Played

by Tasha Fawkes

  At the moment, I’m in the kitchen of Karen's apartment, preparing soup for lunch. Not really preparing it, just warming it up. She had a shitload of groceries delivered to the apartment a couple of days ago, which I had a feeling was more to keep me in the apartment rather than having me be inconvenienced—her words, not mine—by going shopping for groceries on my own.

  I need to get the hell out of here, if only for a little while. She’s driving me nuts.

  "Daniel…"

  Speak of the devil. I glance up from the open kitchen area as Karen sweeps into the room in a loose-fitting silk pantsuit. She carries a sheaf of papers with her and brings them to the table in her dining room. Crap. More wedding plans. What now?

  Shaking my head, striving for patience, telling myself that I can do this, I dish a serving of soup into a bowl, grab a spoon, and venture from the kitchen into the dining area. Placing the bowl and spoon down on the table, I notice her smiling.

  She glances up and reaches for my hand. I can barely tolerate her touch. That's how bad it’s gotten. A week straight with Karen has pushed me to the point where I can barely look at her. Is this my future? Last night, she hinted about sex, and I demurred, not even counting on the negative response with an oh, you're not well enough yet comment. The fact is, I don't want to have sex with Karen. I don't want to have sex with any of my subs. I want to have sex with Ashley. That’s it, bottom line.

  Her words startle me, spoken so abruptly.

  "I realize that on occasion you see other women, Daniel, but that's all over now. Isn't it?"

  Her eyes on mine, I look down at her. I heave a mental sigh, realizing that I can't say what I truly want to say, at least not yet. Her parents are due back tomorrow. I don't want to leave her alone, afraid that she might attempt another suicide. I hate that she’s literally holding me as a mental hostage. I just don't know what to do about it. I feel responsible and disgusted at the same time. If I don't do as she asks, will she threaten a repeat performance? And if she does, what will I do? She did it once, I came to the rescue, so what will prevent her from doing it again?

  "This is the way it's going to be, Karen?"

  "What? I don't understand." She shrugs and glances at the papers on the table. "What do you think about the seating arrangement your mother helped me with?"

  How can she continue to pretend that everything is fine? Seriously? How can she pretend that she’s happy about the upcoming wedding, which apparently is on again. Doesn’t she understand? Doesn’t she comprehend? Resentment flows. I'm not sure if it’s the smug smile on her face or the fact that I’m so frustrated, unable to get out of this apartment for even a couple of hours in the past week that has me snapping at her.

  "And if I don't like something, or if I do something you don't like, are you going to try and kill yourself again?"

  The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret it. What a horrible thing to say. To my surprise, she merely smiles and turns to look through her paperwork.

  "You came back, didn't you?" She waves a hand at me. "Besides, it was only a couple of pills."

  It takes several seconds for her words to sink in. I’m rendered speechless. "What?"

  She freezes, then glances quickly at me, then back down at her papers. She clears her throat. "All’s well that end’s well, isn’t that right?" She shakes her head. "It was an accident—"

  I stiffen. "My mother told me that you said that you wanted to die. Do you remember that, Karen?"

  Again, she waves a hand and looks up at me, a pout forming on her lips, blinking rapidly as if she’s trying to create tears. "I can't talk about it, Daniel," she says, her voice soft and trembling. "It was… it was just a foolish accident."

  I frown down at her. What the hell? I turn and begin to walk away from the table.

  "Aren't you going to eat lunch with me?"

  "I have to go to the bathroom."

  "When you get back, we'll talk about these, all right?"

  I don't answer but continue down the short hallway to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. The bathroom has become my temporary—very temporary—refuge. I lean against the wall, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I look angry. I feel angry. But what can I do? I just can't make myself walk out. What I want to do and what I’m obligated to do are two different things.

