by KD Robichaux
She smiles at that, and seeing that look on her face stops my over-protectiveness. At least for now.
“So, what? You guys find out about these ‘very, very bad people’ in the news and then go after them and make them sleep with the fishes?” she asks jokingly.
“Not exactly,” I reply. “For example, do you recognize the name Brock Williams?”
“The swimmer guy? Yeah. I don’t watch the news, but that asshole’s trial was plastered all over Faceb— Wait… didn’t I see something about him drowning recently? Evidence showed the idiot ran right into the pool’s wall while he was swimming alone. I might have done a happy dance and yelled ‘Karma!’ at my computer screen.” She looks between the three of us. “That was y’all?” she asks, surprised.
“Guilty!” Seth confirms, pointing at me.
Her eyes lock on mine, and I hold my breath. What will she think of me? Will she be disgusted by what I do for a living? Will she want no part of me, now that she knows I kill people for money?
“Bra-fucking-vo. That guy was a freaking douchenozzle!” While a snort leaves Seth, I’m frozen in place, my heart kick-starting and lightness filling my chest. She carries on, oblivious to the rush of love I have racing through me. “Everyone knew he killed her. And then to turn around and basically call her a whore when he got out of his short little sentence? Even I was fantasizing about offing his ass,” she confesses.
I shake my head in wonder. “I fucking love you, woman,” I tell her through a sigh of relief. Her face changes, a flash of emotion crossing her beautiful features.
“I love you too,” she says, her voice conveying how deeply. I see her curiosity move across her face like a digital billboard before she asks, “So how does it work? How do you decide who to go after?”
“They’re paid jobs, baby girl,” I reply. “We get contacted by someone, in this case her father, and they pay us to get the job done. We’re very particular about what we take on. We don’t do bullshit like cheating spouses or other people who don’t deserve it. It’s strictly cases such as that one, where he only avoided his punishment because his daddy was rich and could hire a team of the sleaziest lawyers.”
“Fascinating,” she breathes, and I can see it clear as day she’s tucking all of this away in her author brain for future use.
“Am I going to have to proof all your books before you publish to make sure you don’t out us?” I cock my brow.
She looks hurt. “I would never do that.”
I nod, kissing her forehead. “I know, babe. Only joking. But I’ll still be reading your books from here on out. That scene you wrote me was fucking sexy. It’ll be some sort of… intellectual foreplay.” I grin, and she smiles.
“Well, now all that’s out in the open, if you guys don’t need anything else from me, I’ve got a date with a redheaded sub and a St. Andrew’s Cross,” Seth says, standing from his chair.
“It was nice to finally meet you in person, Seven,” Vi tells him. “Or do I call you Seth? I’m not really sure what the rules are.”
He points to himself. “Seven inside the walls of the club, Seth outside, if we ever have the pleasure of getting to hang.” He points over to Doc. “Doc inside, Dr. Walker out… or Neil, but nobody ever calls him that.” He gestures to me, and I cock a brow. “Sarge inside… or your future baby daddy on the outside,” he tells her, humping the air and pretending to smack someone’s ass, making her laugh. The sound is melodic and natural, and just one more thing that’s so fucking perfect about her. I shake my head at Seth but grin, not hating the idea of someday putting my baby inside Vi.
“And what about Brian?” she asks, and I can tell she’s anxious to see her old friend.
“Brian is known as Knight inside Club Alias,” Doc answers, and I smirk when she bursts into a fit of giggles.
“Knight? Really? Brian Glover goes by Knight… and people take him seriously?” she questions, turning amazed eyes on me.
“I think you’ll be surprised what ten years have done for the awkward baby giraffe we used to climb with, baby girl. And the nickname came from that trip we took to the Renaissance Festival in Raleigh that time, when he first started collecting swords. Kinda stuck with him,” I explain.
She smiles broadly. “That was so much fun. I still have the ring you got me from one of the tents, and the necklace that has my name written on a grain of rice,” she confesses, and whatever ice that might’ve still been clinging to my heart completely melts away.
Seth heads for the door, throwing a peace sign over his shoulder. “Deuces!” he calls, and disappears into the hallway.
“Vivian, do you have any questions? You’re taking everything so well. I just want to make sure the worst of your shock is over,” Doc prompts. I hold my breath. This really has gone better than I imagined.
“I guess….” She pauses, glancing at me before her eyes fall to where her hands nervously toy with the belt of the black robe she’s wrapped in. “What will this mean for us? Like, I mean….” She sighs, tilting her head back to search the ceiling for what she wants to ask. “First and foremost, us, Corbin and Vi. Do we just pick up where we left off, like we didn’t just spend the last ten years apart? And then secondly….” Her face pinkens, piquing my curiosity.
“What is it, baby?” I encourage.
“Well, what will it mean for us, me and my Sir?” she finishes shyly.
All the tension leaves my body when I realize she’s worried about our relationship as Dom and sub. I fight the smile that tries to spread across my face, not wanting her to think I’m laughing at her concern. “If it’s up to me, nothing changes as far as that’s concerned, baby girl. I want nothing more than to continue with your training.” She still looks worried though, and my brow furrows as she bites her lip.
