Myka and the Millionaire

by Alexis Alvarez

  “I know he’s not. But what she writes is dangerous,” argued Myka. “Imagine a newcomer who reads this and believes it. If a new sub gets involved with a bad dom, she could put up with abuse because she thinks that she has no right to say no. This is irresponsible writing at best. At worst, it’s—it’s like leading people into a trap.”

  Jessie was silent. “Yeah, I guess,” she said.

  “You guess?” Myka was getting more irritated.

  “No, I agree! I do. Of course I don’t think that article is realistic. It’s not the way I do things, and it’s not the way I think things should work. But, you know, it’s just an article. People need to read responsibly, right? Think before they act? Not be stupid doormats?”

  Myka took a breath and released it. “Rachel is pretty.”

  “Yes. She is. Listen. You need to bring this up with Gabriel.”

  “I know.” Myka sighed. “I know I should.”

  “If you let this keep festering, you’re going to blow up on him without warning. Do you want that? Even the non-subbiest subs don’t want to do that. Nobody wants that.”

  * * *

  The next week Myka toyed with the idea of finally talking with Gabriel about all of her Rachel concerns, but couldn’t do it. When they spoke on the phone, his voice was sexy and low, teasing and provocative. She could not bear to turn that tone into the icy distant one that came every time she brought up his past.

  The elephant in the room that was Rachel was immense, colossal, gas-like in its ability to expand and fill every crevice and gap. Yet it was also diaphanous and misty, and by now she was nearly used to the slight Rachel-tinted film over her vision. Things with Gabriel were good, more than good: the sex was phenomenal, the conversations were complex, and she was so crazy for him that she couldn’t risk it.

  She knew that a talk was the smart thing to do, the necessary thing—but it was also impossible. Every time she opened her mouth to say something, she closed it again. And the longer she waited, the more muted the words became, until they finally faded into obscurity in some far reaches of her mind.

  Besides, it was a busy week with many late nights. She put in at least five hours each night after her tour duties ended perfecting and doing extra work for the aerospace company. Then, because she had spent so much time obsessing over the tiniest little improvements to the aerospace work, she had to jump through hoops to get her regular job done. There were new light sequences to program and significant website changes needed for Kylie, and between the two commitments, she was so low on sleep that she could barely think straight.

  By the time the weekend rolled around, she was so exhausted that she dropped off into slumber right after Gabriel tied her down to his bed, spread-eagled, while he went to fetch some toys. He covered her with the blanket and let her sleep all night. When she woke in the morning, she was disoriented to the point of panic.

  “Ack! What, where did I sleep? What am I—what time is it?” She flailed about, tossing off the sheet, calming when she saw him beside her.

  He propped up on one elbow and gave her a lazy grin, his bare chest making her heart flutter despite her panic. “It’s eight a.m. You slept all night, ma chèrie. I’ve actually never had a girl fall asleep on me while in my bondage gear. Doesn’t do much for my confidence.” He winked and touched her cheek.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry!” She looked around her. “It’s already eight o’clock today? The next day, tomorrow, I mean? Saturday? I need to work on the presentation for Monday. I’m behind.”

  He laughed. “Saturday. Yes. What happened to make you so tired?”

  She flushed. “I haven’t been getting much rest. It’s been two, three hours each night for the past week.” She coughed and it kept coming, and she shuddered and grabbed the water on the nightstand.

  “I thought you had more than enough time to manage the two jobs?”

  “Well.” She hesitated. “Here’s the thing. I guess my time management is a little bit wonky right now. I just get so involved in the aerospace stuff, you know? I’ll spend literally hours on one foil, trying to get the wording perfect. Or researching for hours to read background information in case my team lead wants a little extra. I know it’s kind of overkill, but I’m an overachiever. And then I want to impress Kylee and that bunch, too. It will get easier, I’m sure.” Her voice wasn’t convincing.