  I step to the sink and turn on the water, cupping my hands underneath the faucet as cold water runs through my fingers. I splash some water on my face, trying to calm my annoyance at the turn my life has taken. When did things spin so completely out of control? I lift my head, looking again at my reflection in the mirror. Time to ask myself a question. Would I have felt this way about Karen and the upcoming marriage if it wasn’t for Ashley? If I hadn't read that snippet of her hot, sexy manuscript on her laptop? If she hadn't agreed to my suggestion that she explore the world of bondage with me as her mentor, ostensibly to bring her prose to life?

  I don’t blame Ashley. No. I blame myself. And why didn’t I put my foot down and just refuse to marry Karen when it was first brought up? Since when did I go around trying to please everybody, trying to keep everyone happy?

  A headache blossoms behind my eyes. I open the medicine cabinet, thinking to take an aspirin. Amidst the makeup, the Band-Aids, and perfume bottles and lipsticks, I see a bottle of aspirin. I reach for it, then look up at the top shelf. Half-hidden behind some cold medicine I see a orange-brown prescription bottle. Frowning, I move aside the cold medicine and reach for the bottle. I turn it only to find that parts of the label have been smudged, as if it had been held under water and the ink rubbed off.

  I read the prescription label and can only make out Amb…I look at the name on the prescription, what little I can see of it, and stare. All I can make out of the first and last name is Car— Que—.

  I frown, not quite sure what I’m looking at, and then it clicks. The Ambien bottle doesn't belong to Karen; it belongs to her mother, Carol. The label was damaged, probably deliberately. The doctor told me that the paramedics found an empty prescription bottle next to Karen on the bed. From there it isn't difficult to come to the conclusion that Karen didn’t down the entire bottle. Does she have more of these? Why?

  Fury engulfs me as the truth hits me. She faked it. There’s nothing in this bottle. There might have been a pill or two or none at all in the bottle the paramedics found, but it was hard to know for sure. It looks to me as if Karen had stolen her mother's empty prescription bottle, perhaps more than one. Then again, for all I know, Karen downed a recently filled prescription, again stolen from her mother. I grasp the prescription bottle in my hand, resisting the urge to crush it in my anger. Only one way to find out.

  I open the bathroom door and walk down the hallway and into the dining room. Karen hasn't touched her soup, embroiled in tapping figures out on her calculator. She doesn't even look up. I slam the prescription bottle down onto the table right next to her calculator. She freezes, then slowly looks up at me.

  "Tell me the truth, and I mean the fucking truth.” I point at the bottle. "The Ambien belongs to your mother. Are you stealing her medication?"

  She sputters, "I don't have to steal anything, Daniel, and I certainly don't like your tone."

  "Answer me, Karen," I say, striving for calm. "How much did you take that night?"

  She doesn't say anything for several moments, and I know it. My heart pounds in disbelief. "You faked the suicide attempt?" My voice rises. "You faked it?"

  That's all it takes. I can't believe the change that comes over her. So calm one moment, face flushed with guilt or anger and eyes glaring the next. She stiffens in her chair and then leans back, pointing a finger at me.

  "You made a promise to me! You made a promise to my family! Do you think I was going to let you get away with making me—making them—look foolish?"

  I stand, stunned.

  "You think you're so smart, Daniel. But you know what? I know about your supposedly secret house. I know you bring women t
here. I know about your perverted…" She pauses with a grimace of distaste. "In fact, I know you took a woman there just couple of days before I ended up in the hospital. I also know it's going to stop. You hear me? It's going to stop. You and that skanky brunette girlfriend of yours… so pathetic."

  I take a step back away, not because I’m afraid of her but because I want to slap her. I’ve never struck a woman in my life, and I don't want to. But I’m shocked. And pissed off. I don't particularly care if she knows about my secret life, but what angers me is the fact that she obviously had me followed. I can't decide whether I’m more disgusted, annoyed, or… this is the last straw. She faked a suicide attempt to get her own way.

  I take another step back before I speak. "You did that to my mother? Your so-called suicide attempt? Don't you realize that my mother really cares for you? And your parents? You did that to the people who love you?" I shake my head. "I can't forgive you for that."

