Dom's Baby

by Melinda Minx

She nods.

  “So take it home with you, read it thoroughly. Either bring it back to me signed next time we meet, or tell me that we’re through. It’s up to you.”

  She bites her lip and tucks the folder under her arm.

  9

  Madrigal

  It takes me a few days away from Dominick to process what happened. It’s not that I want to be away from him, just that he doesn’t contact me. I keep looking at the contract on my desk, but I don’t want to read it. I read over the first page, and my eyes bulge a bit at the price, but it’s within my means. I can afford it.

  I just need to work.

  The first business call I get is one of my new clients. A very difficult one. I recognize his deep, slow drawl right away.

  “You told me I’d have my shipment by Tuesday,” he says, “And it’s Tuesday. I don’t see a shipment.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, but I quickly pull up all my manifests to be sure. I know with difficult clients that it’s never a good idea to risk giving them something to get mad about.

  “Maddie?” he says. “Hello? Are you busy painting your nails, or—”

  “Just a moment, sir,” I say, my voice sickly sweet.

  He sighs loudly.

  I pull up his profile and the manifests, which confirms he’s wrong. “Mr. Humblebee, it says here that your shipment is scheduled to ship out today, not arrive today.”

  “You told me it would arrive today, I know you said it!” he says, sounding irate.

  I take in a deep breath. I open my email, search for his name, and find the email thread. “I’m looking at an email I sent to you last week, Mr. Humblebee, and I told you—in writing—that it would ship on Tuesday.”

  He draws in quick breaths, then says, “Well, you should have been more clear, shouldn’t you have? We’re not all in the import and export business, and I don’t know all the lingo. Why would I even care when it’s shipped, I’m buying something, so I want to know when it arrives. When is it going to arrive, Maddie?”

  I grind my teeth together. No apology for him being wrong all along and yelling at me as if he was right. Just immediately shifting blame and making new demands.

  “Well,” I say, “Mr. Humblebee, your shipment went out from Shenzhen, and—”

  “Shenzhen?” he yells. “Where the hell is that? Not in America, that’s for sure.”

  “It’s in China,” I say. “Again, in our emails I see that we discussed at length that having your parts manufactured in the US was too costly, so you told me, in writing, that you’d go with China.”

  “If I’d known it would take so long to ship,” he says, “Maybe I wouldn't have.”

  “The shipment will arrive by Tuesday—”

  “Next Tuesday?” He sounds almost like he’s hyperventilating now.

  No, this Tuesday? The ship is going to go through a time vortex and arrive yesterday? What is his problem?

  “Yes, Mr. Humblebee, just under a week from now it will arrive in Vancouver. From Vancouver I’d honestly expect that it can’t clear the port before the weekend, so it’s likely going to arrive at your place of business in two weeks.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” he shouts, and hangs up on me.

  I double check to make sure he’s already paid me. He has. He can deal with his two-week wait, but there’s no way he can get his money back from me. It’s signed and done.

  Signed. That reminds me, and I look over at the damn contract. I open it up and flip through it. I see a bunch of very specific wording that I’d rather not think about, and I shudder a little bit, then close the contract once again.

  I hesitate a few moments, pick it back up, and just sign the damn thing. The price is within my means, I know that Dominick is going to try to knock me up, and I know that he’s not going to be the father. Dominick knows whatever the rules are anyway, so it’s not like I’d break some rule that would make me have to pay a huge fine, or one that would send him away at the drop of a hat.

  I stuff the signed papers into the folder, then slide the folder into my big oversized purse. I’ll keep it in there and give it to Dominick next time I see him. One more thing done and dealt with means less to stress out about.

  The phone rings again, and I answer it with a cheery voice, happy to deal with anyone but Mr. Humblebee.

  “Maddie,” the voice drawls.

  God, again? Really?

  “Yes, Mr. Humblebee?”

  “Can the damn Chinese turn that boat around?”

  “You want to cancel your order?” I ask. “You’d have to call the port in Vancouver and tell them not to put it through customs. Then they’d charge you a shipping and restocking fee.”

