by Jane Henry
“Make sure you—”
But Chad opens the door, and Beatrice saunters in.
“Gotta check who’s at the door, kiddo,” Beatrice admonishes, side stepping into the room. “My God, Diana. You’re still in your jammies?”
She walks over to me wearing yoga pants and a top, a hooded sweatshirt, and sneakers.
“Shut up,” I mumble. “You’re back from yoga, right?” I take my mug and slosh French vanilla creamer into it, give it a quick stir, then slurp it down. “Ahhhhh.” I exhale, momentarily closing my eyes.
“Mama says it’s dangerous for me if she doesn’t have her coffee,” Chad says, going into the kitchen and opening a cupboard.
“Hell yeah,” Beatrice agrees, pulling out a chair at the table in the dining area. “Baby, it’s better for everyone that your mom has her coffee.”
“I wish I had a donut,” Chad says.
“Me, too,” I agree.
Beatrice wrinkles her nose. “I cannot unravel an hour of yoga by eating those things.”
I snort, before taking another sip of coffee. I swallow, giving her a look. “You’d rather unravel it with beer. I know, you have priorities.”
“Damn right,” Beatrice says. “Ok, so…” she looks to Chad. “Chad, baby, I have a new game on my phone and need some help. I can’t get past the licorice swamp level.”
Chad rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. “It’s all about strategy. Gotta break the cages on the bottom row first, before you even look at the pastilles in the top row.”
Beatrice shakes her head with mock disbelief. “You’re a wonder,” she says. “Do me a favor. Break this level, while your mom gets changed and we have a talk?”
He shrugs. “If you really want me to.”
Beatrice hands him her phone, and I walk toward the bathroom. “Honey, grab some cereal, okay?”
“Yeah.”
He sits on the couch and is already swiping his fingers across Beatrice’s phone.
I stalk into the bathroom and grab a plush pink towel, putting it on the counter. “Ok, I know you’re here to pry,” I begin. “So why don’t you just cut to the chase?”
“Diana!”
I snort, running the water in the shower, steam rising in the small bathroom.
“Ok, so. You were… taken into his club. His office. What happened? Girl, this is killing me over here. I hated leaving you there with a stranger.”
I grin, stepping into the tub and stripping out of my clothes. I toss them into the basket on the other side of the tub and start to soap up under the stream of hot water.
“He was beyond pissed. And he wanted me to pay for what I did. I, stupidly, thought it would be smart to contact the insurance company, but he reminded me that they will not cover an act of intentional vandalism.”
“Oh my God.” Beatrice sits on the toilet, her shadow just on the other side of the curtain.
“Ok, so then we go into his club, and I’m still thinking I’m just going to figure out a way for insurance to cover it when he tells me that we’ll either make an arrangement for me to pay, or he’ll notify his police officer friend, who you may have heard him refer to outside?”
“Yes!”
“And I promised him I’d pay. But then he got all…” I pause, running a razor over my soaped-up legs. “Bossy.”
“He got bossy? Babe, he was born bossy. The only shitty part about this was that you met by keying his damn car. It would’ve been so much nicer in any other circumstance. He could’ve been the one, Diana.”
“Oh for God’s sakes, don’t start that again. There is no one. No one’s going to rescue me. So stop it.”
Beatrice sighs. “Sorry. Okay so you went into the club and gave him your number?”
“Then his police officer friend called. It seems there was a sexual assault victim last night.”
“Thank you, NYC,” Beatrice moans. “When isn’t there?”
“Well, there’s a problem though. Someone from the club supposedly instigated this or something.”
“His club? What kind of club is it?”
I feel my cheeks flush, and it isn’t just the hot water. “A BDSM club,” I say in a rush.
I can hear Beatrice’s audible gasp even over the sound of the water.
“Oh my God!”
“It gets worse.”
“How can it get worse? Girl, you keyed the car of a… dom?”
I giggle in spite of myself. “Yup.”
“Did he… what did he do to you?”
