by Lauren Luman
We get to Park 59 at about ten-fifteen, and just as I predicted, there is a line at the door, along with a rope. I turn to Jennifer and give her an “I told you so” look when she sees what I see. She chuckles, “Yeah, looks like there really is a velvet rope. Who would’ve thought?”
We get in line, and I check us in on Facebook. Each time we go out, we alternate documenting our girls’ nights. For posterity, of course, because my best friend never gets drunk. There has never been a time where she has had to lean on me to get back to our Uber or my car, nor have there been nights she has crashed on my couch, just to wake up with a killer hangover. But that’s beside the point. I love social media. It is how I keep up with what is going on in the world, especially the different organizations and charities that I’m a member of. They are always posting about upcoming events, and utilize this platform as a way of reaching more potential donors. The only thing I despise: the creepy spam messages you sometimes find in your inbox. There are some weirdos in the world, but I digress.
Luckily, the line is moving fairly quickly and once we reach the bouncer manning the door, he asks for our names. Okay, I didn’t think it was THAT kind of club. I don’t know anyone who could have put me on a list. I know people, sure, but not in this circle. Same with Jennifer. Our nights out are much more low-key than this swanky establishment seems to be.
“Carrie Drazen and Jennifer Evans,” I yell over the music pouring out of the door.
“Carrie Drazen, huh?” the man questions. He scans the clipboard and stops about halfway down the page. “Here you are, Carrie Drazen plus one.”
I look at Jennifer, perplexed. Something is out of place, but I shrug it off, determined to have a fun night with my bestie. The doorman unhooks the rope and steps back, allowing us access to the entrance. As we walk in, I take in my surroundings. This place really is top notch. There are low-sitting, cream colored sofas lining the walls with one wide, red, horizontal stripe through the back cushions. Glass-top tables sit in front of each, some areas filled with party-goers nursing various cocktails and beers. The lighting is dim, but just bright enough to see everything around us, and the walls have this industrial concrete look. Intermittent candelabra-style light fixtures reveal the source of the low lights, and in the far, back left corner is a deejay booth. Even the man spinning tonight is in a suit. I turn to Jennifer, “This place is spectacular. We need to start coming here more often. The décor is beautiful, and the atmosphere of down-to-earth sophistication. I love it.”
We stroll further in, just gazing around at everything happening. It is still relatively early so there aren’t many people on the small dance floor in front of the deejay’s area. We pick one of the seating areas on the opposite wall from that crowd, and within minutes, a waitress with a nametag that reads Paula, approaches to get our drink orders. I order a cranberry juice, while my partner in crime requests the same, but with vodka. “Can I get a card to start a tab for you ladies?” the waitress asks. I hand her my debit card, and she prances off to the bar to retrieve our drink orders. When she returns, she sets down cocktail napkins and our drinks, then passes my card back. “I’m sorry, Ms. Drazen, I can’t accept this card.”
Caught off guard, I panic. “Excuse me, why not?”
“Because the staff was informed that if any of us served you tonight, we were not to charge you or any of your guests. Instruction from the boss, of course.”
My confusion was growing. I had no earthly idea where this was coming from. “Your boss? And who might that be?”
“Mr. Jackson. He runs this place. Well, runs it might be putting it lightly. He actually owns it, along with a few other clubs.”
“I see. And is he here tonight?” This whole time Jennifer is fighting back a grin.
“Jennifer, what are you playing at?” I snap at her, annoyed.
“Nothing! I promise.” She recoils. I never bark at her like this, but my confusion has my anxiety dialed up to ten.
I turn my attention back to the waitress and ask to meet this “Mr. Jackson.” She nods and walks off back toward the bar. She catches the bartender’s attention and relays the message of my request. His eyes go wide, and he shakes his as head as if to signal that my wanting to find out who this boss is, is denied. As my frustration peaks, I get up and head their direction. I need to get to the bottom of this.
“Pardon me, but is there a problem here?” I ask the staff members as I approach. I’m trying not to act like a privileged bitch, but this is silly.
