Echo of Redemption

by Roxy Harte

  Garrett didn’t tell her? And here I thought Garrett confided everything to her.

  She doesn’t release my hand. She squeezes it harder. “Well, damn. So now you expect Garrett to help raise two of Lord Fyre’s brats.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have you even considered how much this is hurting Garrett?”

  I jerk my hand from hers, feeling hurt. Attacked. A feeling that isn’t lessened when she hurries from the table. What had I expected? I know how she feels about Thomas. Hate doesn’t even begin to explain it.

  Seeing security start toward me again, I wiggle out of the chair and resettle on the floor cushion. Arching my back, I bare my teeth and hiss in their direction before curling up tight. They don’t come closer.

  I almost wish they had. Punishment of any kind would be a distraction from Jackie’s response. I don’t want to think about Garrett’s feelings. Yes, I’m carrying Thomas’s twins, but we’re a ménage, there was a fifty-fifty chance. Still, Thomas has children already, Garrett hasn’t. Damn it, Jackie! And of course she’d been there when Garrett had his Cincinnati-meltdown, suddenly proposing, pitching his idea for babies and suburbia, so she knows exactly how badly he wants children.

  Why couldn’t these babies have just been his?

  Oh, that’s right, he had a vas! I don’t share my sarcasm with Jackie.

  I am still irritated at Jackie for messing with my head when she returns. She squats in front of me, precarious on her platformed spikes. Although her makeup is perfect, her eyes are red and puffy. “I’m sorry. I’m not saying I overreacted, but you are my friend and I am here to support you, regardless of who the father is.”

  I tear up, no reason for it, but suddenly I am crying. “No more brat comments.”

  “Not one.” She holds out her arms, and I let her hug me. After a few more tears, she pulls me into a chair and reaches into her oversized leather tote to withdraw colorful brochures. She spreads the leaflets out on the table and points at each in turn. “Lamaze. Primal Birth. Bradley Method. Hypnobirth.”

  “Where’s the info on drugs? Lots of drugs. As in I do not want to know what is happening at all.”

  Jackie titters but as quickly realizes I am completely serious. She pats my hand. “You’re just scared.”

  I nod rapidly and she laughs. Picking up one of the brochures she reads, “Women’s bodies are designed to create life, and giving birth is a natural process. We guide a woman to embrace her instincts.”

  “My instinct is to use lots of drugs,” I insist. I am not joking.

  Ignoring me, she keeps reading. “The emotions a woman experiences throughout her pregnancy will affect her birthing experience. A woman must be allowed to express her feelings completely.”

  She meets my gaze over the top of the brochure and asks quite dramatically, “Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”

  Really? “I don’t know. I’m tired. All. The. Time.”

  She looks at me like she is hanging on my every word, and the attention makes me tear up unexpectedly…again. She reaches out her hand and I grab it, tears flowing freely.

  “I’ve been exhausted ever since the ultrasound. I don’t know why, except that this—” I cup my baby bump in my hands for emphasis. “—suddenly feels so real. So important.”

  I pause, hoping she will say something, anything, because I feel so stupid talking about this. It isn’t like I am the first woman to ever give birth.

  Brightening, she demands, “Tell me the thought going through your head this very second.”

  “The part where I feel stupid for crying? Or the part where I feel this pregnancy is sacred?”

  “The sacred part,” she encourages, making me snort.

  “That’s what’s so ridiculous. It’s not like I’m the virgin, but I just feel like these babies are meant to be. I mean, I went to the doctor, still trying to convince myself I wanted an abortion. I was on the pill for a reason, you know? But then I saw their little faces and heard their little heartbeats and I swear I felt like the first woman ever to experience this miracle. Is that the most insane thing you’ve ever heard?”

  She doesn’t answer me; she just looks at me drop-jawed.

  The abortion thing. I just freaked her out. I really should learn to keep my mouth shut. I assure her, “I never seriously considered an abortion. I was just terrified.”

