by Piper Malone
I duck into my office, making sure to keep our tit-for-tat private. I don’t want anyone to think I’m not a lady. When she takes the bait and follows me in, I have her on my turf.
“Serena, I wouldn’t get in a car with you even if you were the only means of escape from venomous spiders intent on burrowing into my eyeballs and laying eggs.” Her snarky laugh makes me ill. I hate sinking to this level, but sometimes the only way is to fight dirty. “Please let me clarify that the only first place loser in this joint is you. And, FYI, despite what your barroom hookup told you last night, you are no prize.”
Her mouth gapes as I snatch my purse and coat. When I move toward her, she still seems to be searching for the perfect comeback. I edge her out of my office with a brilliant, slightly crazed smile that has her sucking in gulps of air like a fish out of water. I really can’t stand her, but for the first time in a very long time, I feel the push of creativity flow through me. I have a purpose that is outside of just earing an income: I can help someone. I want to make this project shine. I want that house. I want to wipe the floor with Serena and that snarky look she’s giving me as the elevator doors close.
It takes every ounce of restraint I have to hold back the one-fingered send-off. I need to be a lady at the office because she’d have my ass in Human Resources in a hot second. The instant I’m alone in the elevator, the battle cry echoes in my head, loud and powerful.
That chickadee has no idea what she’s up against.
*
After a quick lunch with Babu, I head home to brainstorm the community pitch. I need an idea that is exciting while being worthwhile and edgy. It needs to be a win-win-win where the organization, our company, and the community benefit. I research local nonprofits for what feels like hours from the comfort of my living room, but nothing seems right. There are great people doing wonderful things all over the place, they just don’t call to my heart. I need to feel the desire to fight for the group I choose. If I don’t have a level of passion pushing my creative energy, I’ll falter and lose interest.
Unfortunately, scouring the internet for over an hour and finding nothing has dampened my morale. I need a snack to perk me up. Perusing the healthy options yields limited results. Sure, oranges are great. Pop-Tarts are better! While my processed pastry treat warms in the toaster, I catch a glimpse of Ax’s business card peeking out from under a pile of mail. Part of me wonders if I buried it with some unconscious intent. If I lost the card, there’s no way I could really talk to him. With the card in my hand, I feel the weight of its implications. A call means talking. Talking means asking questions and hearing answers. Words, a simple dialogue, might make my fears a reality. Ax could tell me not to waste my time. That I don’t have what it takes to be what Blake needs.
How can one word and ten numbers make me feel sick?
What if he doesn’t remember he offered to talk to me? What if he thinks I’m a joke? What if he figures out I’m a lost cause and tells Blake that he’s better off without me?
The toaster pops, making me jump and squeak a scream. I roll my eyes irritated that my own crazy thoughts had me so wrapped up the toaster scared the crap out of me. Eat your warm, gooey treats and get back to work. Now is not the time…
But, could now be the right time? If not now, then when? I guess it’s better to know if I can’t do this before we get invested. Before too much of my heart is involved.
A nervous vibration hits my belly and sends a chill across my skin. The notion of making a concerted step away from Blake makes me queasy. It was hard to avoid him before. Now it would be impossible. Ax would have told me directly that I was wasting my time. Right?
It’s only a phone call.
Maybe it could only be a text.
Does this number accept text messages?
I press Send and sit back. If I don’t get a reply, it must be a landline and then I have to figure out how I’m going to choke out my name and actually form a coherent sentence.
When my phone chimes with a return text, I fall into old habits, expecting it to be Reagan. When the message is directly below the text I sent to Ax, my stomach flips.
Depends. Who’s asking?
How can Ax seem intimidating via text?
It’s Kat. Reagan’s friend.
If I get a “Who?” text in response, I know I need to back off.
It’s about time. Talk?
I stare at the “Yes” in the message field of my phone for a good three minutes before a follow up text from Ax pushes through.
I’m at Walter’s Diner.
