“Who are you?” I yell into his face, squeezing his arms until his face contorts with pain.
“Fuck you,” he spits in a thick accent.
I punch him hard across the face, nearly breaking his neck with the force of the blow. He crumples to the ground, and I strip the pistol from his pants and kick it across the lobby.
“Hey, Steve,” I shout toward the security desk. “Get the cops down here to take this fucker in.”
I step out into the cold evening air, replaying the sound of the man’s voice again and again. Why the hell did it sound so familiar? And what was he planning?
3
Brianne
What did you say this guy’s name was?”
“Jackson Pierce,” I say.
I’m lying face up on my bed, glaring at the ceiling in my dorm room. Lacey is on her bed at the other end of the room, playing on her phone.
“Wow,” she says, a few seconds later. “Have you seen him?”
“No,” I say. “Why?”
She gets up and comes to kneel by my bed, holding her phone out for me to see.
My throat goes dry when I see the picture. It’s a man in a suit walking down a staircase. It looks like a paparazzi shot. And he looks like a movie star. No. He looks better than a movie star. He has dark hair that’s cut short on the sides and longer on the top. But what captivates me are his eyes. There’s a deep darkness in them. A coldness. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on and yet he looks so broken.
Prudish. Forgettable.
His words echo in my mind and I remember to hate him. “Yeah, he’s not bad,” I grumble.
Lacey looks at her phone again, quirking an eyebrow. “Uh. Not bad? This guy is like, Brad Pitt in “Fight Club” sexy. He’s like Thor-level sexy. You could spread him on a shoe and I’d eat it.”
“Spread him on a… what?” I ask, giving her a disgusted look.
Lacey sighs. “You know? That expression, like a sauce is so good you’d eat it off a shoe.”
“Okay, I just don’t think… forget it. The point is he’s an asshole. No matter how good he may look. It’s not like it matters anyway.”
Lacey purses her lips. “Hm. Well, I could cyber stalk him. Maybe you could find out where he gets his coffee or something and tell him off in person.”
I sit up on the edge of the bed, watching as she pulls up more search tabs. “Why would I want to do that?” I ask. “If anything, I just want to bury my head in the sand and pretend none of this ever happened.”
“You would want to do that because you’re a self-respecting woman who doesn’t let some guy determine her self-worth,” she says.
“Listen to Miss Feminist Poster Girl over here,” I say, smirking.
“Shut up. We’re going to find this guy--for science.”
“It’s we now?”
“Of course it’s we,” snaps Lacey. “The only thing you know how to do on the computer is type in Microsoft Word. Let me handle the detective work.”
“You mean the stalking,” I correct.
She sighs. “Judge not lest ye be the judge.”
“It’s judge not lest ye be judged,” I say.
Lacey glares up at me. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you agreed not to talk.”
I plop down on the bed, quietly watching as she digs through article after article about Jackson Pierce. I’m indifferent at first, but some of the articles start to catch my eye. It's weird that he would be a target for the paparazzi, even being as good looking as he is, a publishing executive is hardly their usual target. He also has a long history of secretive, strange relationships. There are even rumors that he’s into BDSM, with several sources claiming to have been ex-lovers.
The most interesting is an article about charges of murder that were briefly brought against him and later dropped. That was only a year ago, concerning a woman named Karen Kieland.
“Jesus,” whispers Lacey, as she reads the article. “Think he did it?”
“Probably,” I say. “He probably told her the sex was unoriginal and forgettable and then put two bullets in her head.”
Lacey giggles. “Now you’re thinking about how you’d impress him in the bed if you can’t do it on paper?”
“No,” I snap, face reddening.
We learn a lot of useless facts about him that have been compiled by female admirers. He owns a yacht, which seems a little excessive to me. He owns a few ridiculously big houses throughout the country. He’s not just involved in publishing, either. He’s apparently a self-taught investor and has turned his already impressive fortune into an absurd amount of wealth through his skill in the stock market. He also has a network of female fans on the internet who basically stalk his every move.
“Oh my God,” says Lacey. “I typed in his name and my phone autocorrected publishing to punishing, so I ended up typing Jackson Pierce punishing. Look what came up.”
It’s some kind of online profile, almost like a dating site. Except Jackson is wearing a mask. Most of his face is covered, but it’s definitely him. “Why would he put his name out there on something like this?”
“Looks like he didn’t. Another ex of his leaked this I guess. Apparently he didn’t care though. The profile is still active. It’s like some crazy BDSM site. Look,” she says.
There’s a picture of a woman strapped in a helpless position while three men in full leather masks loom over her, whips and paddles in hand. The image gives me a dark thrill that starts in my chest and trickles down past my belly.
I shift a little uncomfortably. Look at me. Miss Virgin getting turned on by hardcore, kinky sex. Of course I am. My body is so sexually starved I should probably even stay away from Animal Planet.
“This is way beyond creepy, Lacey. I’m not going to keep cyber stalking this guy with you. Yes, someone should throat punch him for how rude he was about my submission, but I mean… Maybe it really was forgettable. I’m just one of thousands and thousands of college kids who want to be writers. You know how few people actually make it as authors? Even thinking I have a chance probably means I’m delusional.”
