by JA Huss
Pierce’s hand clutches mine before I can do that, and I look at him, realizing I’m half bent over the desk and this is not at all a position of dominance.
I snatch the paper away and turn my back to him. Scanning the new details.
“Share a bed?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
He shrugs.
“Breakfast in bed?”
He smiles at me.
“You want to eat sushi off my breasts?”
“Sign it.”
I turn my head back around so he can’t see my reaction. “This is your idea of a helicopter tour, Anastasia?”
“Sign it. Or deal’s off.”
I’m breathing heavy again. My heart is racing—fluttering, really. My pulse pounding in my head as my vision once again narrows down to a tunnel.
Only this time… I’m angry.
Who the hell does he think he is? To make demands of me? I’m the mistress, he’s the sub, not the other way around. And I do not do romance. I just… do not do romance. Picturing myself sitting across from Pierce with candles between us makes me itch.
Calm down, Myrtle. You’ve handled men like him before. You know what to do.
Yes. I do, don’t I?
“OK,” I say, turning back to face him. “This is acceptable. But today is Tuesday. So, starting tonight, you’re mine. I get what I want before you get what you want.” I reach for a pen, sign the amended document, and then toss it onto the desk. It flutters slowly, back and forth in the air, and finally settles in front of him. “I’ll email you instructions by four o’clock today.”
“Perfect,” he says, folding the contract back up and sliding it into his hidden suitcoat pocket. “Or not perfect, but… whatever. From Friday night to Sunday afternoon, you’re mine. Got it?”
Oh, I’m going to spank that arrogant smile right off his face tonight. He has no idea what he’s getting into. “We’ll see about that.”
He gets up, walks out, and closes the door behind him
I take a seat, the chair still warm, reminding me of his presence. And I squirm a little, my confidence fading slightly.
I don’t do weekends away. I don’t do any of those things he asked for. Breakfast in bed? Sleeping together like we’re a… a couple? Like this is some romantic getaway?
Just. No.
The only interesting thing on that list was the sushi. Because that’s kinky.
I do kinky. I do kinky quite well.
I don’t do romantic. I don’t use candles for atmospheric lighting. I use them for dripping wax. I don’t wear a corset to please men, I wear it to intimidate them. The handcuffs, and the blindfold, and the paddle are all the tools of my trade and they have nothing to do with romance.
And he’s going to figure that out tonight.
I spend the rest of the day making my plan, and when four o’clock rolls around I send him instructions.
Then I leave early. I go home to get ready, thanking my lucky stars I was already down in the basement last night.
I am Mistress Myrtle and this class I’m planning for Pierce is not for beginners.
CHAPTER EIGHT - PIERCE
Fuck am I doing?
Rhetorical question.
I am driving to my former assistant’s home under the premise that in order to make up for my horrible mistake in falsely accusing her of something she didn’t do, she should be allowed to do some freaky submissive sex shit to me.
Jesus. When you say it all together at once like that…
The real question, of course, is why am I doing this?
Also kind of rhetorical.
Because regardless of what people think of me—and to be fair to “people,” they think of me the way they do because I ask them to—I’m not a bad guy.
I’m not a nice guy.
But I’m not a bad guy.
I know what bad guys look like. I’ve been around them my whole life. Rolex-wearing knuckle-draggers. Guys who will do whatever it takes to get ahead and who will fuck over anyone in the process.
I’ve never presumed to be a saint. I’m certainly not as fundamentally decent as someone like Andrew. But I’d like to think I’m a reasonable distance apart from those other nut-sucklers.
Sure, I’ve had a good time in my day, but I’ve never hurt anyone on purpose. I’ve never fucked anyone over intentionally. And I’ve always treated the women I’ve been with with respect. My single mother taught me that and I take it seriously.
The fact that after I went to the Denver Women’s March, I wound up sleeping with two of the women I met there was not my fault. I’d like to think it’s because they just saw me as a thoughtful, progressive, forward-thinking, sensitive dude who looks like he’s good at fucking.
