Top to Bottom

by Delphine Dryden

  So formal. “I . . . Hi. It’s Dru. If this is a bad time—”

  “No, no, it’s fine. He’s heading out with a client. And I’m not on duty, I was only here to work out. So this is fine.”

  “Okay. Good. I, uh . . .” Wanted to hear your voice? “Thought it would be good to catch up. And maybe get some business advice. If you have time, sometime?”

  Amie paused before she answered. “Oh. Oh, right, yeah. Business card. That makes sense. You have the new club and everything. Actually I referred a friend, she may be calling you today. If she doesn’t, you might want to give her a call. Her name’s Mara Tyndall. She’s a sub, and I think she needs . . . a change of scene. You were always good at pairing people up.”

  “Give me her number and I’ll see what I can do.” Dru entered the information straight into her phone. It took up time, letting her get her thoughts back in order. When the task was done, she put the phone back to her ear with renewed determination. “So. Business advice. I recently met with a consultant who suggested I expand with some classes. I’m reaching out to people in the community who might have expertise.”

  “To teach a class?”

  “Maybe. I really meant advice about the scheduling and registration. The computer part, what kind of setup is required. I’ve signed up for things online, but I have no idea what the back end looks like. But you’re the manager at the gym where you work, right?”

  Amie snorted. “One of a few comanagers.”

  Dru pressed on. “And you helped set up one of the kink conventions in Boston. I was thinking about going, and I saw you on the website on the ‘about’ page.” She’d seen Mistress Amie and sub m, a dark-haired pixie of a girl with a crooked smile and a lot of humor in her eyes. Was sub m the same “Mara” Amie had mentioned? At that convention m had been scheduled to do some presentations with Mistress Amie. They’d been in a few pictures together; they’d looked like an item.

  Another pause. “Wouldn’t your consultant be the person to ask?”

  Ugh. Hoisted by her own petard. “He’s not really my consultant. He’s just a consultant I know who was nice enough to give me some ideas. One of which was to use my network. But I’ve moved back here so recently I don’t have much of a network yet.”

  “Yeah. Can’t really ask your parents if they know any computer experts, I guess.” Amie’s voice held a note of lingering bitterness, as always when the subject of parents arose.

  Dru diverted her. “I was hoping you’d come by the club and check it out anyway. I can put your name on the comp list at the door for tonight?”

  “I usually play at Onyx . . .”

  “No harm in scoping the other options. We’re getting a lot of out-of-towners, so you might get to play with some new people. And it’s invitation and prescreened admission only—no walk-ins. Helps keep the lookie-lous to a minimum.” Dru knew that would tempt Amie; back when they were together, Amie had always bristled at spectators she perceived as vanilla or merely dabbling. Dru had taught her the word “dilettante” and she’d latched on to it with gusto.

  “That would be an improvement.”

  Dru slapped her palm to her forehead, realizing she’d overlooked the obvious. “Of course the list would specify you and a plus one. If you—”

  “No, no.”

  “I mean you’re welcome to—”

  “Dru!” Amie tsked. “Stop. I don’t have a plus one, okay? Or were you fishing?”

  “No.” It wasn’t totally a lie. “You had that sub in the pictures for the convention. I didn’t want to make any assumptions either way.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah. That was . . . Mara, the one I said might call you. We play sometimes, but that’s all.” The tone of her voice made it clear there was more to the story, but Dru wasn’t sure whether Amie wanted her to push or not.

  “You said she wanted a change of scene?” Dru recalled the guy her friend Adam had referred, the polite, married architect with the wife who knew more about the scene than he did. A baby Dom, soft-spoken, who might do well with a tour guide who wouldn’t overwhelm him. “I could use a volunteer to help mentor a couple. Well, and monitor them in one of the private rooms, so I don’t have to pull a dungeon master off the regular rotation to do it. Somebody friendly and reliable who knows about the equipment. Does that sound like a possibility?”

  “Yeah, that sounds perfect, actually.”

