by Joey W. Hill
Just like that, she'd walked away from a career she'd excelled at for five years. Crazy, right? But it was as if she'd been treading water in a pool, blinded to the fact dry land was as close as the nearest ladder. Until Alice had arranged a wake-up call in the form of a simple deathbed request.
Come give me a quick hug.
If the memory had theme music, it would be something sad, wistful. Instead, the overtly erotic strains of "Bolero" injected Dudley Moore and a running Bo Derek into Madison's brain, jarring her fully into the present.
She'd forgotten that music played when someone came into the store. Alice had the classics like "Bolero," "Somewhere in Time" and "Claire de Lune" on the playlist, as well as sultry Latin numbers by Enrique Iglesias and pure fuck-me-now Barry White and Boyz II Men songs. She'd also thrown Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" and "Tonight's the Night" into the mix because, well, why not?
Once the door triggered the music, the whole song would play unless someone else came in. Each time the door opened or closed, a new song started, letting Alice know she had a customer arriving or departing. If there were no new customers after a song played in its entirety, there would be silence. Madison had asked Alice why she didn't set it up so the music played constantly, and her sister said there was value in silence as well.
Honest to God, Alice's choices gave the store a personality all its own. Madison wouldn't be surprised if she could hear the store breathing.
She yanked her attention back to the more important issue. She wasn't alone, and she was hiding behind the register counter. She hadn't expected lingerie shopping to be popular at seven a.m. Jesus, she hadn't even flipped the OPEN sign over or turned on lights, but having worked sales before, she knew customers were as bad as kindergarteners when it came to paying attention to details like those.
She should pop up from behind the counter like a macabre cartoon. "Yes, how may I help you?" Instead, she wiped her eyes and rose into view in a way that made it look as though she'd been bending below the counter to get something out of the cabinet, rather than pushing herself up the wall as if her weight had tripled since she'd landed there. "I'm sorry, we're not open yet."
She said that before she took a look at her first customer. A good thing, since she might have stammered. He wasn't the type of client she'd expected, and not merely because he was a "he."
In his early to mid-twenties, this guy looked like he'd escaped the cover shoot for a romance novel. His stonewashed jeans, belted at his lean waist, defined a superior tight ass, well displayed because he was turned away from her, examining the merchandise on the rounder closest to him. The rolled-up sleeves of his denim shirt exposed tanned forearms. He had good shoulders--wide enough for his age. As he grew older and muscle weight thickened, they'd probably get even nicer. She expected beneath those clothes his body would be well sculpted by the gym. Guys who worked out hard moved like wild animals, with easy grace and strength.
His sandy brown hair brushed his collar and brow, and when he glanced toward her beneath an attractive scattering of strands, his blue eyes reminded her of the sky. "Hi. I'm Troy. I work next door."
"Oh." Not a customer, then, even though he'd been perusing a rack of bras, fingering a lacy D-cup with speculative interest and no self-consciousness. Cross-dresser? Before their falling out, she'd spent plenty of time in Alice's world, brushing shoulders with everyone from transgender to cross-dressers. As a result, she didn't think he fit the type. He wore his clothes without any excessive fashion sense. Simple, basic guy clothes, blues and denims, work shoes. Though a cross-dressing straight guy was possible, his gaze marked her with typical unoffensive hetero interest. Interest in what she looked like out of her clothes, not how she wore them.
"Nice to meet you." She regretted her wooden tone, but he didn't seem fazed by it, approaching the counter to extend his hand. She suppressed the urge to take another swipe at her face. Yeah, that would be nice. Wipe her nose, then offer her hand.
In Boston, her client list had included exacting millionaires and powerful corporate businessmen. She could handle an employee from . . . what was next door? A hardware store. In this artsy downtown area of Matthews, a quaint municipality on the outskirts of the much bigger city of Charlotte, all the stores were kitschy, boutique-type ventures. The hardware store, the brief glimpse she'd had of it, was a historic leftover from eighty years ago, maintaining the original brick facade in front. It was still run like one of the old-timey general stores, advertising horse feed and strawberries in season, as well as small engine repair.