And really, isn’t that the way we all want to be seen?
But that’s beside the point. The point is that I may be a self-absorbed, sometimes clueless, fundamentally flawed owner of a men’s magazine, and possibly afflicted with an Oedipal complex, but who isn’t?
I’m not making any sense.
But none of this makes sense.
Agreeing to some weird dom/sub thing doesn’t make sense. Inviting her to come with me to Vail this weekend doesn’t make sense. Treating this thing like she and I are in a relationship doesn’t make sense.
I was never in a relationship with Myrtle. Well… I mean, I was. Of course I was. Just not a romantic relationship.
It was actually somewhat more than that. It was the longest lasting, most deeply personal, and frankly, most intimate relationship of my life. I came to depend on her. In all ways. She was almost like the other part of me. More than half the time she was able to anticipate the things I’d want before I’d even thought to want them. And now that part of our relationship is over, and…
Hold on. Wait a minute. I’m thinking about this like she and I were a couple or some shit. That is not what this has been. I am her boss and she is my employee. Period. End of story. And I did something shitty, as her boss, and, as her boss, I’m not above making amends.
I mean… I gave her a raise, a promotion, and apologized like a hundred times, but that doesn’t seem to have been enough for her. So here I find myself. And, of equal importance, if she wants to do this thing—play this game, whatever—I’ll go along. But I’m not going to let her shame me. Because no one else can shame you. Shame is something you feel or don’t feel. And I refuse to feel ashamed.
And after this week is over and we’re up in Vail, I’m going to treat her like she’s never been treated before. I’m going to give her the weekend of her life. And she’s going to feel so goddamn guilty for everything—all of it—that the universe will have righted itself and she and I will be balanced in a new normal and everything will make sense again between us.
This all makes sense.
It one million percent does.
I’m sure of it.
I wheel my McLaren to the west as the GPS instructs me to do. It occurs to me, quite suddenly, that I’ve got no idea where Myrtle lives. In all the years she’s worked for me, I’ve never been to her house. I guess I always just kind of assumed she lived in the TDH. If I had stopped to think about it, I would’ve imagined her living in a cute condo around the corner from Le Man—decorated in nouveau goth chic or something—and maybe having a cat. Maybe two. There’s a fine line between sexy cat lady and crazy cat lady, but Myrtle strikes me as the type of person who knows where to draw that distinction.
In any case, as I pull up to a long driveway that ends at what can only be described as an imposing looking wrought-iron fence, I can feel my brows rise and my eyes widen with the very sudden awareness that I may not know Myrtle at all.
As I roll forward, slowly, I look down at the GPS and back up at the house. Down at the GPS and back up at the house. Down at the GPS… I press the brake and sit there.
If this really is Myrtle’s place, then I was right to have thought she didn’t initially come to work for me for the money. And she sure as hell didn’t st
ay for the promotion and a measly fifty-thousand-dollar raise. Good lord.
After a moment, a door to a guard shack by the main gate opens and a head pops out. A woman’s head. Early thirties, attractive. Then the rest of her body pops out. She’s wearing a guard’s uniform.
I draw the sharply deductive conclusion that she’s a guard.
She makes her way down the driveway to where I’m idling. She’s carrying a clipboard and a well-worn paperback. She reaches the car door and I roll the window down.
“May I help you, sir?” she asks.
“Uh, I’m here to see Myrtle Rothschild? Am I in the right place?”
“This is the Rothschild residence,” she responds. “What is your name, please?” She glances at her clipboard. I notice it only has one name on it.
“I’m Pierce Chevalier.”
She looks at the clipboard. Which I find silly. Then she looks back at me and says, “I’m sorry. I don’t have that name here.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, there is no Pierce Chevalier on the drive-on list.”
“What? I can see the sheet. It only has one name on it.”
“Yes, sir. And Pierce Chevalier isn’t it.”