  Dru ran down the list of the gear she’d set up in the Rose Room, and Amie confirmed that Mara was familiar with most of it—everything except some of the more esoteric prostate equipment and stainless steel plugs. The conversation hit a lull, and Dru realized she still hadn’t gotten an answer from Amie about coming to the club that night.

  “So, just you on the comp list, then?”

  Amie made a clucking sound with her tongue, and Dru recalled the expression that went with that noise, as if she’d seen it yesterday—lips puckered, eyes glancing up and to the side, and if Amie had a hand free, she’d be looping it around and around her ponytail. It was the visual equivalent of the Jeopardy music. Dru knew she had to wait it out.

  Finally, Amie seemed to come to something like a conclusion. “Maybe. But if I do show it’ll be late, probably after eleven.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  “We can talk . . . business.”

  “Right, right. Okay. Well, I guess I should let you go.” Dru didn’t want to let her go. She felt like they hadn’t really talked yet. Only talked business. Fine, she could be businesslike. “I hope you’re able to make it to Escape. I look forward to seeing you.”

  “I, uh . . . look forward to seeing you too.”

  Somehow, in a series of halting “okays” and “thank yous” and “byes,” they limped away from the phone call. Dru put her phone down on the top of the spanking bench, squaring the end to the piped edge of the leather. She allowed herself a slow count of ten seconds to not think about anything at all.

  Then she pocketed the phone and headed for the office to call the food bank.

  Amie settled the phone receiver on its cradle, glancing around to make sure Edmond was still behind the reception desk. She hadn’t meant to monopolize the line, particularly when she wasn’t even technically at work that day.

  It was slow for a Saturday morning, still a bit too early for the rush. Edmond had his feet up on the desk, and was busy attaching paperclips to the end of each finger. Working hard for the money.

  Amie waved at him and grabbed her duffel bag, heading straight out to her car. The drive home took all of five minutes. Usually she walked or biked it, but she hadn’t wanted to get sweaty again after her shower. All part of her minivacation Saturday, treating herself to that car ride.

  She was startled and pleased to see that the kitchen light had been repaired in her absence—Len, the repair guy, must have gotten an early start. The pink work order receipt was on the counter, and Amie started to crumple it up, then unballed it as her brain registered the words in the description section.

  Replaced light in kitchen and bathroom.

  Amie’s face went cold, then hot. She slowly stepped over to the bedroom door, tracing the steps Len must have taken as he went through her bedroom to the bathroom. Let her eyes follow the natural path across the room.

  Yep. There it was, right next to her pillow on the unmade bed, white plastic making a crisp contrast against the teal sheet.

  Hello, Hitachi. Good-bye, dignity.

  Well, moving away so she never had to look Len in the face again wasn’t an option. St. Andrews only had two halfway decent apartment complexes, and the other one was a major downgrade, full of college students and haunted-looking adults. The condo complex where Mara lived was nice, but units only rarely came up for rent, and there was no way Amie could afford to buy one. Plus, she didn’t really want to live next to her ex.

  Or next to her . . . whatever Mara was.

  But thinking about the condos reminded her that she owed Mara a call. The aft
ercare call. Mara ought to be awake; it was nine o’clock. Amie pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed, then propped the phone between her shoulder and ear as she wrapped up the Hitachi and stowed it back in the nightstand drawer.

  Mara answered right away. She was awake, lounging around playing some computer game, and eating junk food. She hadn’t called Dru yet, but promised she would. Amie wasn’t keeping her fingers crossed. She ended the call with a reminder to hydrate, then tried to decide what to do with the rest of her day. Something that didn’t involve sitting in a chair for hours. She’d never been able to understand that.

  She remembered Mara spending entire days in front of the computer. Amie had tried to lure her away sometimes with the promise of a scene. Mara had usually declined. Once she’d said wistfully that she’d happily leave the game for cuddles or some “good old-fashioned making out.” Amie had laughed uneasily at the idea, and Mara had dropped it.

  You start cuddling with somebody, you start talking to them about how their day has gone, you start holding hands in the movies and texting them about dumb punctuation errors, and the next thing you know you’re close. A short step from there to dependent. And a brief topple from there to screwed over. Because no matter how great somebody seemed, you could never really predict what they might do. You never really knew what they were thinking.