I erase my previous message and tap out that I’ll meet him there. At least in public, we’ll have to maintain the image of civility. The mantras of everything will be fine and we’re only talking roll around in my head like rocks in a bag making me feel like my equilibrium is off.
After a short subway ride, I cross the threshold of Walter’s Diner, which is akin to emerging from a wormhole. The place is old, not classic or vintage but frozen in time. The dark wood paneling and pea-green booths look like they’ve been beaten with an ugly stick circa 1965. The smell of fresh bread and meatloaf from scratch melts away the callous thoughts about how the term rustic has reached a whole new level with this joint. As I walk into the restaurant, I suddenly have an intense craving for warm apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
It takes me no time to find Ax amongst the scattered patrons. I always viewed Ax as a beast but at Reign, hell, even at the wedding, he was around people who matched his physique and mien. All those guys are rugged and handsome. Here he looks strange and a little out of place, like when the Terminator shows up and everyone knows he’s different. Ax is Schwarzenegger. And he’s eating my apple pie.
“S’up,” he says, through a mouthful of golden-flakey delightfulness.
“Did you leave the bones when you mauled that cow?” I ask, gesturing to the three empty burger baskets on the table.
“Hey,” he points his fork at me, “I don’t rip on you for eating your kale-tofu shitcakes, or whatever the hell the female gender must eat these days. I’m taking advantage of some good, old-fashioned chow. You don’t like it, go sit at the counter until I’m done.” He punctuates his statement by shoving a large piece of hand-crimped crust into his mouth.
“I don’t eat shitcakes, thank you very much,” I say before flopping down across from him.
“Did you eat today?” he asks without taking his eyes away from his dessert.
“I had a light lunch earlier,” I confirm.
“Kat, it’s five thirty.” The disbelief that someone could go such a length of time without eating appears unthinkable to Ax. “You should eat dinner.”
Before I can respond, a young waitress approaches the table and begins clearing off the empty baskets. “Anything else for you, hon?”
Hon? More like Hun, as in Attila.
“I’m good, thank you,” Ax responds, then points to me. “Can you get her a menu?”
From the shocked look on her face, the waitress never saw me. Her focus was obviously on the other side of this booth. “Oh,” she says, embarrassment painting her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. I’ll bring you a menu. Do you want to hear the specials?” Her words taper off into uncomfortable silence as she searches her pockets for a pad and pen.
“No need.” Her awkward movement makes the reason for not seeing me crystal clear. “My brother feels the need to stuff me full of everything under the sun. I’ll just have a cup of coffee.”
My hunch was right. The instant she heard that Ax is related to me, and not in the biblical sense, she rebounds.
“Oh, sure,” she says, a bright smile lighting up her face, “I’ll get that for you right away.”
Once she’s gone, Ax is leaning toward me. “What the hell was that?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Tell me, Ax, how often do you come here?”
“A couple times a week,” he states as if my question is ridiculous.
&nb
sp; “Is she always your waitress?”
He thinks about it for a moment before shrugging. “Most of the time.”
“Are you dumb?” His eyes bulge under the pressure of not being able to connect the dots. “I think she likes you.”
“I thought we were here to talk about you, not me.” Ax sounds tough, but I wonder if he has the muscle to hold it together.
“She’s really adorable,” I press, a giddy smirk curling my lips.
“Again,” his voice is firm, low, relaying his displeasure with my antics, “this meeting is about you.” I’m sure his intent was to intimidate but it’s a little funny. I don’t know that I can handle talking with Ax if I can’t be a little silly now and then. I can’t do heavy-duty conversations all the time. When I’m forced to maintain a level of decorum, I always have the intense urge to curse or be crude.
“Technically, this meeting is about seeing if I feel comfortable talking to you in the first place.” I cross my arms and lean back against the booth. “How do I know you won’t go blab everything I say to Blake?”
“Does he know you’re here?” Ax questions.