  His smile faded. “Myka, you need to take care of yourself. Working two jobs is okay, it’s great even, as long as you stay healthy.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped, and coughed again, a rattling sound that came from deeper in her chest than she liked.

  “You don’t sound fine,” he argued, frowning. “I want you to see a doctor for that cough. And tonight, you need to get a full eight hours of sleep. Understand?”

  “You’re not my boss outside the bedroom,” she argued, even though eight hours of sleep sounded like a luxurious dream and a command that she’d be happy to follow.

  “But right now we’re in the bedroom,” he challenged her.

  “It’s my life,” she retorted, then put a hand to her forehead. She had that icky almost-headache feeling that usually came when she was building up to a cold. “All I need is a mega-dose of Vitamin C and a super-hot shower,” she said. “That always works to get me back in action when I’m a little run down.”

  He touched her chin. “Take your C and your shower. And then you visit the clinic, eat a healthy dinner, and get the full eight hours, tonight and tomorrow. No excuses. If you fail? I’ll punish you.” His eyes gleamed.

  Myka’s stomach fluttered. “Oh, please. You can’t punish me for that.”

  “Want to try me?” His tone was low and dangerous. “I want you to respect yourself. Take care of yourself.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you?” His voice held a slight challenge, and he narrowed his eyes. “Anyway, you heard me. If you don’t obey, I’m going to paddle you for it.” He leaned in and gave her a soft kiss on the lips. “Now turn over and get on all fours. Legs wide. I have to get on a plane in two hours and I plan to fuck you senseless before I leave.”

  * * *

  Later that day, sated and high on good sex, Myka floated back to her hotel room to face a barrage of calls from Kylie, who was dissatisfied with her current picture on the tour website landing page, and enraged that the word ‘life-changing’ was not included in the description of her music.

  Myka tried to keep an even expression as Kylee paced and snapped in her suite. “Myka. This is not the picture I wanted. I specifically asked for the one of me on stage in Berlin, the one where the lights make my hair look like angel dust and sunlight streaming all around me.”

  “This is the shot from Berlin.” Myla wrinkled her brow.

  “The wrong shot. Can’t you see? I wanted the red dress. Does this look red?” Kylie jabbed her finger at the laptop screen, making it yo-yo like a branch in a small breeze.

  Myka sighed. “I’ll fix it.”

  “Oh? And are you personally going to call each and every one of the several thousand people who already looked at this picture of me in the ugly blue dress and apologize and tell them to go look again? I could have lost tons of potential sales!” Kylie slammed the screen down and cracked a can of warm Coke. The liquid spurted and foamed onto her fingers in a creamy tan fluff and she growled and swiped it on her shirt. “This is your fault!” she wailed.

  Myka bit back a rude response. “I’ll change the picture and add the word life-changing to the bio.”

  “Fine.” Kylee continued wiping her fingers, one by one, on the hem of her sweatshirt, swiping each one long and rubbing a few seconds on each fingernail. “Where’ve you been lately, anyway?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you take longer to answer your phone, and you’re not in the hotel as much. The whole point of paying for you to stay here is that you, you know, stay here. And help me. Lately you’re kind of sucking at that. No offense.” Folding her thin
arms across her bulky top, Kylee sniffed and tossed her hair. “Are you offended?” Her voice was sugary.

  A blur of motion from the window caught Myka’s eye; a lost balloon floated past on its way to nowhere. She wondered who had let go and why, whether this was some kind of peace offering to the sky or whether a forlorn child was screaming and pointing in futile desperation. “I always want to do my best,” she answered. “I think it’s important to ensure that I’m meeting your needs as a programmer, regardless of where I spend my time. Do you agree?” She knew that her work was up to the usual standards; the only the different was the amount of time she spent catering to Kylee’s other whims.

  Kylee shrugged one shoulder, and took a swig from her Coke. “I’m saying that you’re not as responsive as usual, and that disappoints me. I expect you to be available when I need you. Understand?”