  “Good. Because I couldn’t have supported you in that, even if I do hate these babies’ father. Everything happens for a reason. Even this. And I believe you have been chosen to be a mother.” She passes me the brochure. “Read this one.”

  Congratulations. You are embarking on the greatest challenge and most rewarding experience you will ever face as a woman. Do not shy away from a single moment of the profound life-changing experience you will soon face: BIRTH.

  My heart starts racing. I feel as if this brochure was sent directly to me.

  At Primal Birth, the birth of your child will be a mind, body, and spirit experience. We are here to lend guidance and support as you embrace the natural instinct already residing inside of you to birth your child naturally and effortlessly.

  There is a photo of a pregnant woman, sitting cross-legged in the middle of a field of wildflowers, meditating. Another photo shows a pregnant woman jogging barefoot on the beach, water lapping at the trail of her footprints. They look peace-filled, happy.

  “I want you to know, I’m here for you. Need a birth partner? You got one.”

  I wonder suddenly if Thomas will be able to attend the birth. Seeing my look of distress, she thinks I’m worried about hurting her feelings. “I know, I know, you already have two men, one for each hand, I’m just saying.”

  “You’re a good friend, Jackie.” I just wish I could confide in her my fears for Thomas’s safety. I don’t make a big deal of it, but I crawl onto the cushion at her feet, taking the brochure with me. I don’t have to pretend I’m reading. It is a welcome distraction, one leaving me enthralled.

  In the wild, a mammal releases adrenaline to delay labor if a predator is near, leaving the soon-to-be mother prepared for fight or flight. It is only natural that a human mammal will have the same reaction to a stress-filled or dangerous environment. Adrenaline is the enemy of labor, making the use of drugs during the process so prevalent. No doctor wants to wait around for a mother to feel safe. At Primal Birth you will learn to prepare your birthing nest for a drug-free and stress-free natural birth.

  I glance up from the brochure to see Master. Finally.

  Garrett sees me and lifts his chin in a barely perceptible greeting before turning his back to me. He is watching a scene play out on the punishment dais. Morgana topping a man. She is small, petite, and also thin as a reed. All of her weight rests solidly in her double-D cups. Her bright auburn hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, exaggerating her naturally high cheekbones, and her cupid lips are painted a startling shade of red. She is layered in belts, one over her breasts, barely covering her nipples. Several are criss-crossed around her waist. Upper arms. Thighs. It seems like a medieval fashion statement until my eyes land on the big black strap-on jutting from her crotch.

  She is beautiful and powerful in a way I will never be. Knee-high, lace-up black commando boots complete her look. It is her boots that have her slave’s undivided attention as he licks them clean.

  “Not good enough.” She strikes his ass with a riding crop, leaving a bright red line on his pale buttocks cheek. I have to close my eyes against the beauty of it. I want bound and whipped. I can’t imagine waiting six months to experience the sting again and decide that for the rest of the evening Master and I really need to focus on us.

  He gives Morgana a long look of approval before turning away from the scene. Our gazes meet as he strides toward me, and I lick my lips in anticipation. I wish he could read my mind. If he could he would see a replay of the scene we played out in his library.

  I want flogged. I really want caned. I lick my lips again, almost drooling with
the need of my desire. I smile at Master, hoping he takes it for the naughty invitation it’s intended to be. Wait. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking at a man who has matched his stride. They are close enough for me to hear Master tell him, “The receptionist is in charge of scheduling all Attic appointments. I’m sorry I can’t help you with that, but I will be happy to have someone escort you upstairs so that you can make the appointment while you’re here.”

  “Sir, no disrespect but I’ve been trying to get an appointment at The Attic for two months.”

  Master turns only slightly, the man steps between us, blocking his progress. I meet Garrett’s gaze, catching the flair of annoyance before he gives his full attention to the rude man. Lust crosses his face. What? Their words cease to have meaning as my head spins around the thought Master is obviously attracted to the man. I take a closer look. He’s mid-thirties, tan, buff, blond. I’m not blind, the man has the total package going on. Nice bod. Pretty face.