“Ma’am, Mr. Jackson does not come out to the club floor, ever,” the bartender bellows in my ear. “Most especially tonight. He just wanted us to ensure you enjoy your time here at Park 59, and he specifically said we are not to charge you a dime for anything. It’s all on him.”
I swear I feel steam coming from my ears. I’m not good with surprises or admirers. I like things out in the open, straightforward.
“Look, I promise I am not trying to make your job difficult, but if he is so inclined to make sure I have fun at his establishment, why won’t he show his face? What if I tell you that seeing him would guarantee my joy?” I try negotiating, hoping it would heed progress.
The bartender looks down and sighs, “Ms. Drazen, I’ll tell you what. I will go back to his office and talk to him. If he wants to make himself known, he will come out. I cannot make any promises though. Mr. Jackson really likes to stay behind the scenes.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. It’s at least an effort.” I turn on my heel, and step fiercely in the direction of Jennifer sitting at the table we’d chosen.
“And that’s how Drazens get shit done,” I rub my hands together as if to dust them off.
“So, is he coming out here?” she asks.
“They said he likes to stay behind the scenes but would ask him. They didn’t make any promises, which is okay, but I just couldn’t let this go without finding out who our mystery man is. If at least to thank him for his generosity more than anything.”
“Well, while we’re waiting, let’s just enjoy. This deejay is playing some good jams.”
Jennifer and I hang out in our area, just soaking in the music and taking in the vibe of the club. I meant it when I said we should come back again. It has a very “grown and sexy” feel to it, something I could appreciate.
Several songs later, our waitress comes to check on us to see if we need refills. She also delivers a note to me, written in bold, masculine handwriting that says: “I hope you are being safe, Carrie.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Drazen, but the boss refuses to come out. Says this note is enough for you to figure it out.” She shrugs and takes our refill orders.
My eyes widen to the size of moons. “I can’t believe this.”
“Who is it, Care?” Jennifer asks, more curious than anything.
I show her the carefully written note, on a cocktail napkin, no less. “It’s got to be Malakai, that guy in my building I told you about. The one from the parking garage. When I mentioned where we were going tonight, he said he had heard of it and told me to be safe. I wasn’t sure why he’d said that, but it held an air of genuine concern and almost of hint of possessiveness that I didn’t want to think about.”
“And why not? You said when you met him, the chemistry was phenomenal. What is so wrong about that? Carrie, you need a man who is going to set fire to your life like a torch, in the best way. Over the years, I have seen you date these guys that barely put any kind of spark in your eye. From the way you describe him, it seems Malakai started a whole bonfire.”
I push on her shoulder and laugh out loud, “Oh geez, I cannot stand you! But you always tell me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. Okay, I have an idea.” Then I proceed to wave our waitress over and ask for her pen. I grab the cocktail napkin where my new neighbor scrawled his message and pen one of my own. I’m feeling bold and brazen at this moment. Taking a leap, I add a reply with my phone number, and I pass it to Paula. Her eyes light up, and she takes off for the
bar.
Jennifer’s smile is so wide I think her face might crack. “I am so proud of you, Care,” she says and she hugs me tightly.
“Thank you. For so much. I love you, chick.”
We eye the bartender, and he nods, heading in the direction of Malakai’s office. My nerves are frazzled again, but for a very different reason this time. I am hoping and praying that I read him correctly and that this will be a step toward the fire.
