by Ava Claire
She gripped my hand, drawing my eye to her. Even behind the mask, her eyes were intense. Pleading.
“Stay?” She bit her lip. “Just for a little while.”
If I was smart, I would have said that I had business to attend to, or better yet, forget the lie and be honest. Staying would just make the inevitable leaving even more painful.
But I'd sealed our fate the moment I told her she was beautiful. The moment I felt the way she felt on the inside. The moment I realized that dominating had a whole other side I hadn't explored...that I liked that she was willful and not docile and obedient.
The moment I realized that I wanted to know her, inside and out.
I didn't let go of her hand. I brought her knuckles to my lips, pressing a kiss on her skin, then I climbed onto the bed beside her.
I closed my eyes as she snuggled up to me, her body soft and warm against mine. “Just for a little while.”
Chapter Four: Sophia
We cuddled for what felt like hours, and then I couldn’t help myself. I slipped my hand between our bodies and I grabbed him. I felt him grow in my hands. Pulse. Then his eyes flew open like he caught himself. He held my wrist hostage, stopping me.
“Get on your knees,” he ordered, his voice hot with arousal and need.
I didn’t waste any time doing just that. I had to fight the urge to pump my arms in victory when he retrieved the cat o’nine whip.
“Will it hurt?”
The leather strips of the flogger danced across my skin. There had to be something seriously wrong with me because I wanted him to say yes.
I wanted to say green, more, and we hadn’t even begun.
“Sin,” he breathed into my ear, “I made you a promise...and I’m a man of my word.” His voice darkened in the most delicious way. “I’m gonna make you scream.”
****
It took me awhile to warm to Lindsay’s ‘parties’.
Dozens of people were stuffed into our two bedroom, one bathroom walk up, with the festivities and drunken actresses spilling into the hallway (and in my bedroom, giving me unsolicited retellings of their last audition). I’d flee to Denny’s, grumbling with my cell phone in hand, Craigslist beaming like some light at the end of the tunnel. I dreamed about the day I’d be able to afford my own place. With time, and finally loosening up by having a shot or two myself, I realized that Lindsay threw these parties because it made her feel less lonely.
Lindsay’s parties became our parties. We trimmed down the guest list and instead of bass thumping EDM music, we met in the middle with electronic tunes that didn’t make our neighbors pound on the walls. We branched out beyond naked Twister to Cards Against Humanity.
Changes aide, my upbringing still made me a nervous wreck when it came time to get ready for a party. In the Slade household, even one of my mother’s friends returning a book was cause for cleaning our house from top to bottom. My mother wasn’t happy unless the place glittered and sparkled like a model home, complete with her perfect little cardboard cutout family. I threw a wrench in it in my own way; smudging a freshly polished glass table, leaving a Starbucks cup on the counter, not folding the end of the tissue paper into a triangle. You know, leaving it free flowing and ready to actually be used instead of admired.
Despite my small acts of rebellion, I was still the one in the rubber gloves, armed with the Clorox cleaner and determination, turning me and Lindsay’s apartment into the house I couldn’t wait to escape.
But not tonight.
I didn’t wince when her artist friend, fresh from the studio and coated in paint, plopped down on our couch. If the stain didn’t come out, who cares? It would give the old thing some character.
When her handsy coworker, a bouncer who liked to hug a little too tightly pulled me in for a bear hug, I darted away with a laugh instead of a scowl.
I didn’t cringe when one of her model friends, already drunk or high or maybe both, started giving me a lap dance. In fact, I took a handful of Monopoly money from Lindsay and made it rain.
When Peter showed up, his cap on backwards, looking all doom and gloom like was surprised he was invited back after our last dinner party, I threw my arms around his neck, thanking him for coming.
My life was bright and sunny and filled with counting down the moments until 7:30. That’s when I slipped into the cab that took me to another world. D’s world, which felt like our world when he lit me up with his hand, his fingers, or that cat o’nine tails whip that I’d first looked at with a mixture of curiosity and terror.
After he disciplined me, he caressed me with gentleness and tender strokes. I’d even got a laugh or two out of him a few nights ago. I still felt him holding back, but tonight, all bets were off. I’d get some liquid courage at the party, then I’d find him at Hush and tell him that I was ready. We were ready...to finally be honest about what was happening between us.
I realized that I was still holding onto Peter and blushed. The person I really wanted to hold was the man in the black mask.
Peter looked down at me, surprise glowing in his eyes as a tentative smile crept across his face. “Quite the welcome - and I thought you'd avoid me after what happened the last time we saw each other.”
I frowned, unwrapping my arms from his neck.
His smile quickly turned to a frown of his own. “I guess it was a bigger deal in my head. We had our little falling out after the staff meeting? I gave you the Desmond O'Connell story and you passed it right back in front of our merciless boss?”
I tried to downplay the fact that I'd stepped onto some invisible minefield. To be honest, I'd completely forgotten about the O'Connell story and our awkward exchange after.