  “You’re so keen to do a scene with one of my Dominants, sub for me. Now.”

  My head swivels to face Master, hoping he’ll notice my glare, but he doesn’t meet my gaze and within seconds he is leading the man toward the elevator. My heart crashes as I watch them ascend. Through the glass walls of the elevator, I see that Master is already topping him. The man’s face is lowered to look at the ground. “Well, la-de-fucking-da.”

  * * * *

  I awake when Joel Winston, Garrett’s security lead, lifts me and starts carrying me through the dining room. For a moment I am disoriented, wondering what I did to be in trouble this time, but he passes the cages and stocks, the whipping posts, and isolation sphere without even slowing down. Suddenly, I’m scared, considering the recent violence and Thomas’s fear for mine and Garrett’s safety. “Where’s Garrett?”

  “Working. You’ve been here long enough.”

  One of the other security guards opens the door that leads to the alley, and bright sun blinds me momentarily. “What time is it?” Shielding my eyes with my arm allows me to see the limo waiting. Our driver holding the door open. Unless there is a huge conspiracy I don’t know about, I am safe. It just isn’t like Garrett to leave me unattended so long and he has never sent me home alone before.

  I am deposited into the backseat as naked as I was inside the club. “Hey. Clothes?”

  Joel, never a man for many words—unless he’s arguing with Garrett—points to a small bag I hadn’t noticed on the floorboard. It is the one I normally keep stashed in the office. Since most often I leave the house in fetish-wear, or naked, and return in the same condition, I realized fairly early in mine and Garrett’s relationship—the second time around—I needed clothing available for a vanilla emergency.

  Frowning, I look from the bag back to Joel. “Did Master instruct you to send me home?”

  “Miss Jackie asked me to see to your welfare before she left.”

  “Thank you, Joel.” He forgot about me. I start rummaging through my bag as soon as the door closes and instruct Blake to take me to the office. I slept all night. I am certainly not going home to stare at an empty space. I know myself well enough to know that would lead to me getting into much trouble…

  What I really want is to turn around and go back to the club. Now that I am awake I want to know what Garrett’s doing. I imagine him in The Attic, still torturing the hotty he took upstairs—clamping his nipples, zapping him with a prod. God, I get wet just thinking about it. I want zapped.

  “Damn it!”

  I can’t go straight home in this mood. I’d only end up hunting down Lord Fyre. Now that I know he’s still in town, it isn’t a far leap to know that he’s holed up with his brother somewhere. I know where he lives and if not there I know where George lives…and if he was neither place…I’d just keep looking.

  Better to find a safe activity.

  “Hey, Blake, can you take me to the nearest bookstore?”

  “It will be hours before one is open, Miss.”

  “Do you have something better to do?” I ask irritably, immediately regretting my sharp tongue. It isn’t like my foul mood is any fault of his.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, neither do I, and go through a fast food drive-thru. I’m starving.”

  “Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries.”

  Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby

  Chapter 21

  Garrett

  My favorite room in The Attic is one I designed with George for mind play. It’s one thing to go into the nice sterile medical room. You can be fairly certain what is going to happen there. Or the room that looks like a Victorian boudoir, no big surprises, but room number eight is a mystery. The floor is wooden and overlaid with a maze of pipe that you have to step over again and again to navigate the room. Pipe on the wall, pipe hanging from the ceiling.

  I have the man who introduced himself as Dean make his way to the center of the room. There, I have him strip. Completely. If I was in lust with him before seeing him naked, I am flipped now.

  I lick my lips and try to not stare. Wouldn’t want him to know I’m impressed, now would I?

  I’ve kept on my clothes, dress shirt, pants. I work my tie loose and roll up the sleeves of my shirt. “What brings you to The Attic, Dean?”

  He swallows hard and tries to look away. Is this more than he bargained for? The intimacy of questions…

  Some people can handle it, some can’t. Some don’t want you to know anything about them at all. That’s how I peg Dean. He didn’t supply a last name. If I wanted I could use my PDA to pull up all of the secure personal information he provided before being allowed on the floor. I’m fine with Dean. For now.