“Well, nothing for the car incident.” I soap up my arms and chest, wondering if it is wise to tell Beatrice, but I have to. “But, um… we had to go into the club… And I got super curious. So while we waited during the investigation, I got another member there to give me a tour. Against his instructions. And he was… not pleased.”
“How not pleased?”
“He may have… spanked me.” The outrage returns. “He spanked me!”
“Well, if he asked you not to go, and you did anyway…”
“Beatrice!”
“What? Facts are facts.”
“I’m a grown woman.”
“A grown woman who acted like a child!”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” I squeeze the loofah aggressively and soap my legs with vigor.
“Yours, babe.” I squeal when the curtain pulls back and Beatrice stands in the gaping hole, letting the cold air hit me. “Turn around. I don’t wanna see your tits, I need to see if you’re still marked.”
“Beatrice!”
Beatrice just glares and twirls her finger around to indicate she wants me to show her my ass.
“For Christ’s sake,” I mutter. “No privacy!”
“None. I wanna see.”
Shaking my head, I show her my ass, weirdly proud of the marks I bear.
“Oooh,” she says. “Your ass is sorta pink, like you’ve been spanked. There’s even like this half-moon shaped mark. You always did have a nice ass.” The shower curtain shuts, and Beatrice resumes her place on the toilet seat.
“I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Eh, we’ve seen each other naked hundreds of times. I can’t believe you keyed the car of a dominant, then disobeyed him in his club, and got spanked.”
I sigh and shut the water off.
“I am so jealous.”
“What?”
“I am! I want a spanking. I wanna be dominated,” her voice pitches off into a whine.
“It wasn’t like that. He just… humiliated me,” I say, grabbing the towel. I towel-dry my hair. “It wasn’t sexy.”
“Honey, if that man orders coffee, it’s sexy.”
The memory of how wet I’d gotten the night before from just remembering the way he put me over the spanking bench in the club makes me squirm.
I shake my head. “Anyway, yeah, a night for the books. And now I’m supposed to call him today and figure out how much I owe him.” My voice catches at the end.
Beatrice stands, comb in one hand, my bottle of Super Curl in the other. She spins the comb around, instructing me to let her at the curls. No one can tame my curls like Bea.
“Aw, babe.” her voice is soft and soothing. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
“Doesn’t damage to a car cost… like a shit ton of money?”
“Well… maybe he’ll get a deal?” Beatrice says helpfully.
I just sigh again, my head tugging back as Beatrice combs through my curls.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
“Listen, babe. You’ve paid your share of shit dues. You’ve been handed the worst luck of anyone I know. Between your string of asshole exes, your miserable excuse for a father drinking away your inheritance in a move destined to break records in liver destruction, losing your job at Markell, and…” her voice trails off, and neither of us needs to hear the last stroke of bad luck.
“Chad isn’t bad luck,” I whisper. “He just… needs a bit more.”
Beatrice hugs me from behi
nd, her voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t say he was. I was gonna say the Yankees losing in the World Series last year.”
I laugh, even though my eyes cloud with tears. Sure, she was.
“Yeah. I could use some good luck,” I say with a nod. “But some days, it’s all about working your ass off, and has shit all to do with luck.”
We both jump as Chad pounds on the door. “Mom! We are out of the cereal with red berries. And why are you two in the bathroom together? That’s super weird.”
I can’t help but snicker. “She’s just doing my hair, honey,” I yell. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“I need cereal now. I hate that shredded wheat stuff. I’m starving!”
I feel my nerves rise. “Chad, wait.”
“My stomach hurts I’m so hungry.”
I turn away from Beatrice, needing this conversation to end. I push open the door to the bathroom. Not a lot can make my son happy, but one thing that always does is a frosted donut.
“We’ll go to Tulio’s and get a donut. Okay?”
My phone vibrates. I pick it up, and glance at the message.
Just checking. That eight o’clock phone call? That was eastern time, right?
I grin, flushing a bit, before I respond. Sorry, my son needed me. Will call soon!
I like toying with the Big, Bad Dom.