Lacey grips my cheeks, smooshing them together until I probably look like a fish. “Bri, listen to me. All that writing stuff is important, sure, but right now, we need to focus. Do you see this man?” she asks, jabbing her finger at a picture of him wading into the ocean, broad back so muscular it could be chiseled from granite. “The universe has basically thrown this man in our laps. We have a unique opportunity to reach out to him, to--”
“Lacey, you have a boyfriend, Remember? Forget Jackson. He’s just a guy. Making a fool out of myself to set eyes on some guy I can see perfectly fine right here is not on the top of my priority list. I think I’ll just have a long, painful evening with my laptop, trying to figure out how to make my writing less forgettable if that’s okay with you.”
Lacey sighs dramatically, but I notice a mischievous glint in her eye as she watches me walk to my desk. I don’t like it. Not a bit. I’ve seen the look before, and it means she’s planning something. Probably something equal parts devious, bad idea, and definitely a hearty helping of recklessness.
4
Jackson
I should really be working on the new stack of manuscripts that landed on my desk, but I’m not. Ever since I decided I was going to place a bid on a submissive, it has dominated my thoughts. That, and the sound of the man in the coat’s voice. I still can’t place why it sounds so familiar, but I wish I knew. It might give me some hint as to why he would confront me with a gun, at the least.
I’ve been browsing the new postings, waiting for one that really catches my eye. I’m about to close my laptop and dive into the manuscripts when a notification appears. A direct message.
VirginPrincess88: I have something you want.
I frown at the message. She’s claiming to be a virgin. It’s an easy thing to claim, but it’s risky to lie. It’s not unheard of for a dominant to request the submissive go to a d
octor for confirmation, not that even a doctor can be certain. Still, the request for verification alone usually weeds out the pretenders.
Pierce: Would you allow a doctor to verify?
There’s a lengthy delay. I wouldn’t actually subject a woman to that. All that matters is she is willing to be tested. That’s proof enough.
VirginPrincess88: Yes. But I want to meet in person first.
I look at the message for a few moments before closing the browser and running a hand through my hair.
Fuck.
Meeting a submissive in person is part of the thrill. That’s not what has me on edge about this “Virgin Princess”. What has me on edge is that I haven’t ever posted to the boards requesting a submissive. I haven’t even placed a bid in nearly a year. So when I receive direct messages like this, they are always from the strange women who have made a hobby out of stalking me through the internet.
I must really be desperate, because I’m actually considering agreeing to meet this woman. I’m almost certain she’s just another fraud, but if she is really a virgin and a willing submissive, I don’t know if I can risk passing that up.
I open my email and begin the drudgery of getting through the hundred or more emails that are waiting for me every morning. Some are notices about authors we have under contract reaching the bestseller lists, some are from our big name authors trying to throw their weight around to get better contracts or privileges. I’m about halfway through when I open an email from Brianne Hartley.
Mr. Pierce,
You seem to have something long and hard firmly lodged up your ass, so I expect this email will never actually reach you, but I thought I’d send it anyway. I’m one of the college students who submitted a sample to you last month. The purpose of our assignment was to see the kind of feedback we would get from a real publishing company and reflect on it.
You couldn’t be bothered to tell me more than the fact that my submission was forgettable and prudish.
Anyway, I wanted to just take a minute out of my day to say fuck you very much, Mr. Pierce. Your advice was the single most depressing, unhelpful piece of criticism I’ve ever received. I hope one day you grow a heart.
Hatefully yours,
Brianne Hartley
I re-read the email, running the back of my thumb over my lips as a smile crosses them. This woman has some fucking nerve. I hardly remember reading those submissions. For all I know, I may have just been in a shit mood and I never even read the thing. Still, I’m so surrounded by people who just want to kiss my ass and women who just want to get into bed with me that her anger is actually refreshing.
Unfortunately, my particular tastes between the sheets aren’t exactly mainstream. Even though this stranger’s email has me dreaming up punishments that have my cock stiffening, the chances that she would be the rare type of woman to appreciate it are abysmal. I’ve learned the hard way that very few women I meet in my everyday life are open to the kind of sex I need to get off. Very few.
So even though the thought of meeting this woman and dominating her has my cock hard, I know it’s a pipe dream. She’d probably draw the line at light spanking, like most women.
I think about the email during the entirety of my thirty minute drive to Fairfield's Center for the Mentally Disturbed. By the time I pull up to the guardhouse at the front gate, I’ve already dreamed up an image of this Brianne Hartley. Long legs, sultry lips, and eyes that burn with a defiant glint that I would have to spend weeks disciplining her for.
“Evening, Mr. Hartley,” says Brandon. He’s a college kid who works the security gate. He’s always on his phone, even when he’s talking to me, but I like him well enough.
“Evening.”
“You know the drill,” he says, eyes still on his phone.
I flash my ID and snag a sticker for my windshield from his extended hand. He doesn’t even look at my ID before waving me forward and sinking back into his chair, thumbs tapping rapidly at his phone.