“Well, can you, like, call up to the house and tell Myrtle I’m here?”
“Ms. Rothschild has left specific instructions that she is only to be alerted when the person whose name is on this list arrives.”
I close my eyes, feel my jaw tighten, and do my best not to yell. “There’s only one name! I’d hardly call that a fuckin’ list!”
I did my best.
“Sir,” she says, placing her hand on a nightstick she has attached to her utility belt, “I’ll ask you to take a different tone, please.”
I take a deep, deep breath. Let it out.
“Fine. Look… I’m here to see Ms. Rothschild. We have a scheduled… thing. My name is Pierce Chevalier. I am her boss. I own Le Man magazine. Surely you know who I am.”
“Your name is not on the list, sir.”
Fuck this shit.
“OK. Fine,” I say, throwing the car into reverse and starting to back up.
“Perhaps it would be under another name…?” she half says, half asks. Pointedly.
“Excuse me?”
“Ms. Rothschild is a very private individual. Discretion is a priority. Perhaps, sir, for both your privacy and hers, your arrival is anticipated under a different name?” She raises an eyebrow at me.
My face feels like it’s a mixture of confusion and annoyance, but then those feelings are replaced by a dawning disbelief. I know she reads my sudden realization because she fights to conceal a small smile.
I sigh, close my eyes, gnash my incisors together, and work out, “Anastasia Steele?”
The small smile on her lips blossoms into a delighted grin and she says, “Welcome, Ms. Steele. I’ll buzz you in.”
As she walks away from me toward the guard house, I have to fight the impulse to back out of here down the driveway and flee as fast as I can. But… a deal is a deal. A contract is a contract. And if I’m being totally honest, now I’m just really fucking curious.
The massive iron gates swing inward, like a giant, metallic mouth opening to consume me, and I roll forward toward the Twilight Zone. As I pass the guard woman, she continues smiling and says, “Have a pleasant evening.”
I don’t think I like her.
The driveway is a roundabout. I take notice that in the setting sun, what during the day probably looks like a beautiful, stately manor, will—in a matter of moments, once it becomes night—look like Dracula’s fucking castle.
But at the same time, for whatever reason, I’m weirdly comforted. Because it kind of resembles the house in Marseilles where we lived when I was very young. My dad’s house. I’ve only been back twice in the last two decades. And even though I definitely don’t have the fondest memories of leaving there as a child, there’s something about the feeling of coming home that feels like… coming home.
Which is the most uselessly tautological thought I’ve ever had, but, y’know, wherever you go, there you are, so…
I step out of my car and slam the door shut, taking a moment to stare up at the house and the darkening Colorado sky. It’s big. I am struck, occasionally, by just how big this world is. And now is one of those moments.
I step to the front door and ring the bell. The door opens, revealing yet another attractive woman in her early thirties. This one is dressed in the smart attire of an estate manager. Most people would probably not immediately identify the woman’s smart attire as that of an estate manager, but when you’ve seen as many estate managers as I have in my time, you learn to pick them out pretty quickly.
“Mr. Chevalier,” she says, “Welcome. I’m Katherine, the sanctuary operations manager.”
Can’t put one past me. Although… “Sanctuary?”
“Myrtle will be with you shortly. Please, come in.”
She extends her hand. We shake. I wait for her to turn into a vampire bat. She doesn’t. I enter.
Inside, the castle vibe fades away into something more… elegant and refined. Her décor looks more downtown TDH penthouse than country estate. Very RH Modern with metal, geometric-inspired tables, subtle shades of gray, and couches and chairs in the next room that give the impression of being just a little too low to the ground. It’s almost like Myrtle delights in confusing people. Giving them the exact opposite of what they expect, then doing that again and again until you finally give up and stop trying to figure her out.
Down a hallway, I can see few blonde women dressed in gray uniforms exiting out the back door. “G’night, Kristy, night, Claudette, night, Melody,” says Katherine. The women all smile and wave good night in return.
