The Bondage Club

by Alexandrea Weis

  Turning from the elevator doors, he trudged back to his office, dreading the conversation ahead with his father.

  “Interesting woman,” Jim Donovan voiced when Hunter re-entered his office. “What’s with the glasses?”

  Hunter closed the door. “She writes under a pseudonym and likes to keep her identity hidden.”

  “Why? Everybody and their mother are killing themselves for fifteen seconds of fame, and you’ve got a writer who wants to protect her anonymity?”

  “Not every writer wants to let it all hang out there,” Hunter insisted, setting out for his desk. “Some have jobs and careers they don’t want to jeopardize with their writing. Everyone has got to eat, Dad.”

  “Then they need to write books that won’t threaten those careers. Good, clean, wholesome stories can never hurt anyone.”

  Hunter went around his desk and had a seat in his creaky chair, his patience waning. “Why are you here?”

  Jim Donovan flopped down in a chair before Hunter’s desk, and then rested his cane against the side. “Your brother called me this morning. He said you two had an altercation in front of some art gallery over a woman. By the look of you, I’d say he landed the first punch.” The perpetual scowl Hunter remembered from childhood emerged on the older man’s face. “Want to tell me what happened?”

  Hunter sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. “Since when do you give a shit if Chris and I pummel each other?”

  He shook his finger at his son. “You know your mother never tolerated such language.”

  “You cursed more than any of us at home, Dad, and Mom never told you to keep it down.”

  Jim Donovan’s eyes dropped to the linoleum floor. “That’s because my Gracie was a lady. She never told me how to live my life, she just supported me. She always supported me.” When his blue eyes returned to Hunter’s face they were once again hard and determined. “That’s why I came down here, for her. You know how she hated it when the two of you fought, and God knows I should have stepped in more to break up your fights, but now I feel I have to say something. He’s your brother, Hunter, and even if he is a bit of an ass, he’s still blood.” He paused and rested his hand on the curve of his cane. “And you also have to think about the repercussions for the business. What if you had been spotted by some media type? Remember what Alexander said, ‘Upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.’”

  Sick of listening to his father’s quotes, Hunter shook his head. “Yeah, well, he didn’t have a raving lunatic for a brother.”

  Jim Donovan let go a disgusted chortle. “Just the answer I expect from you. You were always the wisecracker and your brother the peacock.” He sat back in his chair. “Chris told me this fight was about a girl; a girl who is working for you. Says she’s your new editor.”

  An uncomfortable knot formed in Hunter’s stomach. “Her name is Cary Anderson, and Chris was hitting on her from the moment she walked in the door.”

  “And probably so were you. You and your brother always had the same taste in women.”

  “We do not,” Hunter balked. “Chris is the one who likes them….” He let his voice drift away, not wanting to have such a discussion with his father. The less said the better.

  “I agree your brother is an idiot where women are concerned. Lord knows the business was sent into a tailspin with that whole Monique Delome situation. But that is in the past and I’m here to make sure neither of you screw up like that again. I told Chris to stay away from your employee, and I’m going to tell you the same thing. Keep it professional, Hunter. If you want to publish wholesome books, then you had better run a wholesome business.”

  Enraged at his father’s antiquated viewpoint, Hunter slapped his hand on his desk. “Dad, no one cares about wholesome values anymore, unless you’re running for political office, and even then a good scandal is probably worth more media attention than a candidate with no scandal. Let’s face it, sex sells, and the juicier the story, the more press you can play off it. You ever think that maybe it’s time we changed a few things around here?”

  “Never.” Jim Donovan grabbed his cane and stood from his chair. “Just because everyone else in the world has lost their mind and their morals doesn’t mean we have to.”

  “What are morals, anyway, but the dictates of others telling you how to live your life? Laws we have to abide by, but morals can be left open to a hell of a lot of interpretation.”

  “Where is this coming from?” Jim Donovan barked. “I never raised you to be disrespectful of others, and your mother certainly never tolerated such talk. She was a good, God-fearing woman who—”

  “Who lived a miserable existence because she was too afraid to tell you exactly how she felt,” Hunter jumped in.

  “You bastard!” Jim Donovan angrily stamped his cane on the floor. “Where do you get off telling me—”

  “Come on, Dad. Someone needed to say it. That night when she came to the office and—”

  “I will not have you discussing that night,” Jim Donovan shouted.

  “Why? You don’t want to face the fact that you killed her, do you? I was there and I saw—”

  “Excuse me,” Cary interrupted from the doorway. “But I thought….” She lowered her voice when she spotted Jim Donovan. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back later.” She turned to go.

  “No, Cary, wait,” Hunter called to her. “My father was just leaving.”

  She nervously slipped in the door, wearing a lavender silk dress that hugged her curves and made her brown orbs appear tinged with blue. Hunter strained to pull his eyes away from her and focus on his father’s deep scowl.

  “Dad, this is Cary Anderson,” Hunter announced, waving to Cary.

  “Mr. Donovan.” Cary came toward him with an extended hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  An amused grin crossed his father’s lips, and Hunter found the feature somewhat disturbing. Jim Donovan never grinned.

