front doorbell. Who the hell is here? I go inside and through the house to pull open the wood paneled door. Standing on my front porch is Lisa, looking miserable, as she damn well should be looking. I’m tempted to kick her ass to the curb, but I have a better idea. Time to burn off a little steam.
“My bedroom,” I bark at her, holding the door open. “I want you naked and kneeling by the bed when I get in there.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but seems to think better of it. “Okay, Jeremy …”
“That’s Yes. Sir. Get it wrong again and you won’t be able to sit for a week.”
Her eyes grow wide, but she nods and scurries down the hall without another word.
****
Lisa was born to be a sub. When I walk into my bedroom, I find her naked and kneeling at the side of my bed, eyes cast down to the floor. I’m furious that I’m being forced to resign from the Philharmonic. I’m still fuming over this morning’s meeting and the idea of displacing a little of that rage is very appealing. Hardcore BDSM isn’t my thing, but I think I know enough to keep us both entertained for a few hours.
“Stand up so I can get a good look at you.”
She obeys immediately, jumping up to a standing position, still not meeting my eyes. I walk around to the back of her and place my hands on either side of her shoulders. She jumps slightly with the sudden contact.
“Be still!”
“Yes, Sir.”
My hands run the length of her arms, feeling the silky smoothness of her skin. I come up again from underneath her arms, feeling my way from her slim waist, past the ribcage and finally around to her breasts. I take a step closer to her, cupping them and stroking her nipples. I can hear her breath hitch, but she doesn’t move. Another step closer and her bare ass is pressed right up against my hard-on. My mouth finds its way to her ear.
“Do you feel that?” I murmur softly.
Her reply is barely audible. “Yes, Sir.”
My tongue snakes out and gently runs along the shell of her ear while I coax her nipples, pulling them and rolling them until they are elongated, little pink peaks.
A gasp from Lisa.
“Do you like to be dominated?” I whisper, now moving to nibble on her ear.
“Oh, yes, Sir,” she replies enthusiastically.
“Good thing, bitch. Because I’m going use you for my satisfaction only, do you understand?”
She nods her assent.
“Answer me!” I demand loudly, giving her left nipple a cruel pinch at the same time.
“Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir. I am happy to satisfy you,” she stutters out in a voice that’s suddenly edged with fear. Or anticipation. Probably both.
I allow my right hand to leave the sanctuary of her warm, supple flesh and use it to reach down between her legs from behind. My fingers explore her roughly. I run my fingers along the top of her clit, giving it a nudge that makes her back arch involuntarily. Then they make their way down to her entrance, now sopping with her excitement. I dip first one, then two fingers into her tight channel and she whimpers.
“You’re so wet, Lisa. Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, Sir,” she moans without hesitation.
I pump my fingers in her while thumbing her bud and tweaking her nipple and I feel her knees go weak. I stop abruptly and pull my hand away, grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her around roughly. I tilt her chin up so my eyes can bore into hers.
“Oh, I’m going to fuck you alright, Lisa,” I inform her coolly with a smile that curls the corners of my lips. “I’m going to fuck you all night long. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t see straight and then I’m going to fuck you some more. And you are not to come unless I give you permission. Do you understand?”
Her pupils have become so large that her brown eyes appear to be black in the lowlight of the room.
“Yes, Sir. I understand,” she whispers.
Oh, I think I’m going to like this.
“Good. Then undress me so we can get started.”
With trembling hands, she unbuttons my shirt and pulls it out of my pants. She has to stand on her toes to push it from my shoulders, stretching her chest in front of me as she does. I reach out and pinch her left nipple hard. She gasps and blinks hard, but continues her work, moving on to help my t-shirt up and over my head. I see her staring at my bare chest.
“Do you want to touch me?”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispers.
“Too bad, bitch. You touch me when I tell you to. I’m waiting for you to take off my pants.”
“Yes, Sir,” she repeats, her fingers nimbly working the buckle of my belt open and pulling it through the loops.
I watch to see what she’ll do with it, waiting to chastise her if she drops it to the floor. But she doesn’t. Lisa lovingly handles the stretch of leather as she lays it out on the bed.
