by Linnea May
I let out a deep sigh. How is this even possible? And why would they still go after him?
"Why are they on to you again?" I ask. "What the hell did you do, Joel?"
I can hear him inhale in exasperation.
"What makes you think I did anything, I-"
"You must have," I insist. "And I won't – no, I can't - help you if you're lying to me. You can lie as much as you want to our parents or your poor wife, but you can't fucking lie to me, if you want me to help you out. Again."
He sighs.
"I wasn't even doing anything wrong," he begins. "It was just a little fiddling, just a little something to save us some money."
I groan in anger. That fucking idiot. Sales tax evasion was what got him in trouble to begin with. When he talks about 'saving money,' it's safe to assume that he's been messing with his taxes again, either his own or those of our family's company. Oh, I fucking hope it's not the latter.
"Really, Joel? How can you be that fucking stupid?"
"It was different this time!" he insists. "It wasn't even illegal - or so I thought."
"Don't tell me over the phone," I say. "We'll have to meet."
"Yes," he says, sounding relieved. "Yes, sure. That'd be great."
That'd be great? I sure as hell hope he has more than that to offer. I've taken the blame for him more than once, and I'm beginning to think that my failure of a brother is merely using me to compensate for his own deficiencies.
"Can you come over today?"
"No, I can't. It'll have to wait until after the weekend."
"What?! But it's very-"
"Monday - or not at all, Joel."
He groans angrily. "Fine. Monday. Lunch at Clark's?"
"Your treat," I say, ending the call. I don't need my useless brother buying me lunch. This is merely a matter of principal.
He's three years older than me, married, with a child on the way. Yet I'm the one who constantly has to clean up his messes. He's always been bad at what he does, a terrible business man. The only reason he‘s in the position he's in, as the leading CEO of our family's corporation, an endeavor started by my late grandfather, is the fact that he's oldest. My father never even questioned his decision to make Joel heir to his position, even though he has been given plenty of reasons to do so.
His biggest blunder was listening to the wrong guys, men he met while out on one of his drunken gambling tours. Sales tax evasion is a serious offense, and it's even more serious when it's done on such a large scale, as he's done for years. When he got caught, I was the one who helped him out. I took the rap for his misconduct, especially in the eyes of my parents. It was a secret agreement between the two of us. We silently signed over a few major accounts into my name, and I could quickly turn most of the money into innocent income through money laundering. I'm not saying my methods were any more legal than his, but they were definitely smarter and cleaner. The prosecution was led to me, but they were too slow to act before I'd cleaned my accounts. I almost despise how easy it was.
But of course, the investigators have been on to my brother ever since, and I told him more than once to be fucking careful in the future. What I meant was for him to continue business without using any sketchy measures, but he apparently took it to mean just conducting his deeds on a smaller scale.
I rub my temples, trying to get him out of my head. I can't focus on his bullshit right now. There are more important things I need to take care of.
My toy.
Chapter 11
Ruby
He doesn't tie me up this time. Instead, he hands me a bag of potato chips and a sandwich. He seems to ignore my blushed cheeks, and I drop my eyes to the floor in an effort to hide my shame from peaking so easily at his command, and as soon as he sets the food down in front of me, he leaves the room.
I'm curled up on a love seat in the far corner of the basement. It‘s the only upholstered piece of furniture in this room that allows for comfortable sitting. I have nothing to wear, since he tore the clothes off my body, and I‘m naked with nothing to cover myself with but the big bath towel.
I also don't have my purse. He must have taken it away from me when I was unconscious. This needs to be rectified. The contract explicitly indicated that I'm allowed to bring one personal item with me, something that can calm me when the challenge of being with him becomes too overwhelming. He's aware of that because he agreed to the terms, which is why I'm sure he'll return it to me when I ask him about it.
My eyes study the room as I munch on the potato chips. After he left, I opened the curtains to allow in a little daylight. Anything so that I can switch off that damn ceiling light. It's way too bright, almost clinically so. The room is only dimly lit now, but it‘s still more pleasant than it was before. Next to the stretching bench and the St. Andrew‘s Cross, I notice there‘s an upholstered bench that I know is designed for bondage and spanking. I've been tied up on one of those before, but I didn't enjoy it very much.
The dark walls are lined with a variety of sex toys on open display: paddles, riding crops, whips, chains, and cuffs. I leave the potato chips behind and get up from the love seat, wandering over to peer curiously into the glass cabinet at the other end of the room next to the St. Andrew‘s Cross. Vibrators, dildos, gag balls, and things I can't even describe are displayed in an orderly fashion. Everything is sparkling so brilliantly that they appear to have never been used.
My heart is racing. I wonder if he'll use all of these on me? What will he start with?
I flinch and jump away from the cabinet when I hear the door opening behind me.
His dark smile greets me when I turn around. He's still wearing dark blue jeans and a simple white shirt. The fabric stretches seductively over his strong muscles.