I move through the reception area and nod to the nurses, who don’t pay me much notice. The building was in slight disrepair when I first had to commit my sister here five years ago. The walls were yellowing, the floors were damaged, and the rooms were small and cramped. I made sure that was all fixed before my sister set foot inside. Now the building hums with electronics, clean lighting, and crisp white walls with enough decorations to lessen the sterile atmosphere. I had some original artwork brought in from my personal collection, hand-crafted carpets and rugs, and anything else I could find to make the place feel more like home for Sarah. If she knew how much of it was my doing, she never would have agreed to stay here. She has always turned away my help, but it just means I have to find more creative ways to give it.
I find Sarah’s room and knock gently before letting myself in. The setting afternoon sun comes through her window, bathing everything in gold. She sits on the edge of her bed, looking out over the oaks and the hills that roll into a forest a few hundred yards away from the building. Her features are unreadable, as usual. Her eyes are distant and sad.
As always, the sight of her sitting by the window calls up unwelcome memories. Old memories. Dark memories.
I put a hand on her back, hating that I can feel her spine through the thin gown she wears.
“Hey sis,” I say.
She doesn’t respond, but I’m well past being surprised by that.
“You need to eat.”
She shifts, almost imperceptibly, but I notice. She moves away from my hand. It’s as close to a response as I’ll likely get and if I know my sister, the meaning is clear. Don’t lecture me.
I sigh. “I got an email today,” I say. “It was from an author I sent a rejection letter to. Well, a student, really. You would’ve liked it. She really let me have it.”
Sarah’s finger twitches on her knee. “Good,” she says. Her voice is soft and damaged. Frail.
My sister doesn’t talk often anymore, but when I hear her voice it tears at my chest. She used to sing, and when she did people fell silent. Women were moved to tears and men fell in love. She was a caged bird--we both were--when I heard her sing, my heart broke because I knew how deep her pain ran.
“Hey, I brought you something.”
She turns her head slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching. almost imperceptibly.
I lift the pink primrose flower, presenting the small token to her. She reaches an unsteady hand toward me, plucking the flower from me and carefully holding it in her lap, tilting her head as she looks down at it. After a long moment, she raises her hand to tuck the flower behind her ear.
We sit together in silence, watching the sunset like we used to wish we could when we were kids. Back when I thought neither of us would ever escape. Sometimes I wonder if we ever did.
It’s only when the sun finally sets behind the treeline that I notice the faint orange glow of a cigarette butt on the road below. It temporarily grows brighter as the man in the car sucks in. I narrow my eyes, leaning closer to the window. There’s an abandoned service road that runs behind Fairfield’s, and the car is parked on it, directly in front of Sarah’s window.
A few seconds later, the lights inside the cab of the car turn on and I can clearly see two men. One of them mimics pointing a gun at me and firing. Twice.
5
Brianne
When I come home from class, Lacey hops off the bed, face lit with excitement.
“Should I be scared?” I ask hesitantly, letting my bag drop to the ground.
“No,” says Lacey. “I mean, not unless you’re afraid of meeting the sexiest man on the planet.”
“What did you do?” I ask in a dangerous tone, advancing on her.
“Easy, easy,” she says, backing away and holding her phone up high so I can’t get it. “I just did something for you because I care so much about you. I know you think you don’t need to see this guy in person, but you do. You need to have a heart to heart with him. You need to get him out of your sy
stem and move on with your life as a writer. You know?”
“No,” I say, jumping to snatch the phone from her. “Actually, I don’t. I already emailed him and spoke my mind. I’m much more comfortable speaking about it electronically…” I say, trailing off as I see what’s on her phone. “You messaged him on that creepy BDSM site? Virgin Princess? What the hell?”
“Bri, come on. You are obviously still a virgin. Don’t take it hard. I hear these BDSM doms really like virgins anyway, so I figured we should broadcast it. But look!” says Lacey. “He messaged back today. He agreed to meet you.”
“Me?” I ask. “No, no, no. You dug this grave. I’m not jumping in it.”
Lacey groans, plopping on the bed. “Bri, I need you to do this for me. I’m in a relationship. I can’t just go letting some mysterious billionaire sweep me off my feet. But I sure as hell can send my sexually deprived best friend.”
“Sexually deprived?” I ask. “I’m not--”
Lacey gives me a dry look. “I’ve played along for years, but it’s time to put a stop to it. You need to get laid so bad my pussy hurts.”
I hold up a hand, closing my eyes and wincing. “Can you please not talk about your… pussy. Ugh.”
She throws up her hands. “This is exactly what I mean! You’re supposed to be a romance writer and you have the same phobia of the male and female anatomy as an elementary schooler. It’s no wonder you never write that sex scene. You’re probably worried Mrs. P. is going to show up and drag you by the ear to the principal’s office.”
“That’s just ridiculous,” I say.
“Okay. Then say fuck. Out loud.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Say it!” demands Lacey, jabbing me in the boob with her finger.
“Ow! What is your--”
“Say it!” she says, raising her finger and threatening to poke me again.
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