Alice had relocated here from a Charlotte strip mall a few years ago. Because of their falling out, Madison hadn't had a chance to meet her new neighbors.
"When we heard you knocking around, Mr. Scott told me to come over and see if you need anything."
Troy still had his hand out, and she was staring at him as if he'd sprung out of the walls. With a jerk, she lifted her hand to clasp his. He closed his fingers over hers, held them. He had a rough palm, a warm grip, and those eyes never left her face. "We're so sorry about Alice. She was an incredible person, and she loved you so much."
Wow. He zeroed right in on the personal, leaving her nowhere to hide. Madison blinked, hard, and unconsciously squeezed his hand, to find her own squeezed right back. She'd been dealing with lawyers, city clerks, real estate people, all of whom talked about Alice in distant niceties. This man was as much a stranger as they were, but his obvious personal connection to Alice, physical and emotional, made her hungry to maintain the contact. She didn't want to make a fool of herself, but Troy saved her from that. He covered her hand with his other one, holding hers sandwiched between them and giving her an excuse to keep it in that position.
"She left me this place," Madison said. "I'm not sure how to run it. I mean, I know how to run it. I've been in sales, but . . ."
Good grief, Madison. She shrugged to get him to let her go and put both hands on the counter, pressing her palms against the cool glass. Beneath it was an array of nipple clamps and clit jewelry, displayed as elegantly as any New York diamond district's offerings. She was pretty sure some of them had actual diamonds, since one had a four-figure price tag. For nipple jewelry? In contrast, on top of the counter, Alice had a basket of plastic hopping penises, breasts and bright red lips. Madison took a closer look. Okay, those weren't lips. At least not the mouth kind. A cheerful yellow bow on the basket drew attention to the contents.
Alice. God, I'm going to miss you.
Troy picked up one of the toys, wound it up, let it hop across the counter. "She was crazy," he said. "Crazy, wonderful, beautiful, sexy."
She glanced up at him. Had they been lovers? Somehow she didn't think so. Yet his tone was intimate. It was impossible not to focus on his mouth, those eyes. She liked hearing his Southern accent after all the Boston ones. The drawl, the slower pace of talking. Feeling, living, everything. She could imagine him uttering an endearment in that sexy drawl.
When she realized it was obvious she was staring, she flushed. He straightened to his six foot height and broke eye contact.
"Sorry. Mr. Scott says I need to be careful about doing that. I tend to be distracting." He said it without ego, giving her a half smile. "He says there's nothing wrong with looking the way I do, as long as I give as much pleasure as I take. But since I love giving it, it gets kind of confusing, because that's a form of taking, you know?"
Fortunately, he didn't seem to expect an answer to such a complex question. "Anyhow," he continued, "I better get back. Come by later if you want to check out our store. You're always welcome. Mr. Scott wanted to give you time to settle in, but remember to call if you need us. We're here for you."
With a nod, he moved back to the front door. "Bolero" was on its finale. As he opened the door, "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" started, done as a poignant piano instrumental. Alice used to sing it to her when Madison was five and she was ten. She'd called her Little Star.
Christ, how was she going to
do this?
*
Madison locked the front door and retreated into the stockroom. Throwing herself into practical things, she spent most of the morning going through the inventory and reviewing Alice's accounts on her laptop. The business had been doing very well, no surprise. Alice blended class with whimsy, sensual with the blatantly sexual, easing her clientele into the offerings of her store and daring them to expand their boundaries.
It was evident in the store's layout. The display window to the left of the door included art nouveau -style mannequins posed in dramatic, interactive ways, a natural flow from scene to scene. One mannequin lounged in a gorgeous peignoir. A veil was caught beneath her, a rhinestone wedding set on her finger. Another wore a provocative teddy coupled with sleek stilettos and classy pearls, a sheer scarf tied at the waist.