“Good girl,” I murmur, taking her face into my hands when she’s facing me again. I crush her soft pink lips with my mouth, using my tongue to explore her. She breathes deeply, and a little sigh escapes from her throat. I push her roughly back by her shoulders and her head bows down again.
“May I continue, Sir?”
“Yes.”
She resumes the task at hand, unbuttoning my pants and pulling the zipper down. Her hands brush against my erection in the process. Fuck, this is hot! The pants ease off of my hips and hit the floor around my ankles. She drops to her knees and cradles my bare right foot, lifting it and slipping it free from the pant leg. The process is repeated with the other foot and I’m left standing in my boxer briefs with a gorgeous young woman (from the neck down, anyway) on her knees in front of me. Slowly, she hooks her fingers into the waistband and tugs my underwear down, inch by inch, until my cock springs free. I hear her gasp and it makes me smile. Yes, she’s quite good at this, but she’s going to have to work a little harder to get another compliment out of me.
I step out of the underwear and look down on Lisa’s head below me. Her dark hair hangs straight and shiny around her head as she keeps her face downcast to the floor close to my feet. I grab a fistful of it and pull it taut, not enough to hurt her, but enough to bring her slowly to her feet. Sure, I could have her service me, but I’m looking for a different kind of a thrill. I don’t get to play this game often, and I’m going to milk every second of it.
“Alright, get on the bed, on your back and hold onto the headboard.”
Okay, now, what to use for restraints? I have a tie, of course, but Christ, that’s been done to death. When my thoughts turn to my toolbox, I have my answer.
“Don’t you move,” I order, leaving the room, buck-naked, so I can rifle through the hall closet. Screw the harnesses and whips and all the other elaborate contraptions the serious BDSM practitioners use. I’ve got everything I need right here in my big bright orange toolbox. I pull it down and bring it into the bedroom with me, setting it on the dresser. Aha! My first accessory is right there on top: a bag of zip ties in assorted lengths. In a matter of seconds, I am crawling onto th
e bed and straddling Lisa’s slim body. My cock brushes against her soft skin and I feel her wriggle slightly under me.
“Did I say you could move?” I snap, my eyes boring down into hers.
“No, Sir. I’m s-sorry, Sir,” she stutters.
“Hmmmm.”
I shoot her one last disapproving look before I grab one of her wrists sharply and use a zip tie to secure it to one of the slats in the headboard. She takes a sharp breath in, and I know the plastic is digging into her flesh. I repeat the process with her other wrist, and then look down at my handiwork. But I’m not done yet. I jump off the bed and return to my handyman’s box of carnal delights to extract two bungee cords. I stand at the foot of the bed and lean in to where her feet are. She pulls one back slightly when I try to take it in my hand, so I give it a hard wrench and she cries out in pain.
“Don’t you ever pull away from me!” I hiss up at her, seeing the tears welling in her eyes.
“No, Sir,” she sniffs. “I won’t do it again, Sir.”
“You’d better not, or next time you’ll need crutches to get out of bed.”
I take two more zip ties and loop them around her ankles, leaving the slightest bit of slack so I can hook the bungees onto them. Then I take a step back, left bungee in hand and pull it to the side so I can hook it onto the far side of the footboard. Once I have repeated the process with the other ankle, she’s not only tied down, she is spread eagle, totally vulnerable to whatever depraved thing I want to subject her to, not that that matters to me at this point.
A true Dominant would have worked out a safe word for the Sub to use when she wanted to halt things. Lisa doesn’t know enough to ask. I don’t offer. And, as my cock is reminding me, it’s a little late for that now. Nope, we’re in this for the duration, whether she likes it or not.
I climb up onto the bed between her legs and give her a delicious, wicked smile. She bites her lip with the excitement of whatever might come next. I start my kissing and nibbling on the sensitive innersoles of her feet, up around her bound ankles and finally to the inside of her lower leg. I would love to just bury myself into her right now, but I want her to be begging for it, desperately pleading for me to give her my cock. That’s worth the wait. And, if the wet spot on my bed is any indication, I won’t have to wait very long.