I quickly pull on jeans and a red sweater, a thin but warm one that dips a bit low in the front and hugs my curves, then fluff out my still-damp hair, and quickly dab a little makeup on. Just a touch of foundation and gloss, but for today I also run a mascara brush through my lashes.
I never wear mascara. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I’ll likely meet up with Tobias or something. Nothing.
Pulling on a pair of low-heeled boots, I imagine him frowning at his phone, and a part of me feels a twinge of guilt, but not enough to call him. The idea of speaking to him again… no, I can’t do it. Maybe I can resolve this whole thing by text.
I pick up my phone. Another text from him.
Define “soon.”
I can hear the deep, corrective tone in his text. My heart flutters a little, and I’m just about to respond when a loud pounding sounds at my door.
“I’m starving, mom.”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I mutter, ignoring the demand on the phone in favor of the demand on the other side of the door.
When I open the door, Chad’s glaring at me. “Why did you take so long?”
“I was getting ready. Now stop being so selfish, Chad. You want donuts, I’m getting you donuts.”
“I’m starving!”
“You are not starving. Children in third world countries who have nothing to eat but rice are starving. And if you’re that hungry, we have plenty of food here you could’ve eaten.”
He quiets, and Beatrice gives me a sympathetic look. Sometimes I feel like I get it from all sides, people telling me I spoil him. And maybe I do, a little, but I feel responsible for his father leaving us. Beatrice knows better than to give me that lecture. I don’t really spoil him, per se. But I know he struggles with things not being the way he expects them, and I want my kid happy.
The three of us walk to Tulio’s together. Icy wind whips at my hair and cheeks, and I pull my coat tighter. God, it’s freezing out, and snow is on the way.
The scent of cinnamon and sugar and coffee fills my senses when we arrive, and I inhale deeply. I love this place. It’s been around since I was a kid. It’s the place my daddy frequented and yeah, my dad had been an alcoholic who couldn’t hold down a job, or pay his bills, which earned righteous scorn from Beatrice, but despite what people said, he’d loved me. And this place had been special. Just ours.
My eyes feel heavy from lack of sleep, and the thought of the phone call and expenses I face make my nerves churn. I need more coffee, stat, and a chocolate donut. As I take in the sight of frosted cakes and cookies, and the small line of customers ahead of us, Chad goes up to the window that houses the donuts, and I watch as his back goes rigid.
Crap. Rigidity is often the prelude to a meltdown. My breath catches in my throat
“Chad?”
The customers in front of me finish placing their orders, and I go up to the counter to order as Beatrice walks over to Chad. “What’s up, honey? Find your donut?”
“No,” he responds, far louder than necessary.
Aw, shit. I clear my throat. “I’m sure they have vanilla frosted somewhere, honey,” I say hopefully, flashing a big grin to the cashier. “Right?”
The teenaged girl shakes her head sadly. “Sorry. We sold out this morning and won’t have any more until tomorrow.” The smile freezes on her face when she sees Chad’s hands clenched into fists by his side.
“None?” I try. “You can’t… make some more?”
The girl’s face falls. “So sorry. We can’t, no.”
Okay, alright then. “I’ll have a Boston cream for me, and an extra-large coffee with an espresso shot.”
And Bailey’s, too, I think grimly.
“No Boston cream either.”
Well for fuck’s sake.
“Chocolate covered?” I turn to look at Beatrice, hoping we can come up with a solution, but there’s no such thing as a solution where Chad’s concerned. He digs his heels in, wants what he wants, rigidity one of his many challenges. He can’t handle seams in his socks, his chair moved out of order at school, a substitute teacher, or a strawberry frosted donut when he’s expecting vanilla. I inhale deeply, then exhale. Beatrice shakes her head and puts up her hands in a helpless gesture. “No idea,” she mouths.
The door to the bakery jangles, and before I even turn, I feel him. The now familiar scent of power and grace and masculinity envelopes me.
Can this morning get any worse?
I turn my head just to confirm that yes, indeed, Tobias stands behind me. He blinks in surprise. So this is as much as a surprise to him as it is to me. At least he’s not following me.
