by Jane Henry
She gets to her feet, shaking her head. “No fucking way. Are you crazy? And who the hell are you to decide this?”
She’s right. I don’t have a claim on her. I’m not her dom, or even her boyfriend. Still, I’m not gonna let her do stupid shit. Instead of answering her question, I decide to pose some questions of my own. “Do you have a better idea?”
A muscle ticks in her jaw and she looks around the small, but nicely-furnished room. She’s silent for a minute before she blows out a breath and sighs. “Well. No,” she finally admits. “Not really.”
I nod. “Listen, Myers and I are gonna work with Zack and get to the bottom of this. We’ll get them behind bars and you to freedom as soon as we can. But until then, you have to play it safe, Zoe. No heroics or wiseass moves, or stupid-ass shit that’ll get you killed. Got it?”
“Fine,” she says. “You and Myers and Zack and me,” she says. “Did you forget I’m in on this, too?”
I shake my head. “No, of course not.”
Her gazes sweeps the room, and her eyes pause on the wall filled with implements and tools I use for play time.
“One question, though, Master Brax.”
I bite back a laugh. She’s a spitfire. “Yeah?”
She tilts her head to the side and I’m reminded why I was drawn to her in the first place. Her hair swings and hits her chin, her eyes bright and curious. “When do I get the kink tour?”
Chapter 6
Zoe
God, this place is crazy, like it was lifted out of some scene in a BDSM book or something. The walls are painted a dark hunter green, with a matte finish giving the room a subdued feel. There’s a thermostat on the wall set at seventy-two degrees, and though there are three large windows, they’re covered in sheer curtains that allow light to filter in yet give the room total privacy. We’re on the right side of the club, so all windows face the street. The fridge is stocked with some protein shakes, fruit cups, and bottled water, but little else.
I spent one night here but don’t remember much. So now it’s time I get myself better acquainted.
Brax went to go tend to things with his daughter, after ordering me lunch and asking me to stay put until he got back. He promised me the deluxe version of a tour when he gets back, and I wonder what that means. Does that include demonstrations? I snicker to myself at my own joke, taking another bite of the pizza. God, I forgot how much I love pizza in NYC. The crust is slightly charred and chewy, the sauce perfectly seasoned with a little tang, the cheese rich and creamy. I eat three slices before I’m full, then slide the remains in the little fridge that’s in here. This place is nearly as well furnished as my apartment. Clearly, this is outfitted for extended stays. Among other things.
I make my way to the bathroom and check things out. This is impressive. An enormous, circular tub that must be a whirlpool or something, sits in one corner of the room. It has steps and a sturdy handle leading to it. There’s a pile of plush green towels in the closet, as well as an ample stock of hand towels and washcloths. I touch them gingerly with the tip of my finger. They’re soft, and they smell faintly of a clean, invigorating mountain-breeze, as if they’ve been freshly laundered. The bathroom’s impeccably clean, but I can’t attribute that to Brax, as it’s clear someone who does housecleaning was in here before we returned. There’s a cabinet next to the towels. Feeling a bit like I’m sneaking into things I shouldn’t, I open it. I blink in surprise. There’s a full supply of first aid materials here, bandages and ointments, saline, and ibuprofen. Why would he need such a heavy stock of medical supplies? Even as an emergency responder, I have the bare minimum at my apartment. He doesn’t even live here.
Are his play sessions… dangerous?
I close it quickly, my heart thumping in my chest.
Why do I sort of hope they are? Why does the thought of him doing dangerous things make my pulse race?
I leave the bathroom and shut off the light, returning to the main area. I was so plastered when I came here last, I don’t really remember much except for a really, really large bed, some things hanging on the wall, and the dark green color of the walls. It was nighttime and darker, so I didn’t really see everything he has in here. And hell, does he have this place outfitted.