That's not the only thing you forgot. How's that story on Hush coming?
I swiped an almost empty red Dixie cup and maneuvered to the sink, rinsing out the cup for Peter. I headed toward the sangria bowl teetering on the edge of our tiny bar. “Ah.” I scooped the cranberry red liquid into the cup and held it out to him, my peace offering. “We're good now though, right?”
He glanced at my cup like he was getting flashbacks from the last party, and when he looked back up at me, he had the same deer-in-headlights look on his face. “Uh, you tell me. I've been blowing up your inbox for days.” When I looked at him strangely, he went immediately from apprehensive to annoyed. “The O'Connell story? We're both in charge of getting it done, as decreed by Perri the Obnoxious? And whether it succeeds or fails, is on us for crossing her?”
I was so used to smiling, charming Peter that watching him all but growl at me was a little unnerving.
“Normally, I wouldn't care about being a thorn in her side, but she has us in her crosshairs. I need you to take this seriously, Sophia.” He snatched the cup from me, almost sloshing the sangria on the floor. I looked down at the floor. It had just narrowly escaped a splash of liquor that would have gone well with the bits of tortilla chips, soiled napkins, and candy wrappers. The rest of the world was coming back into focus and my 'don't worry, be happy' attitude was slipping between my fingers.
I forced away the urge to grab a Clorox wipe and broom and slapped a smile on my face instead. “My bad.” The music kicked up several decibels halfway into my apology, so I leaned in, so he could hear me better. “Let me make it up to you by kicking your ass in Guillotine?”
His eyes darted around us, the half naked bodies swarming the room gyrating to the music. The last thing on their minds was a board game inspired by the French Revolution. I’d learned my lesson after finding some random couple halfway to third base on my bed and kept my bedroom locked when we had guests, but I quickly shot that down as an option. One look at his face and I took a step back because his neck and cheeks were on their way to matching the cup he was squeezing. I looked over at the open door that led to the balcony, the string lights blinking on the railing. The little cafe table and chairs we'd squeezed in the tiny space looked unoccupied.
Before things got weird with us, I would have j
ust grabbed his hand while we maneuvered through the crowd, but I cocked my head in the direction of the balcony and he got the hint.
Once we were outside, I took a big gulp of the city air, almost as pungent as the reek of vaporizers and the incense Lindsay liked to burn. It was quiet, and I could tell Peter was relaxing so we just stood in silence. We gripped the railing, both of us angled toward the Hollywood sign that we had to imagine because I definitely couldn't afford an apartment with a view.
Remembering the game, I turned to head back inside and give us something to talk about besides the crappy friend and coworker I'd been lately.
“Is it cool if we just talk?” Peter asked softly, the question almost lost in the music that followed us outside.
I raked my fingers through my hair and fought to keep my face neutral. The last thing I wanted to talk about was the elephant in the room, the almost kiss that happened, but I told myself that he probably wanted to get on the same page about the O'Connell story.
“Sure!” I said cheerfully, even adding a playful nudge with my shoulder. We were cool, right? Buddies? If I wanted us to get back there, I had to stop thinking that he was constantly thinking about that night, and how I'd reacted. Or hadn't reacted.
“I want to talk about the last time I came over.”
I was grateful that the string lights weren't bright enough to broadcast my wince. “Peter-”
“Don't worry, I'm not about to try and kiss you again.” He tried to buddy nudge me back, but it just hurt. Not in a physically painful way, in an emotional way, because I could hear the hurt in his voice and I'd seen whispers of it in his eyes ever since that night.
“It's not that,” I explained. I focused on the railing, the sturdiness of the iron, and my mind went to the most inappropriate place possible. I thought about 'D'. How I wished he was here, his powerful body pressed against mine, forcing me to let go of the railing. To trust him. I wouldn't hesitate letting go of my death grip on the balcony railing if he whispered to obey. With Peter, I needed to hold onto something, because I felt like the wrong word, the wrong move, would be misinterpreted and I would hurt him again. More than before, because now, I knew how he felt about me.
“You sure?” Peter asked skeptically. “You can barely look at me.”
I twitched my eyes up at him, his green eyes swarming with hope and a undercurrent of fear that was so palpable that I could taste it. What could I say to that? I could barely last five seconds looking at him before I exhaled and turned back to the front, more comfortable with the dark than telling him a truth that would ruin our friendship. And that's when I knew, when the emotion built in my throat, making the words too heavy to say out loud. How hard had it been for him to be a good friend to me when he wanted more? The least I could do was be honest with him.
“You're my best friend, Peter.”
Even in the near darkness, I saw his eyebrows shoot to his hairline.
“I don't mean in a friendship bracelet, note passing, write love letters in the back of our yearbook kinda way,” I blushed, tugging at my hair. “I guess...what is a best friend anyway? To me it's someone that has your back, who lifts you up, who you can count on when stuff is sunshine and awesome and will binge on pizza and beer with you when things are crappy.” I didn't run away from his gaze this time, because I saw nothing but openness in his eyes. The same kindness that shined like a light at the end of the tunnel when I started at The Dish and I learned that talent meant very little without opportunity. When I was feeling so lonely and unsure of myself that I was wondering if my mother was right about going the safe route, doing something practical instead of chasing my passion.