  “You women and your fees,” he snaps. “Here’s what I’ll do. I don’t like working over the phone. I’m old-fashioned. I want to look you in the eye, Maddie, and shake your hand. How can I make a deal and work with you if I’ve never looked ya in the eye and shook your hand?”

  I have his profile still open. He’s local. How unfortunate. I won’t have an excuse not to meet him. He’s bringing in just enough money that he’s worth putting up with. Just barely.

  “Alright,” I say, “I’d enjoy meeting face-to-face, Mr. Humblebee. Where and when did you have in mind?”

  “You come here. I don’t like driving.”

  I try not to grind my teeth into the phone. “And when?”

  “You aren’t already on the way?” he asks. “Get a move on.”

  I drive up to what looks like a warehouse a kidnapping happens in. Okay not where a kidnapping happens, but where someone who is kidnapped is taken to.

  Great. And I’m the idiot driving right up to it.

  I don’t even see a sign or anything. It makes sense, because Mr. Humblebee is mostly acting as a middleman. He’s having components manufactured and shipped in bulk from China, and then he’s selling them piecemeal to customers. Considering how his rusted warehouse of a business looks, I can only assume he’s selling them online.

  I pull up next to just two other cars and get a pretty bad feeling.

  Without thinking, I get my phone out, open my messages to Dominick, and type out the address of Mr. Humblebee’s business.

  Hey I’m here right now. Don’t come or anything... but if you don’t hear from me in two hours. Come get me.

  I hit send. I know Dominick won’t be happy that I “gave him an order” but he’s the first person I thought of as a backup contact for “please don’t let me get kidnapped in this warehouse.” He can’t hold that against me, can he? I’ll explain to him later if he decides to get on my case about it.

  There’s a trailer in front of the warehouse, and I walk up to it and ring the bell.

  “Come in,” a woman’s voice chirps through the buzzer. The door unlocks, and I step inside.

  I see a woman in her mid-40s sitting at a desk. She’s filing her nails, but she puts down the file to smile at me. “How can I help you, darling?”

  “I’m... Mr. Humblebee told me to come see him?”

  “Did he now,” she says, a devious smile filling her face. She pulls her glasses down her nose to look at me.

  “Not like that,” I snap.

  She laughs and hits a few keys on the keyboard. “Ah, sorry, he did let me know you were coming. I hadn’t noticed it. Silly me. Says you bamboozled him about the shipment date for his next order?”

  I control my breathing. It’s not worth going off on the secretary who doesn’t even seem to know what’s going on beyond her nails.

  “Did you let him know I’m here?” I ask.

  “Well,” she said, “He told me he’ll be a bit late. He’s in the warehouse. No way to contact him when he’s in there.”

  “He’ll be late?” I ask. “Are you sure? I just spoke to him fifteen minutes ago. He told me to come right away, I assumed he’d be ready for me.”

  She laughs. “You don’t know Mr. Humblebee very well then, do you honey?”

  “So you’re saying he�
��s late and unreliable?” I ask, anger flushing my cheeks.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “He’s reliable. He will just get to you on his own time. He’s a busy man.”

  “You realize I’m a busy woman, right?” I say, pressing my hands down onto her desk and looming over her. “Not just men can be busy. I think I’m going to leave.”

  I turn on my heel, but the secretary clears her throat. “Ms. Morningside, if you really want to get him, you can just holler at him in the warehouse.”

  “Great,” I say. “Will do.”

  I stomp out of the trailer and go for my car. Then I look over at the warehouse and see one of the bay doors is open. Maybe I will holler at him, to tell him that he’s an asshole and that after this order is done, we’re through.

  I step inside and see a bunch of tall shelves all packed full of machined parts. There’s a forklift sitting off the side, and there’s even a big sandblaster next to a giant vat where he must clean or anodize all the parts.

  I feel a bit relieved to see all the legitimate equipment here. He has a real operation going with a secretary—even if she sucks. So he’s probably not going to kidnap me, he’s just going to totally waste my time.