I walk to where the array of things hangs from pegs on the wall. I may not be a kink expert, but even I know these are things designed to cause pain. How much pain? I have no idea. But the varnished wooden paddle-like thing with holes drilled into it doesn’t look like it’ll tickle. It appears he has them arranged according to type. Beside the paddle hangs a thinner wooden thing that looks way more flexible, like some type of rod. Gingerly, I take it down, and tap it against my palm. I inhale sharply, surprised at how much such a flimsy little thing like this hurts. For some reason, I tap my palm a second time, a line of fire lighting across my skin. I’m not sure why I need to do this. I didn’t think I like pain. But the thought of Brax wielding this on me makes my mouth go dry. I hang it back up and flex my palm, trying to ease the pain.
There are several other things that look like hairbrushes without bristles, stouter paddles, and something that resembles a back scratcher, but it’s far longer and more wicked-looking. Next to the wooden things hang a bunch of items that are leather-wrapped. I draw closer, inhaling the fragrance while I gently touch the first. It looks similar to the paddle, but it’s covered in deep crimson leather, with beautiful intricate roses carved into the leather. Beside that hangs what looks like a strap, black and sturdy, with little give to it, like a belt of sorts. Some of the leather things are soft and some sturdier. I lift the rose-covered paddle and smack my palm with it. It has a very different sort of feel than the thin, flexible thing. It stings, but it’s almost pleasant, leaving behind a warm burn. I look around me, suddenly tempted to try this thing out. No one will see me. I have no doubt I’m in total privacy here, or he never would have brought me here to begin with. I want to feel this thing. I reach behind me and whack my own ass with the rose thing, feeling like a total moron.
My cheeks flame with embarrassment. I can’t believe I just spanked my own ass. But I like the way the paddle feels and make a mental note to somehow talk Brax into giving that one a go on me.
I go down the line and look at the rest of the things on the wall. There are some plastic ones that look wicked, a black loopy thing that makes me cringe, and a small table to the far right houses a variety of things that make me stare. I can identify rubber-tipped clamp-things attached to a chain, leather cuffs, and a variety of things that look like they’re meant to tie someone up—a length of soft, braided rope, a silky blindfold with a thin elastic attached like something one might wear to bed at night to block out light, and even a pair of lightweight plastic zip ties. I look at them in bewilderment. Really? Then I remember what Brax said about bondage being his specialty.
But there’s something besides the ropes and ties that catches my attention, and not in a good way. It looks almost like a hood, but with an area cut out for breathing. My heart thunders in my chest and it isn’t until I notice I’m lightheaded and grasping the table that I take a huge, deep breath. I was holding my breath. The feeling of suffocating has my anxiety mounting. I close my eyes and will myself to calm.
I can’t bear anything that deprives me of the ability to breathe deeply. Being punished by being locked in a closet will do that to someone. I hate that I’m weak like that, and I’ve done everything I can to get myself over it, but I can’t. Just the thought of that damn hood over my head for whatever the fuck reason makes me feel like someone’s squeezing the breath out of my lungs. I take several more deep breaths before I drop the lid to the table, and move on.
There are two padded pieces of furniture in here. How did I not notice them before? Or did he have them put in here? Either option is admittedly disconcerting. He didn’t have time to have them put in here, so I suppose they were cast in darkness, as they’re in the furthest corner of the room and from a distance they make it look l
ike a place to sit and read or something. But that’s clearly not what these are. One is a padded bench that looks like some kind of modified kneeler someone might find at church, but something tells me this is not used for praying. And to the right of that lies a flat table that’s slightly bent, almost like a recliner. Next to that table sits an assortment of candles. I look at them curiously. They seem really out of place here. Why does he have enough candles in here he could open up a shop? Brax doesn’t seem like the hippie sort. I shake my head. The questions just keep piling up.