I hesitate, worried that the instant I tell Ax he is a secret, he’ll bail. “No.” I pause, waiting for his reaction. When it doesn’t come, only a contemplative lift of the eyebrow and a deep huff, I get nervous. “Is that wrong? Is that, like, a thing I should be doing?”
Before he can respond, Ax’s admirer brings my cup of coffee and one for him as well. “I know how you like a cup after your meal. I thought I’d brew a fresh pot.” She says the entire statement to Ax. Again, I’m invisible.
“Mmm,” I clasp the warm cup in my hands, “thanks so much for making a whole new pot just for us!” I smile widely at him as his face crumples into a mask of glaring irritation.
“Thank you, Reese,” he says to her with a softness that even makes me sigh a little bit. “This is great. We’re going to catch up a bit, so I think we’ll be fine for a while.”
“Okay,” she chirps, “just yell if you need anything.” She flitters around to the other tables she has, sneaking a quick glance at Ax from time to time. He’s comically oblivious to her infatuation.
“So, Blake doesn’t know?” he confirms with a tone that makes it clear the comedy show is over.
“He does not,” I confirm.
For the next thirty minutes, Ax discusses the importance of communication and honesty in any relationship. While his statements are broad, Ax’s apparent commitment to a firm partnership is endearing. Ax, despite being the size of a rhino and having that sharp edge that makes me think his work is truly dirty, seems to be a good guy. I like him.
“I guess I need to figure out how to tell him I’m talking to you about this,” I agree, the task at hand making my heart heavy.
“Or I can tell him I offered to give you some guidance.” His willingness to protect me is sweet but if I’m going to do this, I need to be the one to tell Blake.
“Can I think about it?”
He drains the last of the coffee from his cup. “Sure, Kat. You know how to reach me.”
Ax waves off my attempt to pay for my own cup of coffee, grumbling about how I should have eaten something.
Now I just have to figure out how to break the news to Blake that I want a tutor in kink that isn’t him.
Chapter 10
Blake
Her text message was odd.
I need you to change my mind. My place. Door opens at 8pm.
She didn’t respond to my questions about what she meant or if she needed anything. Kat would only resend the initial text. I don’t have a clue about what is going on.
At 8:00 p.m., I arrive and run through all the potential reasons for her message. She’s having doubts about us. She needs help with her project. That dick from the wedding called her and wants to reconnect.
All the possibilities evaporate the second I see a white paper taped to her front door.
STUDZ
We’ll make sure you come…
Back for more.
True to her text, the door is open. I walk into the entryway, lights dim, the sound of bass gently pounding from the direction of her living room. A pulsing beat begs its listener to dance, drink, and enjoy a sinful night rubbing up against a stranger in the hopes of getting some play.
“Doll?” I call out.
“Is the entertainment finally here?” Her voice sounds a little loose, like a party girl who is starting her evening on the right foot.
I follow the sounds down the hall and enter the open living space. The instant I see her, my mouth falls open. Kat, dressed in a skintight black dress is perched on one of her dining room chairs. On her head, a plastic crown flashes with tiny pink lights. The boa around her neck sheds hot-pink feathers as she tosses the length of it over her shoulder. The whole getup is topped off with sky-high silver heels.
If her goal was to peak my interest, she’s done it. Kat looks good enough to eat. “What is this, doll?”
She reaches over, plucking a glass from a strategically placed end table, and downs the contents of her drink. Her face is wily, seductive, and while she doesn’t look drunk, she’s playing loose, a little sloppy.
“I’ve been at this club all night and no one can convince me.” She slurs just enough to sound coy but that grin shouts her devilish intent.
Kat grips the hem of her dress, trying to hold it in place as she crosses her legs. She does a lousy job of making sure her secret is safe. She’s commando and I just hit the lottery.
The urge to grab her out of the chair is crushing. The desire to destroy that dress and give her anything she wants becomes a blinding need. But I know she’s doing this to test the waters, to play in a sense, so I have to behave. For now.
“Maybe you need to talk to me for a while. Shall we have a discussion in one of the poorly lit corners of this establishment?”