  She merely stares back up at me, emotionless. I take a deep breath, realizing I don't want to waste one more bit of emotion on her. I shake my head, my eyes never leaving hers.

  "We're done, Karen. For good this time. And I swear, if you pull another stunt like you did last week, not only will your parents find out, but I'll press charges. You hear me?"

  She snorts. "You can't press charges on someone who tries to kill themselves."

  "Don't push me," I threaten, and I mean every word. "At the very least, I can insist that you get put on a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold."

  "You son of a bitch, you can't do this to me! You can't do this to my family—"

  "Watch me," I say. I turn my back on her and leave her apartment, slamming the door shut behind me. I hear something crash against the door—shattering glass, and imagine she's probably thrown the bowl of soup at it. Crazy bitch.

  I quickly head downstairs to my car, pulling my phone from my pocket. I press speed dial as I step from the building into the parking garage.

  "Hi, Daniel, how are you doing?"

  "Mom, I've had it with her. We're done."

  "Daniel?"

  "She faked her suicide attempt, Mom. She faked it!" My mother says nothing, and I can just imagine the look on her face. "I've always tried to do what you wanted me to do, and until recently, I've been accepting of your wishes. I've compromised on things I never should have compromised on. I wanted to make you happy by marrying Karen, but I can't do it."

  Nothing comes over the phone and for a second I wonder if the call dropped. Then I hear her voice, soft with dismay.

  "Are you sure, Daniel? She faked her suicide attempt?"

  "I'm sure, Mom. I just wanted to let you know in case she tries to call and give you another sob story. I have a feeling she might call you."

  "I don't understand…"

  "I'm trying to understand it all as well. Are you at home?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm on my way. We'll talk."

  I disconnect the call and continue toward my car. One thing is certain. I’m not marrying Karen. I don't care what kind of histrionics she produces. I’ve found someone that I want to be with, and I just hope it isn't too late to fix the mess I’ve made out of things.

  Twenty-Four

  Ashley

  I glance up at the clock on the wall. Four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. Just like old times, sitting in my apartment in frumpy sweats and a T-shirt, working on my laptop. Well, trying to anyway.

  It's been a week since Daniel rushed out of my apartment to go rescue Karen. I shouldn't feel so resentful, but I can't help it. What did she have that I didn't? Money? Good looks? A fancy lineage? Big deal. It’s funny though; I’m angrier at Karen, a woman I’ve never met, let alone seen, than I am with Daniel.

  He can’t help it if his fiancée, ex-fiancée, was weak-minded, or so desperate to hang onto him that she resorted to a suicide attempt to keep him by her side. Sad, really. I know Daniel was trying to do the right thing even though I didn't want to feel that way. His traditional values and loyalty seem at odds with his underground life. The Master, the Dom, and his playroom, as opposed to the professional and solid business owner, fiancée, and future husband.

  I stare at my computer screen, dissatisfied and frustrated. I quit trying to revise my first manuscript, the one based on Daniel and me as its main characters. Looking back, I realize now how obvious I was in describing not only appearance, but character and personality. Now I’m working on a second novel; nothing that hints at my life or his. Nothing about the characters based on me, Daniel, or anyone else I knew. The problem is that they seem flat and two-dimensional. I know I can write. I just need some inspiration. Unfortunately, my inspiration flew out the window at about the same pace that Daniel left my apartment last week.

  It’s a book about a couple venturing into the world of bondage, so it’s the same niche, and this time I can write from actual experience. The location of my new story is far from my own, set in a nondescript, one-bedroom community in suburban Los Angeles. The female character of my new book doesn't work in a publishing house, but rather as a realtor in swanky Beverly Hills. My main male character is nothing like Daniel, but one that I’ve developed as a rather introverted mechanic. You don't have to be rich to delve into bondage, and I want to stay away from any similarities in my character or the slowly developing plot line from my first book.