I walk back to the bed and feel exhaustion weighing me down. It’s comfortable and quiet in here, and I didn’t get much sleep the night before. The pizza filled my belly, and now I feel like I could take a nap. After I dress into a pair of yoga pants and a cami, I lay down on the huge bed. It isn’t until I’m half-asleep, looking at the room around me, when I notice rings attached to the posts of the bed. I swallow hard, the vision of me attached to those rings making me feel warm and tingly inside. What would he do to me if I were fastened to those rings? Would I like it?
My body says hell yeah I would.
I wish I had my computer. My phone will do, but it’s not as easy to do searches as it is on my laptop. And hell, do I have shit to look up. I know almost nothing about kink clubs except that there are things like tops and bottoms, doms and subs and… other things. He’s not only spanked me, he’s threatened to, and he’s already made it clear he’s a self-professed dom. So what exactly is a dom?
I take out my phone and begin to Google, but my eyelids are heavy and I can’t keep my eyes open. I fall into a dreamless sleep.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
I mumble and moan, twisting up in the sheets and pulling the pillow over my head. I hate waking up.
“Deja vu here.” Brax’s deep voice, laced with laughter, gets my attention. Wait. Where am I? I pull the pillow off my head and blink up at him. It’s dark outside the windows.
“How long did I sleep?” I ask, pushing myself up to sitting, and rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
He sits on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m sorry I was later than I expected. Had to wait for a sitter for Devin, but she’s all set now. I came back as soon as I could. It’s not supposed to be my weekend with her, but I had to pinch hit.”
I nod. “So your daughter’s taken care of,” I say, my voice still straggly from sleep. “And she’s six. And you have, lemme guess, a crazy ex.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yep.”
Great. I landed myself a man with a crazy ex.
Wait. He’s not my man.
I nod. “Okay, then. So when are you going to give me the tour?” I ask.
He looks away and his jaw firms. “Not sure that’s the best idea now,” he says. “Has Zack been in here to talk to you?”
“No.” I’m immediately on alert. I sit up, frowning at him. “What the hell is going on?”
He looks at me steadily, his voice grim. “While I was gone there was a disturbance at your building. Not sure what happened, but all I know is NYPD officers showed up, there was an altercation, and your doorman ended up shot.”
Jesus. Reynolds? The doorman?
“Wait. What?”
“So far news says the doorman was involved in some kinda illicit activity, NYPD tried to apprehend him, he put up a fight and pulled a weapon.”
“Reynolds wouldn’t hurt a flea,” I whisper, shaking my head. “This is bullshit. He kept dog treats behind the desk to hand to the little spoiled terrier on the fourth floor. He planted flowers on Memorial Day for the wounded vets and volunteered at the Big Brothers and Sisters Association. Is he okay?”
Brax looks away. “No.”
Christ.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Where’s Zack?”
“Zack’s looking into it, and he’ll see you tonight.” He clears his throat. “He’s bringing Beatrice with him. I want you to talk to her about doing something with your hair. Something radically different. Dying it, maybe. Cutting it.” He gently runs his fingers through the tangled hair on the pillow.
“What?”
“Listen, Zoe. We have no idea who knows what here. None. Zack is confident no one tracked you here to Verge, but we have to keep your staying here an absolute secret. You do not venture outside of this club until we figure out what the hell is going on and just how deeply this corruption goes. You get me?”
Yeah, right. If he thinks I’m going to hide like some sorta scared little girl, he’s got another think coming. I’ll play along, though.
“You want me to dye my hair,” I repeat, nodding my head. “Fine. If you think that’s what I should do.”
“I do. I’m going to meet with Myers in thirty minutes, debrief him on everything we know, and have his men look into this. You can trust him. He and his men will find out what we need to know.”
“You mean what you need to know. I do jack shit sitting in here like some kind of criminal.” It sounds petulant and I know it, but I’m pissed. I hate that I have to go in hiding to protect my ass when the real criminals wander free.
Brax reaches over to me and brushes my hair off my forehead. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry. You know that?”
I don’t respond. I’m not sure what to say. Looking around his room and lying in his bed, I want to remember what happened last night. I want to feel his hands on me again. I might not remember every detail, but I do remember that it was really fucking good.