  “I understand.” She’d never been more pissed, but Myka also felt an uneasy twinge of guilt; she had, after all, been spending a lot of time with Gabriel, and she had been less involved with Kylee’s day-to-day life. She had assumed this meant the singer was comfortable coping on her own, but apparently that might not be the case.

  “So anyway, you can make up for it by—let me see.” Kylee pursed her lips. “Let me think. Okay. I totally want, when people hover over different pictures of me on the ‘songs’ page? I want different songs to play each time the mouse hovers over a picture. And I want the pictures to flash from regular to black and white to like, a blue and white, and to a yellow and white. Kind of Andy Warhol stuff. But each picture should do it when you mouse over. Also, I want…” and Kylee went on to list several cosmetic changes, each of which would take hours to complete. She finished with, “You do that and show me that you actually are, like, committed to me and the tour. Otherwise, I might have to consider options.” She spoke in a cheesy, ominous voice.

  Myka’s heart sank. “I can probably have that done by tomorrow evening,” she said, wondering how long it would take her to run to the clinic, and whether it was even necessary.

  “You can have it done by tonight,” Kylee challenged. “If you care about taking care of my needs, that is. So get on it, okay?”

  Myka sighed. “I’m on it.”

  * * *

  Back in her room, she opened her own can of warm Diet Coke and sat down at the screen to work. It wasn’t difficult, but it was time-consuming, and it was nearly three a.m. before she had the bulk of it completed. She drank another soda for quick energy and wolfed down some congealed fries from room service that had arrived hours prior, and it wasn’t until six a.m. before she could text Kylee: “Changes done.”

  She fell onto her bed, her heart racing with caffeine and lack of sleep, her head swimming with the headache that had pulsed in the distance all night and now was advancing steadily, a knife in hand, ready to twist through her eye sockets. She groaned when the phone rang yet again.

  “Myka? It’s Christopher. I need to see you in the studio ASAP for a planning meeting.” I have an appointment later so I’m moving it up.” Not wanting to say no, she responded in her perkiest voice. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  By the end of the day, she could barely drag herself back to bed, where she crashed into dreamless sleep interrupted only by her coughing, which got worse as the hours passed.

  By the time she managed to get herself to the clinic a day or two later, the verdict made her heart sink: Pneumonia.

  * * *

  When she told Gabriel, he was concerned and rushed to her hotel. “Come back to my place,” he urged, picking up her sweater from the floor and frowning. “I can make you chicken soup, yes? This hotel is no place for recovery.”

  “I’m not that sick, Gabriel,” said Myka, blowing her nose into a soggy tissue. “Look, I’m… gross right now, but I’m not seriously ill. I just have to take my meds and rest. I can’t go home with you. I can’t play. At all.”

  “Did the doctor say no sex?” Gabriel sat next to her on the couch.

  “Well, no. And I didn’t ask her if was okay to let my b—to let you whip me. The right moment didn’t come up. I’m using my common sense.”

  “I’m not taking you home to spank you, ma chèrie.” His voice was frustrated. “I said chicken soup, not whip.”

  “But with you, it’s always a whip.” Myka shot him a glance. “I’m not exactly complaining, I like the kinky stuff too. But I need a break. And if I can’t do it, what’s the point of having me there?”

  He was silent for a minute. His hands were tense on his thighs. “Is that what you think?” he said.

  “That’s what you said, in the beginning.” Myka was startled. “I mean, you said we’re about chemistry, right? I can’t have any this week. I’m telling you my limits, like you asked. I can’t do anything sexy at all this week.”

  She coughed, a long productive cough that ended in a wheeze, and grabbed another tissue. “I’m fine. The hotel kitchen has a completely adequate soup menu and authentic saltine crackers. And Kylee is totally leaving me alone right now because she’s a germophobe. I can relax and watch HBO.”

  It was true; Kylee had been pleased about the web changes, disgusted with the germs, and now seemed indifferent to Myka’s lack of energy.

