Twice Shy (The Restraint Series)

by Flanagan, Jill C

  Stacy shook her head, unable to speak or she’d cry. West brought her deeper into his arms, rubbing little circles on her back to pacify her.

  “I hate you hurting, lovey. If I could take it away, I would. Let me take it away. We can leave. This was a bad idea.”

  It was so tempting to do that. Stacy had never thought she would have to come back here. She regained some of her composure and pulled away enough to look West in the eye. “No. I’m just having a bit of a weak moment. I need to do this. You know that.” And I couldn’t do this without you. I wouldn’t be strong if it weren’t for you and Tim.

  West didn’t look like he agreed, but there wasn’t any argument from him. “Sarge said to be there at ten. Mary apparently gets there at about 10:30.”

  By the time they showered and both talked to Tim, Stacy was bolstered and ready to go. She was paranoid enough to convince West to take the side exit out of the building.

  The Saloon was only a couple of minutes away, like everything else in Cutters Creek. When she passed through the old swinging doors, the stale beer aroma flooded her nose. The place had been cleaned and the terry-cloth table covers had been removed and replaced with clean ones. Other than that, the place looked exactly the same.

  Rough-hewn wood with knots and holes paneled the walls. Nicotine and varnish gave the walls a honey-warm patina. The floor was stained dark brown and had scuff marks from boots and moved furniture. Posters and stolen highway signs dotted the bar. The theme continued, signs displaying beer names long forgotten lying collage-like behind the bar itself.

  The bar had hardly changed. Logically, it wasn’t surprising, but emotionally it felt wrong somehow.

  Tim echoed her thoughts. “Sarge, do you think you could bring this place into at least the late twentieth century? I haven’t been in this place for over twenty years and I don’t think anything has changed.”

  Sarge made a noncommittal noise from his usual place on a stool to the side of the bar. He sipped a coffee, probably his fifth or sixth of the day. Sarge wasn’t much for sleeping and averaged at least one coffee per hour.

  West grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. Stacy asked, “Where do you want us to wait so she doesn’t see me?”

  Sarge didn’t seem very talkative this morning, which wasn’t unusual. He pointed to the access door to the upstairs living quarters.

  Stacy nodded, not feeling particularly chatty herself. Acid coated her stomach and she felt bile doing the backwash thing up her throat.

  West put a calming hand on her back. “He’ll text us when she gets here.”

  The next fifteen minutes did not go quickly. Confidence and self-assuredness were the cornerstone attributes of a good Domme. She was not in possession of those traits at the moment.

  Once this was over, she could reclaim herself. It was this town. It was toxic. She wished she had taken West up on his offer this morning. Her only option was take West’s tongue-in-cheek advice and ‘fake it ’til you make it’. It felt false, but although Stacy believed in honesty, her belief in surviving was greater.

  She needed to channel Miss S to pull this off with Mary. She looked inward and found her Domme. A moment or two passed and it didn’t feel like she was faking Mistress S. Perhaps she wasn’t.

  Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Mary was here.

  Chapter Four

  After a minor altercation with West which she told him his presence during the confrontation would only complicate matters, they quietly sneaked down the stairs. She had lost the argument, but he had reluctantly agreed to stay in the background. Here was hoping he succeeded. Mary could muddy the issue like nobody’s business.

  West was protective of those he loved. When she locked eyes with him, she could see the crease in his brow ease once he noticed she had retrieved her head from her ass.

  As she opened the access door, she heard Sarge’s rumble, and Mary’s flirty laughter. It was one talent she had always envied.

  The voices drifted from the back in Sarge’s office-cum-storage room with a desk. The voices were pleasant. Although Sarge never had liked the way Mary parented Stacy, he seemed to be able to separate that relationship from his everyday dealings with her mother.

  Stacy was grateful to Sarge for so many things, it seemed wrong to begrudge him his usually cordial relationship with Mary. After all, it was hard to keep bar staff. And the elder Ms. Jones was a good worker if kept in line. Sarge had plenty of experience keeping people in line.

  Stacy did sometimes begrudge him. The flip side was Sarge had kept Stacy’s whereabouts a secret for eight years. Mary knew this, and to Stacy’s knowledge, had not asked for her whereabouts.