  “Mr. Humblebee!” I shout with my hands cupped over my mouth. “It’s me, Maddie Morningside. Your secretary told me to holler at you, so I’m hooting and hollering here!”

  I wait, but there’s no immediate answer. Just when I’m ready to turn around, I hear, “Maddie, welcome. I’m back here.”

  His voice echoes from behind the shelves.

  “I just want to tell you that—”

  He cuts me off. “Can you bring me the quarter-inch PVC pipe while you’re over there? One of the four-footers.”

  “No,” I snap. “I cannot.”

  I start to walk around the shelf, moving toward where his voice is.

  “I’m not your secretary, or your errand girl, and I shouldn’t have come here to shake your damn hand. You ask me to come here right away, but you don’t even respect my time enough to be ready…”

  I turn the corner and see his back. He’s tall. I’d expected a short, stocky, older man. Not a tall—

  He turns around, and it’s not Mr. Humblebee. It’s Dominick.

  He grins at me as steam nearly bursts out of my ears.

  Dominick holds a small object up to his mouth, and then he says in Mr. Humblebee’s low, drawling voice—which I realize now is disguised by the machine in his hand, ”Hello, Madrigal.”

  “Isn’t this a bit much?” I ask.

  “It’s what you’re paying for,” Dominick says, no longer speaking into the machine.

  “I’m paying to be jerked around by a fake customer, drawn into the warehouse, and—is your payment going to bounce on me?”

  “No,” Dominick says, shaking his head. “The organization paid for it. It’s a business expense for me. One I deemed necessary.”

  He’s walking toward me now. He’s wearing a tight, simple blue t-shirt and jeans. Also tight. I find my eyes drawn to his body, and I feel my anger bubbling, but I can’t look away from this gorgeous man.

  “What is the necessity here?” I ask. “You get me angry as hell, worked up, and yelling at you in a warehouse?”

  “Exactly,” Dominick says, and he grabs hold of my hand. “Now come with me.”

  I pull against him, fighting, but he shoots me an admonishing look. “You’re not going to obey?”

  I stop and relax myself. I look up at him and nod. “I’ll obey, but I can still be pissed off, can’t I?”

  Without answering, he pulls me deeper into the warehouse.

  We reach a large door, from which Dominick has to pull a huge metal deadbolt out of to open. It creaks and squeals as he pulls it.

  “You know, when I saw this warehouse from outside, I told myself this is the kind of place people get kidnapped in—”

  “You wouldn’t kidnap someone in here,” he says. “You’d bring them here after they’re kidnapped.”

  “I... dammit, that’s what I meant—”

  “Not what you said,” he says, pulling out a second deadbolt on the other side of the big door.

  “Well anyway,” I continue, “It gave me a scary feeling, and now you’re pulling rusty deadbolts out of the kind of door you see in a horror movie.”

  “I see, and you’re angry that I brought you here,” he says.

  “You didn’t even bring me here, Mr. Humblebee, you made me drive out here.”

  “Ah, that’s right.”

  He pulls on the door handle. The big metal door creaks loudly, and then begins to slide open. Dominick’s muscles bulge as he pulls, but as the door gains momentum, he starts to let go and lets it coast open on its own.

  “This way,” he says, gesturing for me to go first.

  I look inside, and it’s pitch black.

  I don’t want him to ask me about obeying again, but I do ask, “Was there anything in the contract saying you’re not allowed to kill me?”

  He laughs. “You read it, you tell me.”

  I didn’t read it, so I laugh nervously instead.

  “Madrigal,” he says, “If I were going to kill you, which is very illegal, do you think I’d let a legally binding document stop me from doing it?”

  I punch him in the torso. It just hurts my hand. “You say that to make me feel better?”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel better,” he says. “I ordered you to go in. Now go in.”

  He pushes at the small of my back, and I march obediently forward.