Chapter 3
Five days. Five goddamned days since I decided to take a walk to the edge and send that cocktail napkin back with my number written on it. I also haven’t even spotted Malakai in the building once since that Friday afternoon. Granted, there are probably two hundred other residents in the downtown high rise where we live, but I assumed, since we have assigned parking, that I would at least run into him in the parking garage. Well, you know what they say assuming does. Because it is Wednesday, I am on a shift at the Crisis Center, doing what I love most. And though it is something I am passionate about, and not just a job, my mind is elsewhere. I’m imagining Malakai’s strong hand gripping that pen as he relays that message that would reveal his identity to me. I remember the way his hand felt against mine, the current of attraction that raced through my blood as our skin brushed and made contact. That chemistry is foreign to me, so naturally it rules my thought processes. When I realize my constant distraction is not leading to a productive shift, I decide it best to ask for the rest of the day off. I could make the hours up tomorrow if they need me to, but my focus is paramount when it comes to helping one of our callers regain their hold on life. I keep seeing Malakai’s face, hearing that deep, smooth-as-whiskey voice of his telling me to be safe. The level of concern in his words perforates my psyche. I don’t think even my family cares so much. But I need to snap out of it. It is obvious I misread whatever was in his eyes, as he has not even attempted to contact me. That tells me all I need to know.
I step into my program supervisor’s office to request early leave. “Mrs. Reynolds, can I have a moment with you?” I ask, knowing her days are more unpredictable than mine.
“Yes, Carrie, come on in. I have a minute. Is everything okay?”
“You know I love being here, and helping these kids is my passion …” my voice trails off.
“Carrie, you’re not quitting on me, are you?” Mrs. Reynolds values all her employees and proves it every day.
“No, of course not. It’s just that …well I’m a bit distracted today, and I know that it is most important that I keep my head in the game at all times. I was going to ask if I could head home a few hours early and make up the rest of the time tomorrow. That’s if you need me.” I knew I didn’t necessarily need the money, but I hate leaving my comrades high and dry. In a city as large as Houston, we tend to stay fairly busy, due to its metropolitan population of several million, including the suburbs. Our jurisdiction covers not only the city limits, but also the area still within the county but outside those edges of the city.
“Carrie, this isn’t like you. Do you want to talk about it? You know I have an open-door policy and will always listen to anything my staff needs to vent about or wants advice on.” And this is how she continues to show that she is more than just our boss.
“No, thanks, Mrs. Reynolds. If it’s all the same to you, I would just like to take the rest of my shift off.” Mrs. Reynolds is good at reading people so I’m hoping she can’t see right through me.
“Okay, but any time you need to talk, you know I am more than willing to lend an ear.” And that’s my boss, one of the most compassionate people I know.
“Thank you so much. And if you need me to come in tomorrow, please let me know.” I figure I would go home, get in bed and get Malakai out of my system for good.
With that, I turn on my heel and exit Mrs. Reynolds’ office, shutting her door behind me. I am grateful being the subordinate to someone who is flexible with our personal needs. But then again, our mental and emotional health is important to ensuring the same of those we help every day. Sometimes, I even look to her like a mother, someone who occasionally dotes on me as a parent would.
As I stride out the building to my car, my cell rings. I dig through my purse, hating that I can never find anything in it. I recover it, but miss the call. I don’t recognize the number, because it’s not a Houston area code. Probably one of those robocalls, but I take my chances and dial it back.
“Carrie, thank you for returning my call. I don’t like getting your voicemail.” Malakai. At first, I feel this nervous excitement that he’s finally calling me, but then it morphs into irritation. He has some nerve.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Where does he get off disapproving of my not answering the phone? “And furthermore, what was all that at the club? When I told you I was going to Park 59, you could have said you owned it. You failed to mention it was your establishment. How did you even get my last name to put me on your little list? I don’t recall giving it to you.” By now I’m fuming. This is the man that has my mind racing? Maybe I need to second guess my judgment.
“Carrie, princess—”
I cut him off immediately, feeling a physical reaction come over my body at that nickname, the one Troy used when we were in scene. “Do not ever call me that. I am not your princess. I am nobody’s princess. Get that through your head right now.” I take deep breaths, trying to stave off an anxiety attack. I haven’t heard that term of endearment in years, unaware of what would happen if I ever did. I get to my car, leaning against the driver’s side door, trying to recover from a flashback of what happened three years ago. Remembering my one attempt to submit, and how I was attacked by my dominant in a fit of unwarranted jealousy, I grip my chest where I feel my scar. That man cut me down my torso and could have easily killed me. My balance is shaken, and this time it isn’t from the timbre of Malakai’s voice.