  She decided to make her ambush casual, as though showing up here was an everyday occurrence. West put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed as he sat down on one of the stools at the bar.

  Moving behind the bar to the open office door, she looked in and saw Mary propped against a stack of crates, sipping a beer. Hopefully it was only the first of the day. Sarge sat behind the desk, leaning back casually, but his neck muscles were corded and his eyes watchful.

  As she leaned against the doorframe, her curvy size-sixteen body blocked Mary’s escape route. Out of the corner of her eye, she felt Sarge turn his gaze on her. Mary looked at her, smiled. “We’re not open yet, hun.” She half-stood, craning her neck. “Sorry, I thought I locked the main door behind me after I came in. Can I help you with something?” She’d used her flirty and charming voice. She hadn’t recognized Stacy. It hurt. Using her cool head, Stacy knew Mary had written her off years ago, and didn’t expect to see her daughter ever again. Plus, she’d changed a great deal in eight years. Honed the curves in her figure so she had a waist now. Tamed her unruly strawberry blonde hair. Found some fashion sense, albeit retro.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Mary’s pleasant visage changed. She squinted, took Stacy in from top to bottom, and then focused in on her again. She stood, walked over and looked up into her face. Her voice hardened. “So the ungrateful brat comes home after five years. Sarge tole me you were all right and he’s a man of his word. You couldn’t of called? Written?” Mary turned around and flounced back to her beer and seat.

  On the offensive. Mary wasn’t stupid and knew there had to be a reason for this visit.

  “Eight years.”

  “What did you say?” Mary asked.

  “It’s been eight years I’ve been gone, not five.”

  A moment of confusion passed over Mary’s eyes and then cleared. “Same difference. So you obviously didn’t come for money. Looks like you fell on your feet.”

  It was said in a sneering way. Calm, nodding, Stacy said, “I did.”

  The best way not to get pulled into a conversational eddy with Mary was to say as little as possible. Not to let her insults hurt. Not to let the hurt show if they hit the mark.

  “Still fat though.” Years of being called fat by Mary had taken the sting of that insult away. Her counselor had told Stace insults like that usually came from insecure people. She could never see Mary as insecure, but had accepted that she did this to make herself feel superior.

  Smiling at this old trick in her bag, Stacy agreed, “Yep.”

  The smiling was a mistake. Grabbing her purse and standing, Mary said, “Well, it was a nice reunion, but y’all know I love my Saturday and Sunday off.” She turned to Sarge and handed him her paycheck. “I endorsed this, could you give me the cash?”

  Sarge leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Sit down, Mare.”

  Mary blustered for a few minutes about him blackmailing her with the check. Sarge just sat there, saying nothing. She knew that he didn’t have to cash it for her. She could wait like most people and put it in the bank and wait the three to five days for the cash to clear.

  Moving back away from the desk, Mary asked, “May I at least go to the little girl’s room?”

  Sarge said, “Sure.”

  Mary walked over to the door Stacy was blo
cking. Sarge said, “No running away, Mary. There’s some things that need to be said ’tween you an’ Stacy. If you run away, Mare, don’ come back.”

  Stacy’s mom’s back stiffened for a moment, and Stacy moved slightly away from the door jamb to make room for the still-petite figure to sashay through.

  Whether she intended to bolt or not before Sarge’s threat, the dyed-blonde bombshell came out of the bathroom a few minutes later and walked back into the office. She sat again. “I want to git this over with. Whatever needs to be said? I never claimed to be a domestic goddess, Stace. Your life coulda been a helluva lot worse.”

  How many times had she heard that one? Stacy looked at her, using a calm voice. “It’s simple. I want my birth certificate. That’s all.”

  Mary stilled. Her eyes looked left and then right, and then left again. Finally, her eyes rolled up and to the left. The sign of a lie in the making. Watching submissives had taught Stacy the signs of dishonesty: she had to make sure they were not over-exerting themselves, confirm they were being honest, not only focusing on pleasing their Domme.

  “I lost it. You’ll have to order a new one.”