  Amie liked to have it all out in the open. Negotiated. Hard limits. That worked for her.

  So why had talking to Mara left her with a lump in her throat? And why was the idea of seeing Dru tonight making her heart beat faster?

  The snap of a bullwhip and a peal of laughter greeted Amie when she finally walked through the door to the main room at Escape.

  The sounds cut across the lower background babble from the kinksters spread out across the big space. The bullwhip Dom was in the farthest corner of the room, facing a St. Andrew’s cross almost hidden behind the bar. Tall, lean guy in a tank top with tattoos covering both arms. As Amie watched, his sub turned and said something to him. They both laughed again, then the woman turned back and grabbed the cross once more, settling into place for the next round of snapping blows.

  With the next swing of the whip, Amie flexed her hand as if gripping the handle, felt the muscles in her arm respond in sympathy to the top’s movement. She wanted to be the one throwing it, wanted to mark that canvas. Bring the sub to tears, maybe even manage to rub off against the heat of her ass as she whimpered and squirmed and—

  Not what you’re here for, Templeton.

  She scanned the long bar and the clustered chairs and tables in front of it. The crowd was several dozen strong—more crowded than Onyx on a good night, lately—but Amie could have spotted Dru in a heartbeat. There was no sign of her—no long fall of raven hair, no creamy sadist’s-dream skin, no big, dark, anime eyes . . .

  Amie sifted the crowd visually from the bullwhip fans in the right corner all the way over to the left of the bar, where Dru suddenly emerged from what appeared to be a hallway. Clipboard pressed to her chest, deep in conversation with a bouncer the size of an oak tree. At least Amie assumed he was a bouncer. She vaguely recognized him from Onyx, and she knew he wasn’t a top, but she also thought he only played with other men. He was definitely looking at Dru like his boss, not his mistress. And he wasn’t wearing one of the Day-Glo orange DM vests Amie had spotted around the room.

  Amie started to raise her hand in greeting, then lowered it and shifted her weight. The creak of leather around her body reassured her, grounding her with weight and authority. Of course the whole club smelled faintly of leather—and wood polish, and sweat, and the high, damp whiff of dry ice from some time earlier in the evening—but Amie was the leather queen. She shouldn’t be waving like a giddy school kid seeing a bestie after a long vacation. She should be summoning her subject to her royal presence.

  Which meant waiting until the subject was actually paying attention. Otherwise Amie could wave and be left hanging like a dork. Like back in the old days, when Dru had known everything and Amie had only been pretending to have a clue.

  Dru finally looked up, spotted her. Gave her the briefest smile. Then gravely nodded her head, as Amie did the same.

  Fuck.

  A couple wandered into the club, pausing between Amie and Dru, oblivious to the silent battle for supremacy they were interrupting.

  “Warm up out here before we hit the back room?” One of the new arrivals gestured toward the spanking horses, where somebody was finishing up; nobody seemed to be waiting.

  His shorter, slimmer partner grinned and nodded. “Yes, sir!”

  They walked around Amie toward the horses, clearing the way. The Incredible Hulk who’d been talking to Dru ducked out the main doorway, with only the quickest glance at Amie. The two women were left staring at each other over a space of several yards.

  Several yards, and about ten years. And the problem was, now they were both queens of their domains. Amie hadn’t really considered that. But it was clear. And Amie was the visiting dignitary in this new place. She sucked it up and crossed the gap, not missing the way Dru’s lips quirked at the concession. She was wearing a deep-plum lipstick, and Amie’s first thought was how much it would smear if Dru kissed anyone. It was not a calming thought.

  “You actually made it!” Dru shifted the clipboard to one hand and held her other arm wide, offering a hug. Amie accepted it, feeling awkward and wrong and too stiff to pay attention to whether any part of the contact felt the way she remembered it. “It’s great to see you.”

  “Great to see you.”