  “Curiosity.” He finally answers my question. “Everyone talks about The Attic like it is such a big deal, like you can’t get the same type of experience anywhere else in the world.”

  “Well.” I scratch my chin. “Your expectations must be high then. Perhaps when we’re through you can tell me if you were impressed or disappointed.”

  “Be glad to, Sir.” He’s challenging my authority already with his sarcasm-laced answers. He probably dominates in all of his relationships, but in The Attic all clients are subs, he wasn’t given a choice in the role he is playing.

  “Think you can balance on that pipe there, Dean?”

  Barefoot, he steps onto the pipe and smiles.

  “Good boy.”

  He frowns at the praise. I don’t think he liked being called boy, or maybe it was all of it together, “good boy,” like a loyal hound. Or maybe, just maybe, he sensed my sarcasm and is beginning to realize the scene has begun, and it’s all downhill from here. I push a button on my remote control, and the pipe suspended above him drops. I have him grip the bar, like he would if I wanted him to do pull-ups. He holds on. From a rack I grab some lengths of pipe, some galvanized elbows, and join him on the balance pipe. I make quick work of boxing his hands between pipe. He tries to pull his hands free, the design deceptively simple, seeming not effective, but he is trapped as surely as if I’d bound him in rope or leather or cuffs.

  I hop down, pressing the button on the remote that lifts his hands above his head. “Comfy, Dean?”

  “Yes, Sir.” He’s lying. The soles of his feet are burning already from balancing on the narrow metal pipe. He shifts his weight again and again.

  “So, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here, Dean?” I withdraw a handful of clips from my pocket. They are shiny black and have a nice bite to them. I bring one into his line of vision just to watch his eyes widen a bit before I attach it to his scrotum.

  He says, “Fuck,” under his breath before answering, “I told you the real reason, Sir.”

  I don’t expect a reaction so early in the game. This is going to be entertaining. I smile, relaxing for the first time in what feels like months but has only been days. I can feel the dom-space settling nice
ly through my cortex. It doesn’t usually happen at work. Work is work. And to gain the slightly euphoric feeling so early on? This is an unexpected surprise. The room around me fades as I focus on distributing the clips in a pleasing pattern over his scrotum. He dances on the pipe, and to ease his suffering just a little I stroke the back of his thigh. It’s a very small distraction. “Relax. So, you aren’t here for the pain?”

  “No, Sir.”

  His jutting erection labels him a liar, but I don’t mention the obvious. I join him on the pipe and dangle a pair of nipple clamps attached by a chain in front of his face. “Tell me you want me to attach these to your nipples, Dean.”

  “I’d be lying, Sir.”

  I laugh at him and twist his nipple. “You’ll have to try harder than that to convince me, Dean.”

  He writhes forward, gasping, “Please.”

  “Please is neither your safe word nor the response I was looking for.” I twist his other nipple.

  “Sir. Please attach the nipple clamps.”

  I don’t leave him wanting. His breath sucks in and he makes a high pitched keen in the back of his throat. From experience I know the bite of the clamps I just attached. They are wicked. I won’t be able to leave them on him long, but just the initial pain ripped through his chest and zigged down his spine to pucker his asshole. “Say, Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  I stroke his face, and he closes his eyes at the tenderness. “We’re going to have a good time, Dean.”

  I attach the other clamp and this instance I don’t have to ask him to say the words. He volunteers, “Thank you, Sir.”

  My cock is as hard as a rock and the session is just beginning. I smack his ass as I jump off the pipe and leave him standing. I cross the room in front of him, taking my time. I posture a little as I remove my tie. Seduction. It’s what Lewd Larry has always been best at and now, consciously bringing Lord Ice more and more to the forefront of my psych, I decide this part of Lewd Larry I keep.

  I take my time selecting the perfect flogger and though I’m not looking at the man bound behind me, I know he is watching me because a wave of his need ebbs through the room. I chuckle. We are going to have a very good time.