  Gabriel ran his hands through his hair. “Just fucking come home with me. Stay a few days, and I won’t touch you until you say yes. You can rest there. I want—I want you to come to be with me and spend time together while you heal.” He sounded surprised at his own words.

  Myka blinked at him. “Okay.”

  She packed her small overnight bag in silence, tossing in clothes and toiletries, her medicine. Gabriel took that and her laptop case, and ordered, “Put on your sweater.”

  “You’re not my boss.”

  He gave her a look. “Doctor’s orders. I have a PhD. I’m technically a doctor.” He grinned.

  “Well, I’ll be sure to call you next time my rocket ship runs a fever.” Myka scowled at him, but pulled on the sweater anyway, glad for the warmth.

  When they reached his house, Gabriel settled her on the couch with water and the remote, made her tea, and started cooking the chicken soup. While she coughed, he chopped and called to her from the kitchen. When he brought her a tray to the couch and sat with her to eat, the homey comfort warmed her more than the steaming broth, and at first she was shy, but conversation flowed like usual. Somehow, with sex off the table entirely, it seemed even more intimate to Myka to be with him, their words the only intercourse, and she liked it.

  The soup bowls were long emptied, piled on the coffee table, and Myka lay against Gabriel’s chest, absorbing his warmth and playing with his fingers, since his arms were circled around her. “Tell me a story,” she urged. “About you, from a time before I knew you.”

  He chuckled. “All right. I was seven, okay? Imagine this small dark-haired boy in Paris—I was tiny back then.”

  Myka touched his crotch and giggled. “Hard to believe.”

  He made a tsking noise and laughed. “Naughty girl. I was with my grandmother and she was baking a cake. I wanted to help. So while she was in the bathroom, I decided to surprise her by finishing the batter. I poured into the bowl everything I thought was necessary—a lot of salt.” He handed Myka a tissue when she started coughing. “You okay?” At her nod, he continued. “A whole cup of salt. Maybe two cups. Rosemary, tarragon—all of the spices I found.”

  Myka giggled. “Oh, my God. What did she say?”

  Gabriel stroked her arm. “We baked that cake, and I cried when it turned out inedible. She told me that my creativity was a gift, and she’d teach me how to use it to make wonderful desserts. I think that was the start of my success. That moment, right there, when my grandmother looked at the wreck of a mess I made and told me I was brilliant. Because I believed her. And then I believed in myself.”

  Myka interlaced her fingers with his. “I bet you were adorable.” She could see a small Gabriel in her mind, busily pouring salt, and the pictur
e made her smile.

  He rested his chin on top of her head. “After she died, my mother sent me a box of all her old recipes, handwritten. Some of them are so faded I can’t even make out the words. I have no idea what to do with them.” His voice was wistful.

  Myka twisted to look at him, and touched his cheek. “If you want,” and she flushed, “I could scan the recipes. I’m an expert in Photoshop, Gabriel. I could enhance the text, I’m sure of it. Then I could assemble it into a book.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Wouldn’t that require an editor and agent?”

  Myka shook her head and smiled. “No! There are companies that let you upload content and print your own books, Gabriel, as many or as few copies as you want. It’s not expensive, either. I do it all the time with photo albums. I can make you an awesome hardcover book of all the recipes.”

  “I had no idea that was available.” Gabriel gripped her hand. “I have no talent in that area. Myka, that would be fantastic.”

  Myka stroked the stubble at the side of his jaw. “I’d like to do that for you.”

  When he gave her the box of recipes the next day, it felt meaningful, and Myka spent the next few days feverishly designing his album. By the time she finished, she had successfully incorporated scans of each and every recipe, legibly, into a handsome book. She even included pictures and maps of France throughout the pages, as well as photos of some key ingredients. She ordered a book and paid for overnight delivery, excited to put it into Gabriel’s hands.

  His voice broke as he looked at it. “This is fantastic.” He pulled her in for a hug. “Thank you.”