“What else do you want to ask, Vivian?” Doc prompts, and I silently thank him.
“You… you own this club. You’re a Dom here.” She turns to stare seriously into my eyes. “I really don’t want to know what’s gone on with you here. I’d like to live in a fantasy bubble where you never touched another woman in the decade we lost. I know that’s not true, and I know we’re supposed to be completely honest with each other from here on out, but I’d like you to just… I don’t want to know, okay?”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Doc asks, a look of concern crossing his face.
“As far as that part of his life, I’m gonna go with what I don’t know can’t hurt me. I know myself. I’m a jealous person by nature. And in this case, curiosity will never get the best of me. I just really, really don’t want to know,” she implores.
“I can make that happen, Vi. If that’s what you want, I can contact every member and make them sign another nondisclosure agreement making them agree to never speak to you of anything that’s happened in this club,” I reply seriously.
“I don’t think all that’s necessary. Just… keep your past as a Dom to yourself. The other subs, I mean. Not what you’ve learned.”
Her coy smile is infectious. “I can do that, baby girl. And to answer your first question, you’re mine. I let you go once, and you can bet your sexy little ass that’ll never happen again.”
Three weeks later…
LOOKING BACK at the past few weeks, I picture myself as a character in one of my books. I visualize every detail, right down to the clothes I was wearing on each day and the food I consumed when I remembered to eat between writing, therapy sessions, my training at the club, and the blissful time I’ve spent with Corbin.
If my life were one of my stories, what would people say? What would the reviews be if I looked on Amazon?
Those beautiful souls who believe in fairy tales, they’d be my five-star reviewers. The ones who enjoy a good instalove story, who look past the heartbreak they’ve experienced in their own lives and can still appreciate that, for other people, love at first sight and second chances really do exist.
But on the other end of the spectrum, I can see readers o
f my life story saying things like “too far from reality” or “heroine too weak” or “no one would ever forgive so easily.” Little would they know that it is my reality. It doesn’t make me weak; it just means I knew from the second I met Corbin when I was just a girl at eighteen years old that I was put on this earth to be with him. And I did forgive that easily.
I lost ten years with my soul mate. Why hold on to a grudge and waste more of our precious time in this world when we could just let go of everything from the past and enjoy our present and our future?
But thankfully over the past year of my writing career, I’ve trained myself not to dwell on people’s reviews of my stories.
We’ve spent every spare minute of the last three weeks together catching up, making up for lost time. It became a game of sorts. I tell him something, and it’s either new information or he tells me in that sexy deep voice of his “I know.” If it’s something he already knew about me, he then tells me where he was when he watched me. Sneaky fucker. So most of it’s been more of him telling me what’s been up with him over the past decade—minus anything dealing with the club.
The only thing that hurt my heart a little was the fact he lived right across the street from me for so long. He was right there. Within reach. All those times I had searched for him on the internet, sitting at my desk in front of the window in my bedroom, all I had to do was look out at the complex across the street, and there he would’ve been. When he saw my heartbreak over this, he tried to make me feel better by taking me to his condo, where he stood me in front of his window, showing me I never would’ve spotted him. Placing the binoculars to my eyes, I got to see his view of where I sat every day, working on my novels. Watching over me like some sort of fallen guardian angel.
With my lease ending in just over two months, we decided I should move in with him, since he owns his condo and mine is just a rental. I’ve been on deadline for my latest novel, so packing and transferring all my stuff has been slow going, although we’ve still spent every single night together, sleeping in each other’s arms.
I’ve tried to get him to tell me stories of his mercenary missions, but he tends to change the subject. I get the feeling he wants to protect me from that side of his job. I’ve told him it doesn’t bother me. I mean, I used to be a military wife. I knew and fell in love with him when he was a sniper in the army. I was aware of what he did overseas. So why would I feel any differently about him doing basically the same job here in the States? I don’t really understand politics, and never really got why we are at war with people in other countries, so at least now I could comprehend why he would be killing the people on his list. The ones he has opened up about have been nothing but deserving of the justice he doles out.
But then he puts his hands and lips on me and I think of nothing else.
If I thought our sex life was amazing when we were married, it didn’t hold a candle to our intimate moments now. My submissive training has been nothing short of magical. Corbin in his role as my Dominant fulfills a need inside both of us that makes our time outside the club feel even more loving. We don’t use BDSM every time we have sex. We make love with a passion that can’t even be described. But when we do act out a D/s scene… the sex and the aftercare leave me feeling more desired and at peace than I’ve ever felt. I walk out of the club feeling like a fucking queen, while our lovemaking at home makes me feel like a goddess, Corbin always taking the time to worship me in a way I know only he can.
It’s with these thoughts in mind that I finish up the last love scene in the book I’m about to have to send to my editor, Bex, next week. All I have left is the grand finale and their happily-ever-after epilogue, and then I’m taking a month-long break from writing so I can pack the rest of my stuff up to move it into Corbin’s place, and then enjoy just being… his.