  “Ms. Anderson?” He shook her hand. “It is interesting to meet you.” He examined her dress and slender figure. “I get the impression we’ve met before,” he added, his elusive grin growing wider.

  Cary shook her head, a little confused. “I’m afraid we haven’t, Mr. Donovan.”

  Jim Donovan dipped his head. “Forgive me. I’m just getting old and my eyes are not what they used to be.”

  “Men never get old, Mr. Donovan. They just get…more experienced.”

  Jim Donovan let go a tremendous cackle. “A delight, Ms. Anderson.” He turned to his son, and the scowl instantly returned. “We’ll talk again, Hunter. I’ll leave you and Ms. Anderson to get back to work.”

  His father started for the door, tapping his cane on the linoleum floor as he went. At the bookcase housing his collection of Alexander the Great statues, he halted. “Don’t forget to dust my boys there.” He pointed his cane at the bookcase. “And ice your face before you scare the hell out of a client.”

  Hunter ran his hand behind his neck as his stomach churned. “Sure, Dad.”

  Jim Donovan tipped his baseball cap to Cary. “You have a good morning, Ms. Anderson.”

  She gave him a flirty smile. “Good morning, Mr. Donovan. I hope we see each other again.”

  Jim Donovan pointed his cane at Hunter. “Make sure he brings you to see me one day. I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about.” He pulled the office door open and stepped into the hall.

  Once he was gone, Hunter rushed to the door and firmly shut it. He stood with his back to Cary, taking a moment to summon the courage to face her. Sucking in a fortifying breath, he turned around.

  “Quite a character, your old man. I see where you and Chris get it from.” Cary proceeded to her desk.

  “Get what from?” he questioned, following her to the corner of the room.

  She opened a drawer in her desk and dropped her small black handbag inside. “Your arrogance,” she proclaimed, and then slammed the drawer closed. “Last night gave me a pretty good snapshot of how you and your brother really a
re.” She pointed to his face. “He was right about the ice. You look like the other guy won.”

  “Cary, about last night….”

  “No.” She held up her hand. “There’s nothing to say. What happened is behind us. I think we both needed to get that out of our system. We wanted to know how we would be together and now…well, we can get back to the business of putting out books. Right?”

  Hunter didn’t want to tell her that he was both relieved and confused by her statement. He was under the impression that last night was the beginning of something between them, not the end. Hunter wondered what approach to take, whether to challenge her viewpoint or reassure her conviction. Deciding such a conversation was probably best broached after business hours, he simply nodded his head.

  “Yeah, you’re right. We needed to get that out of our system.”

  The smile she gave him lacked her usual warmth. In fact, if he didn’t know her better, he could have sworn he detected a tinge of disappointment in her doe-like eyes. “Great,” she affirmed, standing behind her desk. “I ran into Smut Slut outside and she told me you two had a quick meeting before your dad showed up. She also had a few questions for me about what exactly was going on with your father. You want to tell me why you introduced her as your new romance author to your father?”

  He stood before her desk, scowling. “You know why. I can’t exactly tell my father about the new line, yet.”

  “When are you going to say something?”

  “I figured I would send him a copy of The Bondage Club when it comes out; by then he won’t be able to shut it down.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Shut it down? Could he do that?”

  Drenched with worry over his plans for the new line, Hunter strode across the room to his arched office window. Gazing out to the green grass across the street, he thought of what to tell her. “Dad saw to it that Chris and I split the ownership of the company with forty percent a piece, with him having the deciding twenty percent in case there was a problem,” he explained. “If he and Chris got together against me, then yes, they could shut down the new line.”

  “Do you think they would really do that?”

  Afraid to see her reaction, Hunter never turned from the window. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “No wonder Chris kept asking me about the business.”

  He spun around. “When was this?”

  “At dinner before we went to the gallery, he kept asking me questions about my job, and how you were running things.”

  Incensed, he pivoted away from the window. “Selfish son of a bitch would love to see me fall flat on my face. He’s always hated me.”

  Cary moved out from behind her desk. “I’m sure he doesn’t hate you, Hunter.”

  “Forget about him.” He pushed his animosity for his brother aside and marched behind his desk. “Did Smut Slut tell you she offered to give the company two more books in addition to The Bondage Club?”

  “Plus, you have agreed to publish her contemporary romances under a pseudonym over the next two years. Yeah, I heard. She was pretty excited about that. She has wanted to get away from erotica for a while.”

  He took a seat in his old desk chair, filling the room with a short stint of creaking. “You should have been here to talk with her.”

  She folded her arms and proceeded across the office to his desk. “Well, next time I’ll make sure I get to bed before four in the morning.”

  He opened his briefcase, avoiding her eyes. “How did you get home?”

  “I called a friend.” She rested her hip on his desk.

  “A friend?” Hunter eyed the curve of her dress along her hip, and for an instant he was back on his sofa, feeling her riding him and….

  “Yes, a friend.” Cary’s voice interrupted his flashback. “Handy to have. Perhaps you should try having a few.”

  He ignored her. “You need to get started on PR for the book. I want to set up the launch for the beginning of September.”

  “September? But we still have to edit, proof, get it to printing, not to mention setting it up on—”

  “Can you do it?” he cut in.