“Thanks,” I say with a sigh. “I hate this, Brax. I don’t want to hide, and I feel totally useless in here.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not useless. You’ve given us enough information to go on for now. We have names. Your biggest goal is staying alive, Zoe. What makes you think you’re any different from Zandetti? From Reynolds?”
“Fine,” I finally agree. I cross my arms on my chest and look around the room. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do when you get back,” I mutter. “I wanna know what all this is.”
He chuckles and playfully slaps the side of my leg. “Will do. Now sit tight and wait for Beatrice. Do not leave this room under any condition. You get me?”
“Yeah,” I say, though I have every intention of leaving this room and investigating things for myself, namely, exactly what kind of whiskey Verge stocks behind that bar. I won’t be a dumbass about it, though. Still, I’m no wallflower and I won’t pretend to be.
He looks thoughtfully at me, then leans down and to my surprise, presses a kiss to my forehead. It’s so sweet it makes tears prick my eyes. I look away so he doesn’t see.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ve got a shift here tonight, but I’ll check in on you. Keep your phone on you. Myers will want information. If the club was closed, I’d take you with me but leaving now might rouse suspicion and we don’t want that.” He gets to his feet and his voice drops to the deep, commanding register he uses when he means business. “Stay here, Zoe. You understand?”
“Sure.”
“Anything you need? Some more to eat?”
“No, I’m good. Could use a drink.”
A corner of his lips quirks up, but his eyes look a little troubled. “We’ll talk about that when I get back.”
What the hell does that mean?
He leaves, and I wait a little while before I get out of bed. I close my eyes briefly.
Reynolds.
They got Reynolds. How far does this go? How deep is the corruption? I feel like Ben Hoffman’s only the very tip of the iceberg.
I need a disguise. But I also need a drink before Zack and Beatrice arrive. I’ll think clearer when I’ve had a little drink and am able to push away the pain that claws at my chest when memories surface. I became who I am to seek justice, and hell, I’m not gonna find justice sitting here on my ass.
I sift through my bag until I find an oversized top I usually wear to bed that will cover my curves and make me look bigger than I am, and a pair of worn, non
descript jeans. There’s a baseball cap hanging on the wall in the back of the room, and I have enough make-up in my bag I can disguise myself well. Even Zack or Beatrice won’t recognize me.
When I’m done, I give myself a once-over in the mirror in the bathroom. No one would ever think this is me.
Tentatively, I open the door, but then I realize that if I’m creeping around and being hesitant about anything, that I might look suspicious. I finish opening the door with confidence, and when I let it go, it shuts firmly behind me. I turn, panic-stricken, and realize with chagrin that it fucking locked behind me. What the hell is that about? Jesus. How am I going to get back in there and pretend I never left? Something tells me I don’t want to face Brax when he’s angry.
Ah well. I’ll worry about that later. I walk with confidence in the direction of the bar. I have a good head for directions and remember the layout of the club. The private rooms are apart from a room that has like ten times as much equipment as Brax’s private play area, but beyond the rooms lies the bar.
The main area is crowded with people in various states of dress when I arrive. Some wear nothing but leather, some scantily clad with only strips of material covering their crotches or breasts. I’m supposed to fit in here, so I don’t gape, but I wish I could really spend some time looking around. I realize pretty quickly that my stupid outfit meant to look casual and unremarkable isn’t a disguise at all. I stick out in this crowd dressed like this. Shit.
I look to the bar. My mouth waters. Jesus, I need a shot.
I make my way there trembling, not from fear but the sudden need that consumes me as I draw closer. I need to taste the fiery burn. I need to feel it burn my throat and into my belly, giving me the relief I need.
“Hey,” I say, casting my eyes down when I reach the bar. I’d look out of place here if people weren’t so uniquely dressed. I might not be dressed in leathers, but it doesn’t really look like there’s a dress code here, and no one really looks my way.