Corbin ordered me to write at my apartment the past couple of days so I could concentrate and work in peace, because he had another job come in. He said with the constant phone calls between him and the other guys plus all the research and verbal brainstorming, it would keep me from meeting my deadline. Which, according to him, would result in me not only being yelled at by Bex, but a punishment from him as well. As much as I enjoy my “punishments” from him, I’d much rather avoid the wrath of my saucy British editor.
I close my laptop for the day, slipping it into the padded compartment of my Vera Bradley tech backpack before rolling my charging cord up and putting it into the other pocket. I thread my arms through the straps, grab my keys and phone, and head out of my apartment, locking the door behind me. I cross the street, type in the security code that opens the front door to Corbin’s complex, and ride the elevator up to the condo I will be calling “ours” next week.
When I use my key, entering the foyer that spills into the huge, mostly empty living room, I automatically sense that Corbin isn’t home. I drop my bag on his one recliner, turning to head for the bathroom. I’ve been commanded to take a hot bath after every writing session. He told me it always killed him watching me through my window, trying to pop my back on my desk chair after hunching over my laptop for hours. He gives me a backrub every night at bedtime. It usually turns into a sensual massage that leads to even more pleasurable activities.
As I cross the room, passing by his massive desk, one that looks similar to the one in his office at the club, I notice a folder that’s fallen between it and the filing cabinet next to it. The manila folder sticks out against the dark hardwood flooring on this side of the desk, but wouldn’t have been seen from the rolling chair on the opposite side. Hoping it’s nothing Corbin would be missing right now, I shimmy it up the crack, pulling my cell out of my pocket to call him to see if he wants me to take it to him wherever he’s working. Most of the time, they meet at their security office next to the club, but sometimes they choose one of the guys’ places to convene.
I carry the folder into the bedroom and notice a piece of paper in the middle of the bed.
Vi,
I will be home in the morning. Wrapping up the job tonight. Take your bath and get some rest. I have a scene planned for tomorrow evening, and you’ll need your strength.
Love,
C
A chill goes up my spine and I grin. I can only imagine that “wrapping up a job” would be quite the adrenaline rush. Plus, the sense of mortality would definitely make a person want to do something to make them feel alive. I can’t wait to see what he has planned.
Remembering the guys didn’t bother Brian while he was on his job, I decide not to message Corbin, just in case he’s already in a situation where he shouldn’t be distracted. Instead, I pick up the folder with full intentions of taking it back to his desk… but curiosity gets the better of me.
Everyone knows that saying “curiosity killed the cat.” But never have I fully understood the meaning behind it until this very moment. A proverb used to warn people against sticking their nose where it shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t have opened that file. I know this, as I stare into the cold, soulless eyes of my rapist.
My legs give out from under me and my ass lands on the end of the bed, the folder hitting the floor as its contents spill out. There are countless photos, past and I guess present, of Alan in various situations. The one of him on the red carpet with one of the actresses from his film, a couple of pictures of him that come up in a Google search, and then also some taken out in public, the kind you see in movies, snapped with a long-lens camera by a PI, the subject unaware while they’re buying coffee, shopping, or getting into a car.
I slide off the edge of the bed and crouch over the file, reaching for some papers and seeing they’re notes Corbin has made. Everything I’d had in a folder on my computer is here, with the addition of the past two years I haven’t followed up. The last I knew, Alan lived in Austin while he did his director thing. According to the paper in my hand, he no longer lives half a country away, a safe enough distance that allowed my mind to stop worrying he would ever come after me. N
o, this says he lives only an hour and a half away in Wilmington, where he teaches theater arts at the university there.
So close, within a short driving distance. Working every day around girls the age I was when he’d assaulted me. I never turned him in. I was too afraid, too ashamed. And now, because I didn’t tell anyone what he’d done to me, no one knew not to hire him for a job that put him in a position of authority around young women. No one knew he was a rapist. God only knows if I was the only one he did that to, or if there are more of his victims out there like me, who never said anything either.
Or maybe he had struck again, but instead of going to the police, the survivor hired Imperium Security to get the job done. But that would mean Alan had gone beyond assaulting his victim this time. As horrible and traumatizing a crime raping someone is, it doesn’t equal taking the attacker’s life.
So I start searching through the papers, looking for any indication of who could’ve hired Corbin. A check stub for the job, the name of Alan’s victim, anything, but there is absolutely nothing here. What I do find, though, is a complete manuscript of my session with Dr. Walker, when I had gone into detail of what happened to me, along with a log of Alan’s movements over the past several weeks. And that’s when I see the Post-It note stuck to the very back of the folder.
March 28
8pm
“Oh no,” I breathe. “No, baby. Nononono…,” I chant as I scramble for my phone, and when I light it up, I see it’s 6:52 p.m., today’s date, March 28, scrolled beneath the time like an omen. Finding Corbin in my Recent Calls log, I press Send. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I beg, letting out a frustrated cry when it goes to voice mail. “Corbin, baby, I know what you’re doing. Please, you have to stop. Don’t do this.”
I hop up off the floor with the papers tracking Alan’s routine gripped in my hand. Grabbing my purse from the chair by the bedroom door, I then toss my phone inside before hurrying to Corbin’s recliner to scoop up my keys. I barely take the time to lock the door behind me before I run full speed toward the elevator.