  “What’s the rush?”

  “The sooner we get out there, the better.” He flipped up his laptop. “Once we get rolling on the PR, I’m not going to be able to keep it a secret from my father or Chris. I’m just hoping we’ll be too committed by that point for them to want to shut everything down.”

  “I’ll get started on the marketing right away. I was thinking we’ll also need an author photo for the back cover. I wanted to show Smut Slut in her element, like in a club or something.” She tilted her head to the side, thinking. “There’s a bondage club in the city. They have a lot of atmosphere. I can talk to the manager there, and see if I can arrange a shoot. Is that all right with you?”

  “Sounds good. We can go together, tonight, after work.”

  Cary’s face fell. “I can’t tonight, I have plans.” She hurried to her desk.

  “Plans?” He eased back in his chair, carefully observing her. “What kind of plans?”

  She sat behind her desk. “Dinner plans,” was all she volunteered.

  Visions of her with another man tormented him, and then he got ahold of his emotions. “How about tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up.”

  She lowered her eyes to her computer. “That’ll be fine.”

  As he watched her typing on her laptop, Hunter thought of the woman she had been the night before. All the decorum and reserved demeanor she now exhibited was a total contrast to the girl she had been, making him wonder which one was the real Cary. Chalking up the change in mood to the fluctuating tide of female emotions, he reasoned there was no point in trying to understand the woman. In his experience, navigating the treacherous caverns of a woman’s emotions was akin to predicting when a volcano was going to erupt. All a man could do was pray for some warning, and have an escape plan for the exact moment when all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 10

  It was well after eight that evening when Hunter parked his car in the appointed slot of his building garage. Exhausted and mentally drained from a long day of phone calls, he wanted nothing more than a quiet evening alone with his favorite vodka.

  Pushing his front door open, he relished the peace of his home. There were no ringing phones, no nervous writers hanging about, no staff asking a lot of questions, and no Cary. Of all the things he had endured that day, her discerning eyes glancing over at him from across the office had been the most disturbing.

  Dumping his leather briefcase on his kitchen bar, he went to the refrigerator to retrieve his bottle of Gray Goose vodka. Anxious to feel the burn of the alcohol, he eagerly snapped the cap off the bottle and carried it to the living room. Before taking a seat on his sofa, his mind raced with thoughts of his night with Cary. How she had been aggressive in taking what she wanted from him, how she had relentlessly tortured him with her mouth, and then the final moment when he had found satisfaction in her warm, wet….

  Shaking his head, he sat down on the plush fabric. He wished she was with him now, kneeling before him, but then he recalled her mentioning dinner. Did she have a date? Was it someone new or a man from her past? What kind of man would she prefer to date? As his head swirled with questions, he became convinced that no ordinary man would keep Cary interested for long. She was too smart, too bold, and way too assertive for most men. But somehow Hunter felt sure he was just what she needed.

  Taking another long swallow from the bottle, he squelched his desire for her. Desperate to distract his libido, he focused on the bookcase on the wall across from him. Perusing the many titles of books he had published during his time as head of Donovan Books, he thought he should feel a surge of pride, but instead he only felt remorse. They were not the kinds of books he had wanted to publish; they had only been something he had done to pay the bills. When his eyes lighted on the red spiral binding of his half-finished novel, he tilted his head to the side, remembering what Cary had said t
o him. Putting the bottle on the glass coffee table before him, he stood from the sofa and walked toward the bookcase. Tugging the spiral-bound book free, he felt the weight of it in his hand and then opened the front cover.

  It had been years since he had read the work, too afraid to discover just how bad of a writer he had been. But as he pored over the first few paragraphs, a strange sensation flowed through him. It was a mixture of surprise and awe that he had actually written the words on the page. But by the third paragraph, he found mistakes with his style, flaws in his ability to succinctly deliver the essence of his meaning. Instead of being disgusted with his futile attempt, his mind began to come up with new ways he could change the wording and rearrange the paragraph to make sense. Wanting to jot down some notes, he went to the kitchen and searched the drawers for a pen. When he found one, he returned to the sofa and began making notations in the margins of the first page.

  He read on, scribbling suggestions as he went, and when Hunter finally glanced up from the manuscript to the clock on the microwave, he discovered two hours had elapsed since the moment he sat down to make his notes. Shutting the cover of the book, he seized the bottle of vodka on the coffee table. Swallowing back a long pull of the liquor, he felt gratified. For the first time in ages, he had accomplished something that evening. In all the years he had been running Donovan Books, he had never felt quite the same sense of satisfaction as he did after working on his book. Smiling, he realized that Cary had been right. He had been stifling his creative voice to help others to be heard. Maybe it was time to rediscover his muse, and allow all of those inner demons he had been ignoring to come crawling back onto the page.

  * * *

  Walking into his office the next morning, Hunter was immediately hit by the smell of coffee. On his desk was a tall paper cup from Starbucks, while in the background the clatter of typing filled the air.

  “I got you an espresso roast with a shot of dark chocolate,” Cary chirped from her desk. “You could use a treat this morning, instead of the usual boring coffee in the employee’s break room.”