I smile. “Morning. We were just… ordering donuts.”
He gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Morning. Clearly. Go on, don’t let me disturb you.” He gestures to the counter. The sarcasm makes my stomach clench. And God, why does he have to look so damn good? He wears black boots and a long-sleeved, olive-green t-shirt that stretches taut against the large expanse of his chest, the color accentuating his swarthy skin. The t-shirt’s tucked into his jeans at his narrow waist, his hands astride his hips.
I clear my throat.
“I want a vanilla-frosted donut,” Chad says. “Nothing but vanilla.”
The girl at the counter looks abashed and merely shakes her head. “We have lemon?”
Chad’s eyes cloud, his hands still clenched in fists. “I hate lemon.”
“We could go home,” Beatrice suggests, “and pick up some of that cereal you like on the way?”
“Mom said I could have a donut.” Chad’s voice is barely controlled, rising in pitch. My son is gonna have a meltdown, right here where Tobias can see. No.
I try again. “Honey, we’ve established that they don’t have the one we want.”
Chad growls. “I want vanilla!”
“Wouldn’t get that kid a donut,” mutters an elderly lady exiting the shop. “In my day, kids weren’t so damn spoiled.” My cheeks flush, my chest hot and tight.
“Whoa, now.” I hear Tobias’s deep voice behind me. Oh, no. He is not stepping into this.
He speaks with authority, his voice calm. “They don’t have vanilla, kiddo. But you know what I order? I like the glazed bow ties. It’s a very manly donut. Don’t you think? Bow ties and all?”
Chad blinks up at Tobias and his mouth parts open a little.
I watch in wonder.
“A bow tie?” Chad repeats.
“Mmhmm,” Tobias continues in his deep voice. “They’re bigger than the other donuts and perfectly glazed here. I highly recommend them. But like I said, they’re kinda… man
ly.” He frowns a bit. “You think you’re man enough to handle that, though?”
Chad looks to the counter, then back to Tobias, and back to the counter again. “Of course I can handle it,” he finally says.
I blink. Seriously?
“I’ll take two bow ties,” Tobias says over my head. “Add her order to mine.”
“You don’t need to—”
His sharp tone cuts me off. “Go find us a table, Diana.”
Swallowing hard, I remind myself that he has good reason to be pissed. We need a table. No, I won’t cow to the bossy man. It just makes good sense to do what he says.
“Fine,” I say, sputtering a reluctant, “Thank you.”
“I’ll be going now,” Beatrice says, her eyes doing a quick but chaste once-over of Tobias. She nods approvingly, winks at me, and leaves. The jerk.
Tobias pays for our order and without meeting my eyes, orders, “Table.”
Chapter 8
Normally I don’t take too kindly to people not following through with promises. I suspect her failure to call me has more to do with nerves than evasion, but it’s still not cool. She’s lucky she’s so damn beautiful and has somehow bewitched me a little. I knew I’d track her down eventually.
Thankfully, the universe agrees with me, and on a day when I’m craving a glazed Tulio’s bow tie, she practically falls into my lap.
I’d get her there. And when I did, she wouldn’t be sitting upright. Apparently, I didn’t do a good enough job the first time I spanked her.
After handing cash to the cashier, I toss a tip in the jar in front of the register, grab her enormous cup of coffee and our box of donuts, then head over to the table where Diana and her son sit. Her son eyes me curiously, Diana’s eyes flit about the room, not meeting my gaze.
I pull out one of the wrought-iron chairs and sit down heavily, flicking the tape on the white bakery box, and pull it open. “One bow tie for you,” I say, handing it to her son. “One for me, and one chocolate for your mom.”
“Say thank you, Chad,” she instructs her son.
“Thank you,” Chad says around a huge mouthful of donut. The boy has his mother’s beautiful hazel eyes but his hair is lighter, finer, and slightly long and a little curly. He wears a pair of jeans and an Avengers long-sleeved t-shirt. He eyes me thoughtfully as if trying to figure out who I am. He looks like he’s inherited his mom’s spunk and beauty. I like him already.