On the other side of the door, Alice showed off a set of her role-playing costumes. A French maid sat on the lap of a male mannequin dressed in a Victorian suit, his hand resting high on her thigh. When Madison flipped the switch on the lighting, a holographic fireplace came to life behind the couple, suggesting they were in his study. She pictured the gentleman flipping the maid over, pulling down her ruffled panties and giving her several smart slaps for not dusting the upper shelves. She felt the tingle in her own buttocks, could too easily see herself in that costume.
Only in her rich fantasy world, it was no costume. It was the real thing, she was a real maid, and her boss had piercing eyes that always watched her, the stern mouth promising all sorts of dark, sinful pleasures in his service . . .
Madison leaned her temple against the display frame, forcing her gaze back to the wedding set. The spotlight made the pearls gleam and tiny sequins in the peignoir glitter. It didn't evoke any fantasies for her. Not unless that Victorian Master was the prospective groom. For their wedding night, he'd wrap her wrists with the pearls and lace her into a white corset, make her hold on to the bedpost as he drew the laces tight, binding her so that she felt dizzy.
She'd had seven serious relationships since college, and Gerald was the first of those who'd made her think of marriage. He was a psychologist who seemed to understand so many things about her that she'd trusted him with a glimpse of her fantasies. A little spanking, a little being tied with scarves to the bed rail? He was okay with it. After all, in the movies and TV, they kinked things up like that. But when Madison got carried away with it, wanted more pain, wanted him to demand she call him Master, that had changed.
She cringed, remembering the look on his face. Anything more than the mildest of BDSM play had been freak-flag territory for him, so she'd developed the discipline and willpower to stay the hell away from it before she lost him. And lost him anyway.
Through all her relationships, she'd played hopscotch with her sub cravings. Tried to make it work with one guy, completely shut it away in a box with another. She'd never been able to trust any of them enough to make the full leap. No matter what Alice said, that was why the failure rested with her.
She'd gotten so tangled up about it that, after her last relationship ended two years ago, she'd decided to quit all of it. Her heart was too battered, her mind too confused. Maybe she'd take up dating when she was past menopause. Sure she'd have to wait a couple decades, but women at that age seemed like they had stuff figured out. Maybe the hormones drove the stupid shit out of the brain and only left what was important.
Stop thinking about this.
She turned her attention back to the layout of the store, making inventory notes as she went. Clothing choices were in the front, but as a customer moved toward the back, Alice had tasteful displays of vibrators, a wall of erotica DVDs and novels catering to women and couples. Over that section a silver-framed, black-and-white print showed a couple in bed, the woman secure in the man's arms as she read to him. He cupped her bare breast, his palm discreetly concealing the nipple, his mouth on her throat. She had glasses perched on her nose.
Such quaint, erotic details were everywhere, making a stroll through the store a sensory experience. Alice had even done her own product presentation. She designed velvet display boxes, mesh bags and other containers, discarding tacky, porno-type packaging.
Steeling herself, Madison moved to the very back corner. The archway there led to the Dungeon Room. It held all the BDSM toys, furniture and more hardcore pieces related to fetish lifestyles. To help her customers explore their wilder side, Alice had strategically placed a refreshment kiosk in this room. As Madison looked at the empty table, a hard lump formed in her throat. She could almost smell the freshly brewed coffee, tea, and the homemade baked goods Alice had served her customers.
Why was seeing a mundane reminder of someone's existence almost harder to bear than other, more dramatic events surrounding her loss? Probably because it felt like a mockery, God's cruel game. Look, she was here, just yesterday, baking a cake, and now, poof, she's gone. Forever.
Troy. Now she remembered. Alice had mentioned him in the handwritten letters she sent at least every couple of weeks. Madison wished she'd kept them all.
Troy, a treasure and treat who works next door, regularly comes in to pilfer lemon muffins. Mom's recipes never fail to attract men, lol.
Madison had no doubt plenty of women would let Troy devour their muffins. She tried to log the room's inventory with her peripheral vision, thinking of them as nameless objects. Not padded cuffs, spreader bars, soft floggers, bamboo canes and blindfolds. Framed photos on the walls showed both Masters and Mistresses in various poses with their submissives. One of them took the window display to its natural conclusion. A severe, darkly handsome Victorian gentleman clamped his hand over his maid's wrist as she flailed on his lap, his other palm raised to give her bottom a disciplinary slap. The young woman's lips were parted. Though she was struggling, the aroused expression on her face was unmistakable.