She stifles a giggle before schooling her face and getting back into character. “They’ve been telling me they can make me happy and that I shouldn’t do this.”
My body reacts to her play at confused innocence, the pout of her lower lip forcing blood from my brain to my dick. If I knew she wanted to play sex-pot-needs-a-favor, I could have prepared. She’s dangerously close to scrambling my brains. “What do they want you to do, doll?”
The dark lashes framing her deep blue eyes flutter with the rhythmic pulse of a butterfly. Her voice, breathy and sensual push out the words. “They want me to be a good and honorable woman.”
She leans back, her fingers curling around the long length of the boa that was artfully hiding a shimmery white sash. With a quick flip of her wrist, the words Bride To Be come into view. My gut flares with desire and drops in apprehension. I don’t understand this, it’s been nothing but cat and mouse and now she’s wearing this?
Thankfully she can’t see my conflict and continues. “Blaze, none of the other boys—”
“Blaze?” Kat’s knowledge of my past is fine, but hearing her use my stage name is a shock. I’m going to kill Ax.
“Hey, I never got to see you shake your junk for dollar bills. Just go with it,” she says with a giggle before easing back into the ruse. “None of the other boys could change my mind. Maybe you can.”
If she wanted me to dance for her, I would have in a heartbeat. I’ve never been asked by someone I was dating to relive the days when I was trying to make ends meet. “Okay, what do you need me to do?”
“Dance for me, Blaze,” she says with fierce determination.
“And what will that get me?”
She grabs a stack of dollar bills from the side table. “This,” she fans the cash, “and you just might be what I need.”
“Will I?”
“Yes,” she purrs, her fingers gliding up the front of my shirt before curling around the collar so she can pull me close. “C’mon, Blaze,” she coos. “Help me.”
“I’ll be anything you need, doll. What can I do?”
Her teeth catch
her plump bottom lip, her breath exhales with a satisfied rush. She leans back, her hands caressing my chest as she hums. Her eyes meet mine before a smile curls her seductive lips. “Convince me not to marry Dudley Do-Right, Blaze.”
Her words fan a wildfire in my gut. She wants me to dance for her, fine. She’s playing like she’s marrying someone else?
No. Fucking. Way.
Mine!
It might be premature, it might be possessive, and she may not know it yet, but she isn’t going anywhere. No man will ever measure up to me, and she’s about to know why.
“Blaze,” she purrs, pulling me from the haze of my desire to be everything for her, “can you help me?”
“Of course, doll. You should have never wasted your time with boys when you needed a man. Let me give you everything you desire.” That’s what stripping has always boiled down to: giving women the opportunity to experience their fantasy.
I feel her body quake under my hands, immediately curious if I’ve hit a nerve or if her anticipation is too intense. Kat’s face possesses a mix of trepidation and sultry desire. It’s a look that makes me worry we might not be on the same page. I want her. She’s still deciding.
Nevertheless, if she’s requesting a convincing argument for my side, I’m going to give it to her.
At the start of the next song, I fall into that place where the music takes over. The beat becomes a metronome for every movement, the drive behind every step. The rhythm becomes a place of peace and focus. One where I am in control of the moment; I act, she responds.
Ripping my shirt off garners familiar squeals, her smile illuminating the room. Kat’s playful exuberance is endearing; she’s having fun.
“Take it off! Take it off!” she chants, her hands clapping in time with the music. A whooping holler bouncing off the walls when I slowly unbutton my jeans, peeling the denim away from my body.
Years of bachelorette, birthday, and retirement parties have forced me to memorize the mechanics of my routines. The paced curl of my hips between her legs, rolling my abs, showing off the tight muscles of my back are moves I’ve perfected over the years. Making her comfortable in this moment pushes me to create an experience unlike any other. This dance, these brief moments of play, is not about eliciting a fleeting moment of bliss. I need Kat to recognize that all the intricate parts of our relationship, of us, are good.