“Okay, Carrie, I sincerely apologize.” He’s silent for a beat. “Have dinner with me. I’ve made reservations for us at seven p.m. at Fiorelli’s.” How presumptuous of him. His tone is certainly apologetic, but also still has that demanding way that tells me he will not take no for an answer.
As my racing heartbeat starts to calm, I realize that he is asking me out, or more like telling me I will be accompanying him out. Either way, my heart rate picks up again, but for a whole other reason. I let out a deep sigh. If I give in this easily, am I weak? From the moment I’d met Malakai, I’d been enraptured. Oh, what the hell? What harm will it do to have dinner with this man? This very beautiful, tantalizing man. With a resigned sigh I say, “What time should I meet you downstairs?”
“I’ll have a car come pick us up at six-thirty, but I will be at your door at six-twenty-five. Be dressed and ready to go.” This man really needs to control everything, and if I’m honest, it doesn’t bother me. It calls to a deeper longing inside of me that I think I’m finally ready to explore again.
“And Carrie?”
“Yes, Malakai?”
“Wear those red shoes from Friday night, a dress, and make sure you aren’t wearing any panties.”
“Excuse me—”
“Those are my terms, Carrie. You’ll learn I’m a very particular man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever you say, Mr. Jackson.” My voice drips with sarcasm at the salutation.
He chuckles, “See you at six-twenty-five, sharp.” I hear the call end, and I proceed to unlock and dip down into my car. It’s a good thing Mrs. Reynolds let me leave the crisis center early, because now I’m torn between actually drinking or taking an hour long cold shower. My nerve endings are on fire. The dilemma is this: follow this man down the rabbit hole into a world I left years ago, or refuse what I feel is right for who I am, to my core. People who practice the BDSM lifestyle understand it’s a piece of who they are, and without it, there would be a void, an incomplete puzzle. Sometimes I feel like I’m one of those people. With this, I resign myself to the fact that Malakai may just be my renewed chance a
t becoming whole again.
Chapter 4
A cold shower does absolutely nothing to abate the nervous energy running through my bloodstream after that phone call with Malakai. Our conversation lasted a whole of maybe five minutes, if that. Why does this man get so deep under my skin that it feels like I’m infected with some kind of incurable virus? I am hot and cold at the same damn time. And my pussy? Well she’s starting to get a little perturbed at the lack of attention too. As wet as this man makes me, I’ve done nothing about it. But it is not like I’ve even had the opportunity. In less than a week, we’ve had two actual conversations. We know little to nothing about each other. As a matter of fact, I’m still trying to figure out how he knew my last name and apartment number. But at this point, I am done with questioning myself. It’s time to question my neighbor. I have to fight this weakness he draws out of me and get some answers.
After a restless nap, I get up and take yet another shower, though this is more to freshen up. I turn this one to scalding hot and step in, soaking myself in steam and lust. Before I even begin to lather up, I slump down against the shower wall, bringing my knees to chest and part my legs. My mind goes to this dark place of submission, one that I miss. I’m picturing Malakai in all his beautiful brown-skinned glory. As I imagine my eyes spanning down, he’s only wearing these faded blue jeans that hug his form just right. I can tell how thick and strong his thighs are, as if he could crush a log between them. I am on my knees, staring down, in the perfect submissive pose. I plant my left hand on the floor of the shower, using my right hand to play with my swollen clit. I flinch at how sensitive the ball of nerve endings is and continue, moving down to dip two fingers into my wet center. I bring them out and use that wetness to coat my clit, using just enough pressure, circling faster and harder. Just as I am about to come, I envision him latching on to both of my taut, pink nipples and twisting until I scream. When I open my eyes, my body is quaking from the strongest orgasm I have had in years. In this moment, I know that I have to pursue this. I have to let this happen. If I am having such a visceral reaction without even feeling his touch, or more, I know that once Malakai commands me to my knees, my body will explode with rightness and a feeling of elation.