The bit of egg lodges in my throat and won't go down, no matter how many times I swallow. “Are you…breaking up with me?” I ask, staring at him, because I know that if I blink, I will start to cry, and there is nothing more pathetic than a girl in tears after her boyfriend calls it quits.
Although, he was never really my boyfriend, was he? It was all just about the sex.
“No, no, no,” he says, too quickly, in a way that makes my heart hurt. “Kelly, no,” he says, which suggests that I'm not as clever about hiding my hurts as I'd like.
Maybe he even knew I was in love with him for all those years, and just never did anything about it.
Oh my God, what have I done?
“Kelly, please. Don't cry.”
Why do people say things like that? It's almost like they want to make you cry, when they say things like that.
“That scene was really intense. I think it might just be a good idea to take things easy for a little while.”
“Like, see other people?” I sniff.
“No. I mean, no sex, period. When I helped you out of your schoolgirl costume, I noticed you were quite bruised. Your clit, especially, looked quite swollen. Your body needs to heal. You might even consider going to a pharmacy and getting some mild pain medication—if you don't have any already.”
“You have an answer for everything, don't you?”
“Not everything,” he says. My sarcasm flies right over his head. “Only the things that matter.”
All I am hearing is that he doesn't want to have sex with me because of what sounds like a pretty paper-thin excuse. Pain was never really an issue before—and now, suddenly, it is, and he's treating me like breakable china?
My ex-boyfriends pulled that excuse on me, too. They told me I wasn't like “those girls” they slept with. That “those girls” meant nothing. Like I was some delicate flower who needed to be protected from the more unsavory aspects of sexuality. Like any woman who wholeheartedly embraced the idea of having sex wasn't even worth mentioning by name.
Linking Tristan to my cheating exes makes me feel sick and—wrong. But I can't help but wonder why he doesn't want me to meet his friends in the BDSM scene, or why he looked so uncomfortable when Corrine came over to talk to us at Hana Hana, or why he is so adamantly against taking me to St. Andrew's.
“I don't really like the expression on your face,” he says. His voice is light, but his face is serious.
What is Tristan hiding from me?
And then, I get an idea.
“Would you get me a bubble tea?” I ask him.
Tristan eyes me suspiciously. “You're not going to run out of here and do something crazy when I leave.”
It isn't a question; it's a command dressed up like one.
But that isn't my plan, so I don't have to lie.
“No.”
“Fine,” he says. “I will get you a bubble tea. But I expect to see you lying down in bed when I get back.”
The moment the door clicks shut behind him, I Google “San Francisco St. Andrew's Cross.”
And there it is—right below the Saint Andrew's Society, and the Andrews Hotel is the listing for St. Andrew's Cross. It's in the Tenderloin. Not a place you want to be after dark.
I jot down the address and their opening hours: 11:00 P.M.—4:30 A.M. every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night.
I shove the post-it note with the address in the book beside my bed, and clear my browser history. Then I close the laptop and curl up in bed, and wait for Tristan to get back.
I'm not sure why he wouldn't take me with him, but I'm going to find out. I'm going to learn about BDSM from someone who isn't Tristan, and I'm going to learn the truth about what he's hiding from me.
Epilogue
I'm wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, with the hood pulled over my face to keep out both the chill and the unwanted stares. Part of me knows that I'm being a little stupid—no, more than a little stupid, a lot stupid—but most of me doesn't care.
It's cool, but not cold. There's a low fog rolling in from the bay, encircling the city in its moody embrace. I can't even see the stars, and the neon lights have a frosty halo from the beads of moisture in the air.
The growing intensity of my relationship with Tristan is just too overwhelming. In fact, now that I think about it, what we have is a lot like how he described the effect of a taser on bare skin to me, and why he didn't want to use one with his painslut ex-girlfriend—it's too much sensation, too fast, too intense, and the overwhelming sensations combined just put me into a position where I can't say “no.”
My fucking painslut heart.
St. Andrew's is right beside a strip club. Through the grimy window, I can see women dancing in costumes only slightly less tame than the things I wore for Tristan, grinding around a pole, receiving money and glazed-over leers from men with too much alcohol and too little passion in their blood.
I think I might like to try that sometime. Dancing for someone while I take my clothes off. Seeing the desire in their eyes as I move my body. There's a lot of power and freedom in movement.
Maybe not in public, though.
A large, intimidating-looking black man is standing outside St. Andrew's. He has one gold ring in his left ear and biceps the size of hams. When he looks at me, I realize his eyes are a surprising gray.
“I would like to come in, please,” I say.
The bouncer does not look impressed. After glancing around behind me, as though to make sure that I'm alone, he says, “You over eighteen?”
I flash my ID. He looks it over.
“Forty bucks a head.”
I slip him two twenties, which he shoves into a steel lock box welded into the wall behind him.
“Rules are on the wall of the entrance hall.” His arms are already folded again, his eyes turned back to the street. “Make sure you read 'em. You run the risk of getting kicked out otherwise—no refund.”
Then he points at my jeans and hoodie.
“Can't wear that on the floor.”
I like how he only brought that up after he took my money. “I brought a change of clothes.”
He nods, but doesn't say anything else.
I guess that is the extent of his helpful advice.
The foyer smells like my high school gym—a little dusty, a little rubbery, though everything looks quite clean. There's a row of lockers along one row, along with a sign that says: PERSONAL ITEMS LEFT IN LOCKERS OVERNIGHT WILL BE THROWN AWAY—MANAGEMENT.
I can hear the distant pounding of a baseline cranked up high. It seems to be coming in from a door along the far wall. A tall, black X-shape on the door—a St. Andrew's Cross—seems to indicate that this is the club entrance.
I shuck off my clothes, balling them up into one of the lockers, which I set with a code. I change into the silk and lace negligee I bought for Tristan's and my first time having sex. A month ago, I would have balked at the thought of perfect strangers being able to see my nipples. Now, I no longer care. In fact…if I'm being perfectly honest, the idea excites me a little. I fold a towel over my arm and tweak each nipple to make them perkier. I hope they look. I hope they stare.
But I can't bring myself to open the door. Not yet. I'm filled with the same apprehension I felt before knocking on Tristan's door to play for the first time.
If I open this door everything will change forever. There will be no going back from here on out.
Do I dare disturb the universe?
I stare at the heavy steel door, and my heart beats an unsteady rhythm in my throat. This is the second time I've felt like this—this raw, this alive. The first time was when I went to play with Tristan.
It's not too late, the quiet, reasonable voice in my head says consolingly. You could change out of this ridiculous outfit, put on your street clothes, and go home. You'll be out 40 dollars, but at least you'll have your pride.
But I already know that I'm not going to do that.
Because if I do turn back, I know th
at I'm probably not going to return to St. Andrew's. I'll be too embarrassed.
And I will look back on that single moment of cowardice and regret it for the rest of my life.
I take a deep breath, and push open the door—
And step out into a whole new world.
Acknowledgements
As always, there are so many people to thank. BOUND TO ATTRACT has a slightly longer list, because it is a bit out of my depth, and I really had to do a lot of research on the subjects discussed herein.
Lynxie—my wonderful beta. I actually got a lot of beta requests for this book, and while it was difficult to decide, I ultimately came to the conclusion that she would be the best fit. She didn't just help with the grammar, she also helped with the research, and I feel as though I can honestly say that the book would not be nearly as polished if not for her guidance.
Loki—she is responsible for the name of the BDSM club, St. Andrew's Cross.
Louisa—my cover designer. I think she did a wonderful job. The soft pastel colors and lovely typeface make the book look so classy.
Everyone else who has encouraged me one way or another in this effort. Thank you. :)
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