Madison breathed in through her nose, released it through her mouth. Alice had taught her the stress technique years ago, to manage panic attacks during college finals. You are way too type A, MadGirl. Yes, success matters, but what matters more is why excelling is so important to you. You're not responsible for running the whole world. It won't fall apart if you have some fun or think about what you want once in a while.
Maybe you think you understand, Alice, but you don't get it.
She was a control freak who had one wish--to lose control. The contradiction of that was enough to tear a soul apart and leave the heart forever aching. Alice had wanted Madison to unleash her submissive desires. She'd never realized Madison wanted nothing more than to hand over control to someone and trust that everything wouldn't be lost or fall apart. But to do that, she had to believe he wanted to be that safety net, as much as she wanted to be wrapped up in it and care for him like no one else ever would. From her painful relationship experience, finding a man who wanted to step into that role--and that she trusted to do so--was more of a fantasy than any of her lurid imaginings.
She didn't want to be the discarded Barbie strung out on Prozac her mother had become. So yeah, the parent thing was part of it, she didn't deny it, but it was merely icing to the dysfunction cake. 0-7 stats didn't lie, right? She'd researched enough about submissives to know her need for it was nature not nurture, something that had always been a part of her. It wasn't just a manageable spice-up-the-relationship kind of urge. Based on that, she supposed that it shouldn't surprise her Alice had realized how deep it ran for her sister.
Sighing, she returned to the cash register. If she was going to give running Naughty Bits a try, she needed to get rid of the Dungeon Room, for her own sanity. But that was something Alice would never do, and since this still felt like Alice's store, Madison was reluctant to make such a big change.
At a loss, she looked down to find her hand resting on the letter. She also noticed she'd missed a postscript on the back of the last page.
P.S. You can trust Logan with anything. Don't forget that, MadGirl. You can trust him like you trust me, like fam
ily. No, even more. Like a soul mate. He took care of me until you came.
Who the hell was Logan? Alice had never mentioned him.
Madison was all alone now, a quicksand feeling she tried to keep at bay whenever it crossed her mind. Mom, the Prozac zombie, had crashed her car into a tree when Madison was in college. Dad now lived in Ecuador with wife number three, even younger than the last one. Alice had been her family, and yet she was saying Madison could trust this invisible Logan person more than she'd trusted her sister, the only person she'd ever trusted?
Her sister was probably on really heavy meds when she wrote that part. With another sigh, Madison set the paper down. As she shifted, she bumped that heavy package, a reminder that it was still there. Squatting to take a closer look, she let out a mildly irritated oath. It wasn't hers. It was supposed to go next door, to A Different Time Hardware. Damn it, she'd had Troy right here.
Well, she could use the break. The quiet of the place was getting to her. It was as though Alice was standing there, waiting, watching, yet separated from her by a veil that couldn't be penetrated. Madison's head hurt.
She also hadn't brought a soda, and she bet they had some over there. With the times-gone-by theme, maybe an orange-cream one. And a Mallo Cup. She'd pass out from sugar shock and discover this was all a bad, crazy dream, her sister gone, leaving Madison to run Naughty Bits.
When the store had been in its planning stages, Madison had been the first to call it that. "My sister, selling naughty bits . . ." Next thing she knew, "Naughty Bits" had its Christmas grand opening, with the catch phrase "Where naughty is nice . . ." She'd helped Alice decorate a tree, giggling as they adorned it with everything from filmy, sparkly thong panties to crystal snowflakes and tiny bullet vibrators in gleaming colors of blue and silver. At the top, they'd put a porcelain angel dressed as a dominatrix, complete with wings that looked like two fanned-out floggers, tipped with gold. Alice had teased Madison when she caught her experimenting with it, thwapping her arm with their ineffectual length.