Butterflies. I never understood what people meant about having this sensation of butterflies fluttering in one's tummy. Maybe this is what they meant, the twisting turmoil that spreads through my center like a rocket whenever he approaches me. It's not just fear, but excitement - and a strong desire to be closer to him.
"Curious?" he asks, nodding toward the glass cabinet behind me.
"Is that wrong?"
He shakes his head and reaches forward, loosening the towel that's wrapped around my naked body. I watch as it drops to the floor.
"I want my purse back," I say in a low voice, without looking up.
"No," he replies, his tone allowing for no back-talk.
I look up then defiantly to meet his dark gaze. "Yes, you must return it to me. It has my special item."
He knits his eyebrows together, tilting his head to the side with an expression of confusion on his face.
"Special item?"
"You know...," I murmur. "The one that I was allowed to bring with me. It's a bracelet."
"The one you were allowed to bring with you?" he repeats. "Allowed by whom?"
I fixate my defiant stare on him for a few moments, trying to figure out whether he's messing with me. Why does he keep doing this? I was told that this assignment could only work if certain terms were agreed upon beforehand. It would destroy the whole arrangement if I was forced to verbalize the contract now that I'm here. He must know that, especially since he agreed to the terms?
"Please," I repeat. "Just give me my purse. Or at least give me back my bracelet."
"Bracelet?"
I sigh. "It's my special item. I want to have it."
The agency told me that I was allowed to ask for my bracelet at any time. I didn’t need to give a reason why I wanted it, I didn’t need to launch into a full discussion, all I had to do was ask for it. I wasn’t wearing it the night he took me because I was afraid of losing it during the struggle, the struggle I was expecting but never happened. It's not worth more than twenty dollars from a monetary perspective, but the personal and sentimental value to me is priceless.
The bracelet was given to me by my friend Isabel, the only true friend I ever had, and the only person who stood by me the entire four
years I fought my way through college. Isabel was also the one who introduced me to this line of work. More than that, though, she was the one friend who shared my desire to get an education, against any and all odds. We exchanged matching bracelets on the day we graduated from college, each one having two charms that mean the world to us, two little black hearts, just like our own.
It's my one big reminder that I'm more than this, more than just a high-class escort, and that it's okay for me to be both the only girl with a college degree in my family, and the person who likes making a living by selling her body to men. It's two distinct worlds clashing, one never accepting the other, but yet my heart continues holding on to both.
"You still don't understand," he says, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders. The look in his eyes is unyielding and cold, but his touch feels warm and oddly comforting. "You don't get to decide, and you don't get to ask for favors."
I gasp.
"This is not negotiable," I insist. "That bracelet. I'm allowed to ask for it, no ifs, ands, or buts."
He chuckles. "Says who?"
"It was in the contract!" I blurt out. I don't care if I'm breaking the rules here, because so is he. He started it by belittling me like this.
He fixates on me through narrowed eyes. "We never signed a contract, toy."
My heart feels like it stops beating for a few seconds as I process what he just said. Is this another game he's playing with me? Does he get off on openly acting as if this was a real kidnapping and I’m being held here against my will?
"Get down on your knees."
His command hits me like a slap to the face. My legs bend on instinct, but I fight the urge to obey. I can't, I shouldn't. This is not okay, and as much as I wish I could just ignore the fact that he's obviously unwilling to stick to the most basic rules set up between us, I just can't.
"No," I tell him. "I want my bracelet."
"Stop being ridiculous, toy," he hisses, closing in on me. I'm torn between the desire to touch him, to please him, to be pleased by him - and the knowledge that doing so would hurt my credibility and what little dignity I manage to preserve through all of this.
"If you're not going to play by the rules, then neither will I," I huff, and for once, my voice carries conviction.
Chapter 12
Loran
Her words are as confusing as they are unequivocal, but then realization strikes me like a bolt of lighting.
She thinks I'm her client.
It all makes sense, especially if what she told me earlier is true. She never specified the conditions under which she was supposed to meet this client of hers, but it's not out of the question that her client hired her for this exact thing - to be kidnapped and turned into a slave – except it was to happen according to strict terms that had been agreed upon beforehand. Terms that she keeps referring to, but which are unknown to me.
I stand before her, confronted with her determined anger. She's clenching her fists and pressing her lips together, still insisting that I abide by a set of rules that I know nothing about.
I don't know what to do. If I tell her that I’m not who she thinks I am, would she even believe me? Is there any way I could use this misunderstanding to my advantage?
I need time to think, that's for sure.
"You want your bracelet," I repeat her demand.
"Yes," she says emphatically. "It's my special-"
"Your special item, yes," I cut her off, turning around on the spot and leaving her alone again as I quickly slip out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I head upstairs, thoughts running wildly through my mind. I find her purse right where I tossed it in my office. Its contents are pretty typical and what one would expect to find in a young woman’s purse: make-up, a small mirror, lipstick, a wallet with only a couple dollar bills, her cell phone, a handful of tissues, and a small jewelry box. I empty the contents onto my desk, scanning one item after another. The bracelet is inside the jewelry box. It's a simple silver chain with two little black hearts. It doesn't look like it cost a lot, so I imagine the value is mostly sentimental in nature. I put the bracelet back in the box, and place it inside the pocket of my jeans. Just as I'm about to turn around to head back downstairs, I pause, my eyes glued to the other items still lying on the table. I focus on her wallet.