“You probably don't remember that first staff meeting,” I began, pulling out a seat on the balcony. I only had a few inches to squeeze into it. I managed to slip in the crack and drop onto the seat without embarrassing myself. Watching him squeeze his long, lean frame in a slot that was barely big enough for a small child made me chuckle, and when he fired me a playful glare I just grinned and continued. “I walked in that room with my chest puffed out, naively thinking that every positive comment my English and journalism professors scrawled in the margins of my papers had prepared me for the real world. A world where my boss wouldn't give two shits about my talent. Where my boss wouldn't give two shits about me.”
With anyone else, I wouldn't dare let my bitterness, my vulnerability shine through. I could count my friends in LA on one hand, with a few fingers to spare. When I complained about my disappointments with my job, Lindsay would listen with a look on her face, like I was ungrateful. I had a feeling it was because she, and a whole lot of other people in this town, had to work crap jobs so they could even dare to shoot for their dream job. Peter got it...he wanted to branch away from entertainment news altogether. And D...
My stomach balled into a painful knot. Well, all I knew about D was that he made me feel wild and seen and sexy in a way that was addicting and powerful. Considering we'd only met because of my lie, and we hadn't had a conversation about anything outside of moaning and safewords, I had a feeling that he'd just nod, half listening, but not really getting it. Or worse, he'd offer to wave his magical wand, pull some strings, and give me some elite career on a silver platter.
I peered at Peter, knowing that things would be so much easier if I did have feelings for him, but knowing that's not how things worked. I had a bad habit of letting my heart, and other parts of me, lead me in directions that ended disastrously.
I picked my story back up, pulling us back to the first time we met. “I gave my spiel, my story idea, smiling like I was waiting for applause and what I got was my boss full on laughing at me like I'd just finished my comedy routine.” Anger raged in my chest at the memory and Peter's lips curved in a snarl of his own. I snagged his cup and brought it to my mouth, nearly finishing it off until I realized I didn't need alcohol to get through this. “You were there for me, Peter. There for me when I had no one. And then you helped me at the meeting-”
“Tried to help you,” he corrected, reclaiming his cup with a smirk.
“Yeah, whatever,” I rolled my eyes with faux annoyance. I dropped my hands in my lap, flexing and unflexing my fingers, almost rolling my neck like I was stretching right before I was about to attempt some feat. And now, ladies and gentlemen, Sophia Slade will follow up her praise of her best friend's awesomeness by stomping on his affections!
“When you tried to kiss me the other night, I was flattered-” I scowled at my word usage. I was a writer, I knew better. And he deserved better than some flowery crap engineered to not hurt his feelings, instead of do right by him and myself. “I just don't feel the same. That's why I didn't kiss you back and I've been acting like a weirdo. How do you tell someone that you care about that you care about them, but not like that?”
It was a rhetorical question, so the silence that followed it was expected. His response, however, wasn’t.
“You just did.”
Only three words from him and they packed a punch that went right to my chest. His head was bowed, his own hands visible, and clenched into fists. Maybe my fear and self consciousness made me paranoid, but I couldn't help but worry that he was about to do something crazy. Like jump from the balcony.
He didn't, snapping to his feet, nearly sending the flimsy table airborne. I lurched backward, nearly slamming into the open door. In a blink he was right there, holding the back of my chair so I didn’t fall. The look in his eyes was so empty, so void of anything that looked like Peter that I shivered.
He lifted my chair, the shudder as I sat upright blasting a hole right through me. When he spoke, it was the same tone he used with Perri.
“Check your email. I set up a lunch meeting with the chef dude for tomorrow. Feel free to show up.”
I followed after him, but I couldn’t keep up because he plowed through the living room like he was on the football field - and he could care less who was in between him and victory, or in our case, the exit.
The nudge became a pinch and I whirled in the direction of the person who clearly didn't get the message the first time. Lindsay was standing there, shining as brightly as a kaleidoscope with her wild hair tucked beneath a floral scarf and her tiny frame wrapped in a highlighter yellow body con dress with fire engine red stilettos. There was nothing bright and cheery about her expression as she gave me a once over and gripped my hand, pulling me back to the scene of the crime. The music spilled onto the balcony, but her words came through loud and clear.
“You told him.”
I knew she was just trying to be a good friend, but the wound was still raw. Talking about this wouldn't change anything and if I had a choice between recapping the way Peter had changed before my very eyes or dancing until my feet screamed and my memory was dulled by sangria, guess which option I was picking?
“Can we talk about this later?” I pleaded. In fact, I turned back toward the door. “I've got to head to work soon and I think strutting into the club with red eyes and sucking back snot won't be sexy at all.”