I don’t know what’s got me more off kilter. The fact that nothing about this looks like anything I expected, or the fact that thus far I have seen no men wandering around here, which leads me to only one logical conclusion:
There are dead bodies in the backyard and I’m probably going to be murdered tonight.
“Um, what is this place?” I ask.
Again, Kate ignores me (Kate? Katy? Kelly? Shit.) and says, “Myrtle asked that you wait for her in the great room. You wanna follow me?”
“Sure. This all feels completely normal.”
She smiles, politely, and walks in the direction of a large room with a wall-sized painting of what I think is an abstract white tiger. I follow, obediently, supposing that’s something I should get prepared for.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks.
“No. I’m good. Thanks.” I tug at my vest out of habit and wander around the space taking in the art and decorations, all of which are similarly abstract and modern and seem to have a tiger theme, but it could just be my overactive imagination and irrational fear that Myrtle is going to morph into a man-eater tonight and I’m on the menu. I turn to ask more questions of… what’s her name… but she’s gone.
This is it. I’m here. I’m doing this crazy shit. And I have to make a choice right this second. Stay and go through with this insanity. Or risk pissing off Myrtle again, fully endowed with the understanding that if I do, she is gone. In the wind. Vapor. I will never see her again. In my gut, I know that it’s either go through with this or face the wrath of a Myrtle scorned.
I’m weighing this decision, trying to conclude what to do, when suddenly I hear something from behind me. A… meowing. Sort of. It’s more of a purr/meow/growl kind of thing. At least I was right about one thing: Myrtle is a cat person and those paintings are of tigers.
And that’s when I turn to see…
What. The fuck. Is that?
Is that…? What the…?
Is that a fucking leopard?
Jesus Christ! What the fuck is happening right now?
That’s it. I’m fucking out of here.
But as I make for the exit, another fucking leopard, or hyena, or whatever the hell it is, rounds the corner.
And they start walking toward me. No. Not walking. Stalking. Holy shit, they move just like Myrtle. I’m freaking out.
Oh, my God. Myrtle’s a witch. That’s what this is. Holy shit. Maybe one of these is Myrtle! Maybe they both are! Maybe Myrtle is actually twins! Or triplets! What the fuck is happening?
And just as my head is about to spin right off my shoulders, I hear a loud crack.
I snap my neck to the left and there, standing in another doorway, is… Myrtle.
Her hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail and she’s wearing the tightest dress I’ve ever seen. Cinched at the waist to make her look like an actual hourglass, it comes to about mid-thigh. And then I can see the slightest hint of skin before black latex boots pick up the theme and run the blackness the rest of the way down to the stiletto heels that click-clack on the wooden floor.
She also has on gloves.
It’s a lot of look.
“Betty. Dave. Come here.”
The two cheetah/leopard/hyena/bears do as they’re told and turn their attention from me to her. They walk over, and she kneels down to pet them. And suddenly they don’t look as scary as they did a moment ago. Neither does she for that matter. She looks happy and giddy in a way that I’ve never seen her. Ever. Not once. And I smile in spite of myself.
She looks up and sees me smiling, and suddenly her demeanor changes. She stands, says, “Go, sit,” to the two animals that were just licking at her cheeks, they do, and then she cracks the whip she’s holding once again, and I know my own smile drops away pretty fuckin’ fast when she says…
“Let’s get started, bitch.”
CHAPTER NINE - MYRTLE
I have never seen Pierce cower. And he doesn’t cower now. But it’s something related to cowering. He steps back, turns his head to the side, looking at me from the corner of his eye, and says, “What the fuck is happening?”
I crack the whip. It’s very long and it has never, ever been used on a lion. But Pierce doesn’t need to know that. The tip snaps one of his expensive shoes and leaves a mark.
I smile. But only because he can’t see me do it. He’s too busy looking at the mark I left on the toe of his shoe. And by the time he looks back up at me, my smile is gone. “Did I give you permission to speak?”