I reach for it and flip through it. Somehow, this invasion of her privacy feels just as intimate as making her come on my fingers. I don't know what it is about wallets, but they hold claim to a person's life. It's the one thing people almost always carry with them when leaving the house - next to their phone. I'm surprised to find no ID or driver's license. Instead, all I can find is a small batch of business cards that I assume to be hers. She goes by the name Ruby Red, and printed on the back of the card are the words Violent Delights.
My pulse speeds up. I know that agency! I've been a client of this agency. I huff and shake my head. The irony is almost appalling. I set out to kidnap a girl because I've grown tired of the poor services provided by this agency, and my victim turns out to not only work for them, but she also mistakes me for a client.
"What a fucking joke," I hiss, throwing the wallet back on the table.
My blood is boiling as I hurry back down the stairs, back to a victim who has no idea that she's been kidnapped for real, an irresistible, fucking lamb who lured me in like a fucking idiot. No wonder I couldn't resist her, no wonder she drew my attention from the get-go. She's my fucking type, a high-class prostitute whose job it is to entertain men like me.
I throw the door open with such force that I see her jumping away in fear. She's grasping the towel that's wrapped around her body, and she looks up at me through wide eyes. They‘re underlined with a conflicting combination of fear and anticipation.
"Here's your fucking bracelet," I tell her, thrusting out the jewelry box toward her.
She retreats, her gaze darting between me and the box in my hand.
"Would you just fucking take it," I hiss at her. "You insisted on having this with you - here it is."
She casts me a quick angry look as she reaches for the little box in my hand. I watch as she opens it, only looking at it for a second before closing the box again.
"You're not going to put it on?"
She shakes her head. "It's fine, I just needed to have it with me."
I roll my eyes.
She looks at me, and her expression has changed profoundly. Anger and determination have been replaced with wonderment and anticipation. She's awaiting orders, like the good girl she knows how to be.
No. This doesn't work for me. I know this look. I've seen it many times before, and I grew bored with it a long time ago. I hate that she's looking at me like that now, like a prostitute looking at her john.
I don't want acting, I don't want an obedient slave, ready to serve. I wanted the real thing, and I'm still determined to get it.
She doesn't move as I close in on her, lifting a hand to touch her cheek. My caress is gentle, something she's not going to experience a lot with me. A faint smile travels across her pretty face. There's gratitude and hopeful expectation woven into that expression, the combination causing her cheeks to glow and her green eyes to sparkle like emeralds. She won't be looking at me like that for quite a while, once I've said what I'm about to say.
I almost feel sorry to have to do it.
I feel sorry for what I'm about to do to her.
"You said this bracelet is your special item," I say. "And now that you have it back, will you obey me?"
She nods, her eyebrows knitting for just a second in skepticism.
"I have a little secret, toy," I continue. "Will you still obey me when I share it with you?"
Worry casts a shadow over her face, but she nods.
I lean forward with the intention of closing any remaining distance between us, just so I can catch her vibrant eyes with mine. But before I know it, our lips meet for a long, overdue kiss. She's the one initiating it, and even though I
should know better, I let it happen. I let myself be seduced by her scent, her soft lips, and those damn eyes.
Her tongue is adventurous, eagerly exploring my mouth as if she's been waiting forever. I can feel the vibrations of her soft moans when I give in to her. She lifts her arm, ready to wrap it around me and pull me in closer, but I stop her. I grab her by the wrist and force her arm around to her back. She whimpers in protest, but it only spurs me on. She tastes so good, sweet and salty at the same time. I can taste a hint of the spicy potato chips I gave her to eat on her lips.
Her kiss also is a clear reminder that she's a professional. She yearns after me, following her own lust just as much as she remembers to squirm under my touch, pressing her round tits against my hard chest. She's putting everything into this kiss – her mind, her body, her seductive strength. It's almost impossible to resist.
Almost.
I end our kiss with a sudden abruptness that surprises her. Her dazed and confused eyes follow me when I straighten up to my full heigth, never releasing my touch on her. She remains in place, her body pressed against mine and her arm forced against her back, her head tilted back into her neck so she can keep eye contact with me.
"What's your secret?" she whispers hoarsely.
I let a few moments pass, relishing the feeling of her fast-beating heart against my chest. She uses the time to grind against my hard length with such subtle movements that they're merely more than suggestions.
"I'm not who you think I am," I say. "I'm not your client."
Our eyes are locked, and for a split second, I see terror punctuating the expression on her pretty face. But she quickly regains her composure.
She believed me for a second there. It was evident in the momentary wildness reflected in her dark green eyes. But then she cast the thought aside.
She believes me – I know it – but she doesn't want to.
Chapter 13