by Lauren Luman
Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Flip City Media Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Drazen World remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Flip City Media Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.
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Red Velvet
By Lauren Luman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
“Crisis Intervention, this is Carrie. How may I help you?” I chirp into my headset. I truly love my job, working for a team that assists troubled teens who feel this moment could be the end. Not many have the patience it takes to exude the calmness and control necessary when a call comes through our line, but having spent years in college obtaining undergraduate and graduate degrees in Social Work, I’m built for this shit. As I proceed to take the call, talking a fourteen-year-old girl off the proverbial ledge, my heart soars knowing that my passion for helping the youth of the community actually makes an impact. Not to toot my own horn, but I know I have a good heart, one of the best out there probably. And these kids, they sense that.
I do this job because it gives me the warm and fuzzies inside. It doesn’t pay much, but with the last name Drazen, I can afford to take a job for the love of it and not for the money. And because it is part-time, I’m able to dedicate the rest of my free time to other worthy causes, whether it’s with my bank account or hours out of my day.
It also allows me to lead quite the social life. I am certainly not much of a drinker, but finding ways to make time for my best friend, Jennifer, quite often leads me to places where the liquor is flowing freely. Sometimes it’s a house party, sometimes a sports bar near my neighborhood. But as single ladies at the age of thirty-four, we tired of the club scene long ago; however, I do miss the breed of well-dressed alpha male that frequents the clubs of downtown Houston.
It’s not that I don’t date, I do. It’s just that after what happened when I tried my hand at submission three years ago, I don’t yet have the nerve to go that route again. For me, the bad apple really did spoil the bunch. After my then dominant, Troy Emerson, methodically sliced me down my chest and abdomen with a steak knife, I did not hesitate to shut my online profile down. I was convinced using a BDSM social networking site would be perfect for someone like me who was new to this world of pain and pleasure and everything it had to offer. Because of the stigma of the lifestyle, I was shy, and if I’m honest, a bit embarrassed, and felt that hiding behind my laptop to browse the community was the safest and easiest way to slowly dip my toe in the water. Things with Troy obviously didn’t last long, and to this day, he is still serving time on his fifteen-year sentence.
But I’m a fighter and always have been. Growing up in a large family should have afforded me the opportunity to maintain invisibility, but daddy had other plans for me. I was fortunate he never put his hands on me, but the looks he would send my way would sprout goosebumps all over my body. That’s how I ended up in Houston. I had to get away and make my own life for myself away from my father’s lingering gazes and borderline inappropriate remarks. Something is not right with that man; I could feel it. But I can gladly say that since my departure, he has not once tried to contact me, except when it came to handing over my trust fund. I hated taking his money, but he insisted saying no Drazen should live without means, so I use much of it to fund local, national, and even global charities dedicated to equality for various marginalized groups.
I decide to text Jennifer on my lunch break to see what tonight’s plan is. She’s the planner, I’m the buyer.
C: Hey girl, what’s up for tonight?
She promptly messages me back, signaling she must not be busy at work either.
J: So, I was thinking…I heard about this new place called Park 59. It’s a little more upscale than what we normally get into, but I need a change of pace. I think it is close to the Galleria, a lounge of sorts. Are you up for it?
C: You know what? Yeah, I am up for it. Maybe we’ll meet some cute guys. It’s been awhile… And BOB just isn’t cutting it for me these days!
J: Ok look, I’m off at 8 today. I’ll run home and grab my stuff then come to your place. We can get ready there and take an Uber.
C: Cool beans!
I finish eating my lunch of a sandwich and some fruit when I get this pang in my chest. Telling Jennifer about how lacking my sex life is just reminds me of this missing puzzle piece I am unable to find. More specifically, rediscovering my submission. I’ve tried the nice guys. Those with proper manners who are just fine with letting a woman get her way all the time. Personally, my attention span for those types of relationships is that of a goldfish. The past few months, I’ve been craving the touch and command of the type of man that will put me in my place, in the best of ways. Hey, I may be a feminist, but there’s something about a man who shows initiative and takes charge, going after what he wants with no hesitation. Hesitation in my mind equates to doubt, and we can’t have a man doubting where his interests lie, now can we?
At four o’clock, my shift ends, and I head home. In my head, I’m mentally rummaging through my insanely large closet, trying to figure out if I actually have anything to wear to this lounge. When it comes to fashion, I’m a pretty simple woman. I wear heels if I have to and cocktail dresses only when necessary. Formal almost never happens. Then I remember my go to little black dress. All women have one LBD. That one default dress that you can wear to almost any event that calls for something a bit more than casual. Pair that with these red, strappy heels that I recently bought from this boutique in Midtown, and my favorite Givenchy clutch and diamond-studded earrings, and I think we have a winner.