  A lame lie. “We tried that, Mary. Turns out no one of my name was born on that date in this state.”

  Up and left again, then Mary put a reassuring look on her face. “Oh, hun, that’s because you were born in Idaho.”

  “Looked there, too.”

  Before Mary could come up with another lie, Sarge cut in. “Cut the shit, Mare. Just try the truth for once.”

  Her mother looked like a scared rabbit. It was strange to see her frightened. Even if she ended up getting a shiny cowboy who liked to punch, Mary didn’t ever act frightened.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t tell you.”

  “Well, Mom, I need my birth certificate to work legally in this country. So you’re going to have to. Please.” Saying the please was difficult. But if saying got dear old Ma talking, Stacy would kiss her bum. She needed it. If she was going to travel or go to college, legal identification was a must. As much as Stace loved working for West and Tim, she needed to spread her wings before it was too late.

  Mary looked over her shoulder. She’d been doing it a couple of times and Stacy wondered if she caught a glimpse of West or felt his presence somehow.

  They were in a holding pattern, waiting for Mary to give up the goods. Sarge and Stacy were staying silent. Her mom was mumbling a protest every once in a while, but Stacy could tell she was going to spill the goods soon.

  Mary looked over Stacy’s shoulder once more. Posture slumping, Mary said, “Well, I guess I should start with the fact I’m not your mother and Stacy Jones ain’t your real name.”

  Before the words fully registered in her brain, the door to the Saloon slammed open. Her body felt like it was thick and weighed down. She didn’t even startle or look around. Seeing Mary’s relief as she looked over her shoulder, Stacy wondered if she called for her off-again boyfriend as a reinforcement while she was in the bathroom.

  Until she heard a voice say, “Cee!”

  Mary had called for reinforcements, all right. There was only one person who’d ever called her Cee. Brendan.

  Chapter Five

  After Stacy was hit with that one-two punch, it took her a few moments to regain her equilibrium. Sarge stood, pulled Stacy in and closed the door as soon as he heard Brendan’s muffled voice mixing with West’s plummy one.

  Dazed, she let Sarge put her into his chair. She heard him say some words to Mary, and they both left the office alone. She sat there for a length of time.

  Her head wasn’t processing quickly at the moment. She was still hearing Mary’s words. She believed what Mary said though, because it made sense. Mary always felt put-upon for having to care for Stacy.

  Sarge’s and Mary’s voices were added to the fold, ascending in volume, and then quieting into almost nothing after a few minutes.

  And Brendan being here. As much as she kept hearing “Cee!” in her head like an underlying satanic track below Mary’s words, he was not the priority at the moment. He was a problem to be dealt with, or not later. She could be mistaken anyway. For all she knew it was some drunk trying to get in before opening.

  Telling herself she didn’t have to deal with Brendan right now relieved some of her brain garbage. She surfaced. Having accepted what Mary said, Stacy noticed there were noises outside. Not arguments, just the everyday noises of the early drunks coming in for the day shift.

  Standing, she walked on still-wobbly legs, each step getting surer as she moved to the door. Opening it, peeking out, she saw a bartender with a handlebar moustache whom she presumed was Cotton. Sarge was in his usual spot. Mary was in the first stool seat and West was in the second. Brendan wasn’t in sight.

  She wondered where he went. Or maybe she had imagined the door and his voice after Mary’s revelation.

  All three looked at her. She made a motion for them to come inside.

  Mary placed herself on her beer crate. West wiped the unoccupied beer crates before he sat on them. Sarge rolled his eyes and chuffed a quasi-chuckle. Stacy sat on the desk, off center and near to the door.

  “Talk.” Stacy commanded.

  Mary took a breath. “You ever heard of MM?”

  Puzzled, Stacy said, “No, what is it?”

  Sarge cleared his throat and Stacy shifted her hips so she could see him. “Montana Militia. Neo-Nazis.”

  Her non-mother nodded. “There’s them in Montana, White Nations in Idaho. They’re the big groups. There’s smaller ones too. They’re usually more fucked up. You were born in one of the smaller ones. Called Montana Freedom.”

  “You were born there too?”