  Then I hear the metal sliding again, and I look back in shock as I see the door closing. I thought it was pitch black inside, but I see the light from outside shrinking and closing down to a small sliver. That sliver finally disappears with a loud and deep thunk.

  Now it’s pitch black.

  I scream. “Dominick!”

  “I’m here,” his voice says, cool and collected despite us stepping right into a horror movie.

  I hear his footsteps, and then another sound of old metal moving. Followed by a crackle.

  The lights turn on all at once, and I squint as the sudden brightness blinds me.

  When I finally adjust and look around, I see a bunch of weird bondage stuff everywhere. On the walls, hanging from the ceiling, built into the floor and walls.

  “Oh my God.”

  “That’s what all the parts are for,” Dominick says. “The ones I ordered for the organization.”

  “All this crazy sex stuff?” I ask, shocked that my wholesome business is shipping raw materials to a sex dungeon.

  “This place can get wild at night,” he says, “Or so I heard. But for now it’s just us.”

  I suddenly realize that I’m not just here on a sightseeing tour. All this “crazy BDSM stuff” isn’t something for me to gawk at like I’m in a museum. It’s all potential tools that Dominick could use on me.

  He takes me by the hand and walks me toward what looks almost like a bunk bed. Instead of a top bunk, there’s just a wooden bar with metal rings. The wooden posts on the side have chains hanging off, and the bottom “mattress” looks more like something from a doctor’s office than from a Holiday Inn.

  “Sit,” he says, his voice dark and impossible to ignore.

  “Um,” I stammer. “You’re forgetting the sanitary paper?”

  “It’s clean,” he says.

  I sit down.

  He gets right up in my face, so close I think he’s going to kiss me, but he instead reaches down—without breaking eye contact—below the bed. I hear something clatter, and he brings up a small metal object.

  “Give me your hand,” he whispers.

  I obey, and he holds my hand gently in his. He places what I realize is a metal cuff around my wrist. He pulls out a key and locks it, and then he holds up a second cuff. “Other hand.”

  I give him the other hand without a fight, and he locks it shut. The cuff is smooth metal, and it’s long enough that it doesn’t dig uncomfortably
into my wrists like a police handcuff would.

  I hear metallic jangling as Dominick pulls on the chains attached to both ends of the bed.

  He hooks the chains into little rings protruding out of my cuffs, then he steps back and looks me over.

  I reach down and pull at the chain. “You realize I can unhook this chain, don’t you?”

  He pulls on something out of my view, and I hear a horribly loud clattering, like raining metal.

  The chains start to move, and as soon as I realize what’s happening, I feel the cuffs tug at my forearms. My arms are pulled up and outward, and when Dominick finally stops, each of my arms is jutting out and up at a forty-five degree angle. I pull a little bit, but there’s almost no slack. I just feel the cold metal of the cuff press against my skin.

  “You’re completely under my power and control now,” Dominick says. “You still feel angry, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “At me?” He asks.

  I try to think it over, but I realize I’m not mad at him. He’s doing what he’s trained to. I’m paying him to mess with me like this, to keep me on edge, and to do whatever it takes to give me a baby.

  “Are you mad at me, Madrigal?”

  “No,” I say.

  “At who then?”

  I shake my head and mutter to myself.

  “Who?”

  “At Mr. Humblebee,” I say. “But that’s—”

  “No,” he says. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I was looking for. You’re mad at someone who isn’t even there. You simply. Can’t. Let. Go.”

  His voice sounds hypnotic like he’s telling me what I should think, but I realize he’s right. I can’t let go of my anger, even when it’s directed toward a man who doesn’t exist.

  “I’ve had customers like him,” I say, trying desperately to justify it. “It’s not like you just made this up out of thin air. There are people out there like that and they get under my skin. I’m allowed to be mad at that if I want.”

  “Yes,” Dominick says. “You can be mad, of course. But you’re projecting your anger onto whatever you can. You’re mad at a man who doesn’t exist, and rather than letting go of that anger or working through it, you just project onto others. Vague others, in this case.”