As I pull into the parking garage of the premium loft building that I call home in downtown Houston, and kill the engine, I spot an unfamiliar car. It’s an Audi A6, black and sleek with what look to be custom wheels. The interior is a grey leather, but what catches my eye the most is the man stepping out of the driver’s side door. My jaw drops as a tall, sexy-as-hell, brown-skinned bald man climbs out from his seated position. He sports a trimmed goatee and a smile with beautifully gleaming white teeth. My attempts to avert my gaze and avoid getting caught looking fail, and our eyes lock. He has these piercing, coffee bean-colored eyes that send a shiver down my spine, and I feel my pale skin turn as red as my hair. This is one of those moments I wished I’d opted for tinted windows when I purchased this car.
I fumble and accidentally bump the automatic window button. The window recedes slightly, just enough for him to see some of my embarrassingly red face. This god of a man smirks at seeing my mouth still standing wide open, gawking at his strong form in the space two cars down. As if I couldn’t feel even more flustered, he decides to stroll in my direction, still holding my gaze. As he approaches my car, I figure I might as well go ahead and step out. With the car turned off, it would warm up quick without the air conditioning running, and on top of the shame, I refuse to also be sweating buckets in this sweltering Houston heat.
“Hi,” I let out, barely above a whisper. What the fuck? I am Carrie fucking Drazen, badass extraordinaire, so to be so caught
off guard by a man that my mind is turned to goop, rendering me nearly speechless, well that just doesn’t happen.
He chuckles, a twinkle in his eye. Such arrogance. He obviously sees right through me, as if the eyes truly are the windows to the soul, and mine are wide the fuck open.
“Well hello there. I’m Malakai.” Then as he goes to shake my hand, and our skin makes contact, that swagger morphs into something fiery. To match that look in his eye, I feel an electric spark shoot up my arm. I peer through chocolate-colored orbs and feel like I’m seeing something for the first time. Something I haven’t seen or wanted to see in years. The air of pure, indulgent dominance. This man. Between his tall stature, broad shoulders, strapping arms and soulful gaze, he steals the air from my lungs. I am racking my brain, trying to remember the last time I met a man so captivating. I come up empty. A sound breaks my reverie, and I shake my head to regain focus.
“I’m sorry, what?” I am so mesmerized I’m not even paying attention to what he’d just asked me. Silly libido.
“I asked your name,” he replies, imploring me to engage in some type of conversation with him.
“Oh-oh. I apologize. My name is Carrie. I was thinking you must be new to the building, because I’ve never seen you around before. And I promise spacing out is not my thing.”
“First, I am new to the building. Second, I don’t mind spacing out, as long as it is not during conversation.” And the definitive manner in which he speaks those words sends more shudders down my arms. I know exactly what type of “spacing out” he was referring to, and for the first time in years, I entertain the idea of drawing on that submissive side I’d locked away. It is at this moment that I follow his gaze, noticing I have my hand resting lightly around my throat. I recall how breath play would take me straight into subspace, a feeling akin to floating, but I also remember how he-who-shall-not-be-named turned something beautiful into a vicious assault. That incident three years ago changed my entire perspective on the lifestyle and sent me back into the vanilla dating world. Nowadays, I mostly rely on fresh batteries for the majority of my orgasms.
“Welcome to the building, Malakai. I hope you love it here. I have lived here about 4 years and absolutely adore my floor plan. And the management and staff are great. Maintenance is quick, too, usually fixing things the same day you report them. They have mixers once a month, but I don’t always go. Maybe I will see you at one some time.” At this point I am rambling, my mouth moving at lightning speed to keep pace with my thoughts. Malakai has me so discombobulated, and it’s such a foreign feeling, that my reaction is not that of my normal character. Usually, I’m a very confident person, moving through life without hesitation.
“Tell me, Carrie, what do you do when you choose to skip these mixers?” His voice is smooth like molasses, coating my mind with wonderfully dirty thoughts that lead to dark places filled with bondage ties and crops, things that would send me in a spin of orgasms.
“Well, um, I usually cause trouble with my best friend Jennifer. She is my partner in crime, my bestie. As a matter of fact, tonight is one of those nights. She told me about this new place by the Galleria called Park 59. It’s not normally our scene, but she wanted to try something new, so I agreed. Have you heard of it? She said it is really swanky.” The craziness in my head is starting to calm as I talk about one of the most important people in my life. She was there for me when everything with Troy went down, and has been a beacon of light to me, practically like a sister since I left my own family behind years ago.
“Park 59, huh?” Malakai chimes in. “I believe I have heard of it. So that’s your plan tonight? Be safe, Carrie.” And he says it with this air of concern that says he cares, which is silly, because we literally just met. It feels right, though.
“Of course, I will.” And with that we part ways as he heads in the direction of the office, and I enter the elevator to head up to my apartment.
Chapter 2
Knock, knock, knock. I move towards the door and let Jennifer in, holding my mascara wand in my hand. I’m nearly done applying my makeup, a smoky eye and bold red matte lip to seal the look. With my shoulder-length red hair and fair skin, I look like a sexpot. The ensemble is dramatic, a change from my usual blouse, jeans, and sandals. My best friend looks me up and down, letting out a long whistle. I roll my eyes, “Yes I can clean up, and you know this. Ugh. Stop making a scene. I sense I need to up my game tonight since this place you are taking me to seems to scream ‘dress code’ and ‘velvet rope’.”