  Mary shook her head. “Family moved into MM when I was a kid. Then a few years later upped stakes and went to Montana Freedom. There was some fucked-up shit that went on there. MM was sane compared to Freedom. Ours was sorta a combination of survivalists and cult.”

  “Okay, so what was my name and date of birth so I can get a birth certificate?”

  “You can’t get a birth certificate.”

  “Why not, Mary?” Calling her that seemed strange on Stacy’s lips.

  “Because your birth wasn’t ever recorded with the government. I was born afore we joined the camp. If I woulda been born in the camp, I wouldn’t have a birth certificate either. You were born on the camp with a midwife. Patriots believe we are citizens of the state, and,” Mary made air quotes and said the words in the same manner schoolchildren recite the Pledge of Allegiance, “Americans have been duped inta rejecting their sovereign status by unknowin’ly placing themselves unner U.S. jurisdiction through illegal contracts.” Jurisdiction sounded more like ‘jurisdicshun’.

  “What in the hell does that mean?” Stacy was getting agitated.

  Sarge cut in again. “To them, an ‘illegal contract’ is somethin’ like a birth certificate, social security card, even a driver’s license.”

  “So what was my name? And how in the hell did you end up with me?”

  Mary shook her head. “Nuh-uh. Don’t matter. You can get a fancy lawyer to help you.” She looked at West. “Looks like your sugar daddy has some bucks.” She eyed West up and down and turned her body to him. Sarge chuffed again. Stacy gave him the evil eye but he shrugged.

  West looked straight into Mary’s eyes. Whatever his eyes said it sent the appropriate message and her non-mom moved back into her former position.

  Stacy decided not to clarify her relationship with West. But she persisted. “Why did you raise me?”

  Mary looked defiantly at her. “You know when I said life coulda been worse? If I wouldn’t have gotten you out and left myself, who knows how you woulda ended up? My sister was only thirteen when she had you. And she died because the fuckin’ midwife didn’t know what she was doin’. I was only seventeen when she died. Our mom was long gone, ran off with someone else when I was five. Then Daddy got with these Patriots. I decided that I needed to g
et out. And I couldn’t not take you. Didn’t want you, but couldn’t leave you there. So I left with you when you were six months old. You had the croup, and I was allowed into town to get the medicine. So I hid and took off. Hitchhiked. Ended up here and stayed.”

  “Why didn’t you give me up? Leave me at a hospital somewhere?”

  Mary got a sour look on her face. “Wish I woulda thought about it when I first ran. Once I was in Cutters Creek, I was stuck with you. I liked it here.”

  It didn’t sound like the whole story, but Stacy was exhausted. She looked at West, who noticed and then crossed the room to her. “That’s enough for now.” He looked at Sarge. They didn’t say anything but some sort of communication passed. “Let’s go, lovey.”

  Stacy was glad of the reprieve. They walked outside and to the rental car. They were silent on the drive to the motel and the walk (through the front entrance this time) to their rooms.

  She slumped into one of the chairs in West’s room. He nudged a drink into her hand. Looking down, she frowned. “Orange juice?”

  “Screwdriver.”

  Shooting him a grateful look, she downed it and reached out for a refill. West complied, handing it back. “Sip this one.”

  Stacy felt the comforting burn of the vodka. “Was I hallucinating, or was that Brendan who barged in the door?”

  “Mary texted him. Turns out he checks on Sarge and her every time he’s in town to see if they’ve heard from you. Sarge doesn’t tell him anything. This is the first time Mary has had something to tell. He could have been quite the diversion.”

  Stacy nodded, sitting there quietly. West got on the phone and ordered pizza. After he got off the phone, she said, “Wow, sympathy junk from the food fascist.”

  West nodded. “Pepperoni and mushroom. Didn’t even order a vegetarian.”

  Stacy whistled. Any other time it would have been enough to shock her.

  “Once you get some non-nourishing food into you, I want you to have a nap.” He looked at Stacy’s face as she was gearing up for an objection. “Stace, let me take care of you. You need sleep. I’m even going to give you half an Ambien. Then I can talk to Mary when she’s three sheets and see if she’ll give up anything then.”