  During the past week, I’ve had to force myself to go to work and act as if nothing is wrong. Act like the past few months of my life haven't been an out-of-control roller coaster ride—first admiring and crushing on Daniel from afar, then indulging in a torrid underground affair with him. Tory told me that word floating around the pub house was that Daniel was called away for some kind of family emergency. I pretended disinterest, other than the initial oh I'm sorry to hear about that offer of sympathy. Inside, my curiosity was killing me. What happened with Karen?

  Things returned to normal, at least at work. After the third day, I found myself glancing down the hallway toward Daniel's office less frequently. By the fifth night, I could lay in bed and try to go to sleep without imagining a bondage scene with Daniel standing behind me, his cock pressed up against my ass, my pussy wet with desire and anticipation.

  By yesterday, I was beginning to grow disgruntled with myself. Let him go! He doesn't want you! So, here I am, forcing myself to concentrate on new beginnings; a new story, a new attitude, and… well, if not exactly a new life, then a new outlook.

  I admit that I miss Daniel, but focusing on creating a new manuscript is keeping me occupied and in a way, does make me feel better. This time, when describing bondage scenes, I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m writing what I know, one of the foundations of authorship.

  I do wish that someday, I’ll be able to finish my first book, but I’m not so sure how to do it without thinking of Daniel. That character is Daniel. Putting it away for a time seems like a good idea, even though I hate to do it. At the same time, I know that if I don't, I’ll end up wallowing, and I don't want to do that either.

  Daniel taught me plenty, and I appreciate that. I told myself that when he returns to work, more than likely a married man, I’ll treat him with the same courtesy and respect with which I’ve always treated him. I won’t hold a grudge, fuss or internally whine. After all, we had an agreement. It isn't his fault that I ended up falling for him, wishing…

  A knock on my door startles me. I jolt upright in my chair, staring at the door. I hear nothing from the other side. I rise from my chair and walk toward the door, thinking how wonderful it would be if this was a moment of déjà vu and I would open it to find Daniel standing on the other side. I’m not really surprised when I open the door and find a UPS delivery man wearing his brown uniform, a package in one hand, his digital boxlike gadget in the other.

  He shoves the contraption toward me. "Sign here, please."

  I almost laugh at my foolish wishful thinking as I grab the stylus hanging from the device, scribble my name on the screen, the
n hand it back to him while he hands me a large, white plastic envelope. He turns and walks down the hallway as I step back into my apartment. I close and lock the door before turning the envelope in my hand. It has the typical mailing stickers on it, but in the shadowed light of my small foyer, I can't see the return address.

  I take it into the living room and sit down on the couch, pulling the plastic mailer open. I peek inside and see a stack of paper about an inch thick. A manuscript? I reach inside and pull it out, realizing that it’s a printed copy of my manuscript. I frown, thumbing through it. I know that Daniel had to be the sender, and a surge of emotion sweeps upward. Unexpected and powerful. Is this his way of saying goodbye? Sending me my manuscript as if to say he wants nothing more to do with me? Oh, how I wish everything worked out. Maybe—

  Wait a minute. As I thumb through the pages, I remember that I ended my draft on Chapter Twenty. As I flip toward the end of the manuscript, I see a Chapter Twenty-One, and another after that. My manuscript ended on the Saturday evening before Christmas. The last chapter heading here is the second week in January. I frown and lean back. Today is January fifteenth. Curious, I begin to read the last two chapters. My eyes widen as I realize that Daniel must have written the additional chapters, adding several scenes to my story that tell how the hero met someone; someone who understood him, didn't expect anything from him, and wanted only to please him, not only in the bedroom, or his playroom basement, but as a partner.

  I choke back a lump in my throat when I read the last few pages. The hero broke up with his fiancée after she faked a suicide attempt in a desperate ploy to keep him despite knowing that he was interested in, and falling in love with, someone else. My heartbeat begins to accelerate as I read further. The hero called off his engagement a second time, swearing to the fiancée that he was going to try to win the heroine back.