Jennifer lets out this high-pitched laugh, tears threatening to leak out of the corners of her hazel eyes. I love my best friend, but god she can be annoying sometimes.
“I’m sorry, Carrie, but damn. You look hot! I knew you were getting tired of flying solo, but I had no idea you were looking to get out there again.”
“I did not say anything about that. It’s just that, well, you never know who you might run into.”
She looks at me curiously, as if she knows I’m hiding something. “Care, what are you hiding? Did you already ‘run into’ someone?” She forms air quotes around it as if she sees right through me, which she does.
“Nobody. I just, well I just figured I should put more effort into my appearance when we go out. You know I hardly wear any makeup, and sometimes my crazy red hair is thrown up in a bun.” She nods in agreement, but does not buy what I am selling.
“Look Carrie, I get it. But you seem different. It is almost as if you have this glow. We are best friends. You have to know you can tell me anything, even your dirtiest, raunchiest shit, right?”
Now it’s my turn to burst into laughter, and I go to throw my arms around her neck. “I know, I know. Okay here’s the deal. I did meet someone, but it isn’t like that. He is a new tenant in the building, and we spoke briefly in the parking garage when I got home from work. I will say this though, he is sinfully gorgeous, like an Adonis. Think Morris Chestnut, circa “The Best Man” level of sexy, with a booming voice to match. He spoke to me in this way that had me reverting to my thoughts of submission, and my knees even nearly buckled when we first shook hands. I felt this physical chemistry like nothing from my past.” I force my eyes shut, attempting to block out my previous foray into the beautifully dark world of Dominance and submission, though those two aspects are only a small portion of what it entails. I let out this mangled sigh, “It’s just that, well you know how that went before, and I try so hard to maintain this vanilla lifestyle that I see as safe. The guys I force myself to date are nice, but weak. And I don’t mean physically. I just do not have the capacity to be with a pliable, submissive man anymore. I need strength, command, someone that will put me in my place, but in the best way. At this point, finding all of that seems out of reach. That’s where BOB comes in. I can fantasize about it all, without the dangers of physical or emotional damage. I get off imagining that I am on my knees, in front of a man of Morris Chestnut’s likeness with eyes the color of dark chocolate, nearly black. Then from there the images differ, depending on what experience I’m craving. But Jennifer, I know these should stay fantasies. I’m not willing to put myself at risk again the way I did before. As a matter of fact, I have yet to mention any of my desires to anyone since he-who-shall-not-be-named. They’d likely look me as if I was fucking crazy, or worse, they would want to engage without really understanding anything about the lifestyle. I can’t deal with that again.” I take a deep, resolute breath. “Anyways, enough about my depressing shit. Let’s finish glamming up and get out of here.”
Jennifer is looking at me sympathetically, fully understanding my need to change the topic in the middle of conversation. Not only is she my best friend, but she is also gorgeous. She has this creamy, caramel-colored skin originating from a Caucasian father and a Jamaican mother, also resulting in these beautifully unruly curly locks. She loves to wear her curls natural, very rarely even attempting to straighten them, because Houston is abnormally humid, all the time. I envy that she can be out in th
e sun without a hint of sunscreen; whereas I have to put on the strongest SPF I can find just to prevent heat rashes and lobster-like skin. It’s so unfair, and she constantly teases me about it, but I love her in spite of the teasing.
“I’m ready and waiting, Care! Let me just order an Uber. You know how impossible it is to find parking near the Galleria.” While her fingers work furiously across the screen of her phone, my mind wanders. I’m thinking of Malakai. That handshake and smirk on his face projected a sense of confidence I haven’t seen or felt from a man in years, and it is so refreshing, but also unnerving. I cannot go there. I know it. He has to remain the new center of my “me time.” Men like him are dangerous, not just to my heart, but my spirit as well.
“Done!” she calls out. “Now if you are finished, we can head downstairs. According to the app, the car is only about six minutes away. It will be a red Honda.”
“Alright, I am ready to go. Let me just grab my clutch and make sure I have everything I need. Phone, check. Driver license, check. Breath mints, check—” and Jennifer cuts me off.
“Breath mints, huh? Look at you, planning ahead,” she kids.
I give her a determined look. “I sure am. Like I said earlier, you never know who you will run into. Moving on. Lipstick, check. Cash, check. And debit card, check. Okay, I’m good to go. Let’s blow this joint.”
After locking up, we head to the elevator. During the descent, we catch up on our week. I live for girl time. It gives me the opportunity to speak and act unashamedly in a judgement free zone. I can curse like a sailor or laugh at my own corny jokes, and my bff does not mind. We are kindred spirits and have been since the day we met. She is the only person who knows, not only about Troy, but about my family back in Los Angeles, along with why I took off. And I am certain I can trust her not to tell a soul. When you have someone like that in your life, you treasure them. Friends that are more like family than your actual blood can hold an even bigger part of your heart.