  So huggy-huggy, air-kissy-kissy. It didn’t feel right, in the leather. In the sharp club smell. She didn’t do these gestures in places like this. But . . . old friend, so you had to use the old-friend-greeting protocol.

  When Worlds Collide, would probably be Mara’s comment. Or something about dissonance. Code shifting. Amie sometimes missed her geeky ex’s weirdly intellectual outlook on the most random things. That aspect of Mara’s personality had always reminded her a little of . . . well, of Dru. Who smelled even better than the club, immediately more familiar. Magie Noire, that was the name of her perfume; it floated around her like a magical aura, floral-spicy and subtle. Only improving as the night wore on. So many memories were carried along on that scent.

  “I have a feeling anyone in here who already knows you from the other club is going to be so confused after seeing that cutesie air-kiss,” Dru whispered with a chuckle. Reading her mind.

  Amie glanced to the side to check she had enough space, then swung her riding crop around her wrist on its strap. “If anyone tries to invite me out for brunch and shopping after this, I’m holding you personally responsible.” She brought the crop down hard with a wicked swish, letting it smack the outside of her sleek thigh-high boot. Somebody in one of the bar-area chairs gasped, eyes widening at the sound and impact. A cute redheaded boy who looked ready to plead for a turn. So not what Amie was in the mood for, but she might be willing to settle by the end of the evening.

  “That’s more like it.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t carrying one.” Amie raked her gaze up and down Dru’s body, trying to ignore the knowledge of what she looked like under the skintight black lace dress. “You definitely went one direction with your look. Not even trying to pretend you aren’t a top anymore, I take it. About time. Is one of these—” she gestured around them with the crop, making an extra circle toward the group of scantily clad apparent subs clustered near the cross “—yours?”

  Dru had been smiling. Now her face calmed, grew tranquil. Amie knew from experience that was usually not a sign of inner peace. Very much the opposite.

  “I’m still a switch. Just like I used to be. And no, I don’t have a partner right now.” Dru’s lips tightened, and she looked off to the side, pretending to scan the crowd. Or maybe she really was scanning the crowd. Surveying her domain. “Let me give you that tour.”

  “Right, right. You wanted to talk business, so
that’s a good idea.” Amie was relieved. She wouldn’t have brought up the partner issue if she’d known Dru wasn’t attached. She wouldn’t have come to Escape, probably, if she’d known. Shit.

  But when had Dru ever been unattached? She’d always had somebody, always been in such demand. Such a beautiful girl—beautiful woman, Amie reminded herself, because they weren’t college kids anymore. And so fucking versatile. Dru topped, she bottomed. She slept with guys, she slept with ladies. And even now, she had a fucking canned goods collection box inside the front entrance to her Kinky Club of Kinkiness, with the name of a local food bank on it. She was all things to all people. People liked to be around her. She’d never really had to go after people, it seemed to Amie. People came to Dru.

  The same way Amie had come to her across the club floor. But Amie had already been there, done that, and knew it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t after a do-over, she was interested in helping create a better club in town than Onyx. Only reason she’d come to Escape. Only. Reason.

  “So as you can see, this is the main room,” Dru said, sweeping her hand in a wide swath. “We thought about having some subdivisions here to work in a separate dance space, but ultimately decided it was better to keep an open plan and have things be movable for different functions. So we can do a lot more seating if we need to, or set it up for workshops. Classes. Different training stations, whatever.”

  “Smart.” And what Dru needed Amie for. With Amie’s background in helping run a gym, she knew all about scheduling classes. She could help Dru get set up with one hand tied behind her back—not that she’d ever allow anyone to restrain her. “Is this all the equipment you have?”

  She saw a big cross, a few suspension scaffolds, a handful of spanking benches and horses. A big pipework frame in the corner. It wasn’t much. For the club, or even for demonstrations, it was fine to have a wide range of options; for training classes, the instructors tended to need a bunch of whatever specific thing they were demonstrating. Otherwise it took too long to cycle all the participants through. People got bored and didn’t come back. Onyx had discovered that the hard way when they’d tried to expand into weeknights with classes.