by Alice Ward
She giggled. The sound was like music to my ears. “Fine, but if you start telling me about every kind of football play in existence or the disgusting ways you and your friends figured out to open a beer, I’m going to do the Average Jane romancing.”
“Yeah? What does that entail?”
“Texting my friend and having her call me with some kind of emergency that means I need to leave right away,” she revealed.
I burst into guffaws. “Don’t tell me women actually do that!” I exclaimed through my laughter.
Tabby widened her eyes and nodded her head solemnly as she said, “Oh, yeah. All the time. My best friend, Heather, has had me call her so many times that she just texts a C now and I know I’m supposed to bail her out.”
“What about you?” I asked, pulling my eyes off the road to glance at her and still chuckling. “Are you a frequent faker?”
“Twice,” she confessed as she flashed a peace sign. “And both times were because the guys were doing exactly what I just warned you against.”
Whatever shift in mood we’d experienced last night seemed to be gone. Maybe I’d read too much into it or maybe Tabby was just waiting until we were at the restaurant to get serious, but either way the rest of the ride was thoroughly enjoyable and easygoing. I was feeling so good about our refreshed dynamic that, when I pulled into a parking space and turned the car off, I turned and brazenly planted my mouth on hers. She didn’t pull away. I snaked my tongue between her lips and felt the familiar throb in my cock as her tongue flicked over mine in response. Everything felt right again.
I lightly clutched her waist as I guided her into the restaurant, and I was instantly greeted by one of the hostesses. While I’d met a large number of the employees, hiring the staff hadn’t been something I was involved with and I didn’t know the girl, but she seemed to know me. Her posture straightened, her smile brightened, and her voice rose a note or two as she introduced herself. “Hi, Mr. Driscoll. I’m Sarah, and I’ll be your hostess this evening. We’re so glad to see you tonight. May I show you to your table?”
“Thank you,” I said. As she turned her back and started walking into the swanky dining area, I reached into my pocket with my free hand and tickled Tabby’s side with the other.
“Stop it!” she hissed with a muffled giggle and a twitch. “There’s people here!”
“So?” I challenged, scribbling my nails against her ribs again. “I’m one of the investors. That makes me a guest of honor. If I wanted to, I could throw you on top of any one of these tables and tickle you into next Sunday, and nobody would say a damn word about it.”
She snapped her mouth shut to silence a yelp and grappled with my hand in a poor attempt to stop me from continuing the torture.
“I could throw you on top of a table and do a whole lot of other things, too,” I added softly, smirking.
Her lips turned upward, and she batted my arm in a half-hearted admonishment. I snickered in response and came to a halt behind Sarah as she turned and gestured toward an empty, beautifully set table. “Here we are!” she announced.
“Thank you,” I said, withdrawing my hand from my pocket and handing her a loose twenty. Her eyes widened appreciatively, and she waited until Tabby and I were settled to lay menus down before us and wish us a pleasant dining experience.
“You know,” Tabby murmured sagely, “an Average Joe wouldn’t have tipped her.”
I made a face and replied, “And you waste your time with such uncharitable crooks?”
“Not lately,” she laughed.
A man swooped down on our table with a pitcher of water in hand. “How you are doing tonight?” he asked in broken English, taking Tabby’s empty glass first and pouring a generous amount of iced water with lemon slices into it.
“Very well, thank you,” I told him easily. “And how are you?”
“Very good, sir, very good.”
“Anything special going on in your life?”
He smiled in a comical, toothy manner and shook his head. “Oh, no, sir. Just working.”
“Well, in this economy, working is a special thing,” I assured him. “Keep it up.”
His boyish beam widened, and he bowed his head before scurrying away. Tabby leaned across the table with amusement on her face and said in an audible whisper, “An Average Joe wouldn’t have asked about his life, either.”
“Yeah? I’m a rule-breaker,” I shot back playfully.
She laughed and sat back, then her face slowly changed. While her orbs still twinkled, her jaw hardened and her cheekbones became tight. I knew what was coming before it came, but I refused to allow myself to shut down and whip out my standard vague responses. Like it or not, I’d acknowledged my feelings for Tabby to myself and closing off now would essentially guarantee a reboot of last night’s tension.
“So,” she said, knitting her fingers together and watching me closely. “I hear you don’t like your women for free.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tabby
My hands felt clammy. The knot in my stomach that had formed last night was now more like a swollen balloon waiting to burst. I wanted to take the words back as soon as I said them, but they were already out there in the universe, hanging between Owen and me. He was so reserved about anything related to The Club that I couldn’t imagine he was willing to address the assertion, and I was sure my bringing it up was going to be one of the last things I did with him.
It didn’t matter, though. I needed to know, and if he wasn’t willing to reveal any secrets I needed to know that too. Sure, there was the possibility I’d return to Chicago sooner than I’d anticipated with a crushed soul, but such was life. There would be others, men who were willing to share themselves completely with me. Not like Owen, but there was no one like Owen.
Then, to my complete and utter shock, he rested his forearms on the table’s edge, leaned in nearer to me, and said, “I know you have questions. Ask.”
There it was… permission to pull back the curtains and peer into the life of the world’s biggest mystery man. I should’ve jumped at the opportunity and started plowing him with queries, but I was stunned into speechlessness. My brain was screaming at me, begging me to ask something before he changed his mind and shut down again, but my mouth had gone dry and I couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Who was this man with the jeans and the Honda and the willingness to share?
Was it possible he cared how I perceived him?
I didn’t have time to relearn how my tongue worked before we were interrupted. The waiter was a man who appeared to be in his forties and looked as Cajun as gumbo, and I could tell immediately that he knew Owen. Hands clasped behind his back, he bowed slightly. “I was wondering if I’d see you tonight!” he exclaimed.
“I had to make sure my money was well-spent,” Owen joked. He then reached for my hand. “I’d like you to meet my date, Tabby Rickard. Tabby, this is Sam.”
“A pleasure to meet you, miss!” Sam cried. He was boisterous and exuberant, and he emitted a jolliness I could only equate to my childhood imaginings of Santa. There wasn’t an ounce of falsity in his demeanor.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” I replied with a genuine smile.
Owen was grinning at me from across the table. I raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively, but he didn’t give me any indication of the reason behind his grin and instead asked Sam, “How’s Patty? Is her boutique doing well?”
“Oh, she’s just great! Just great!” Sam gushed, throwing his head back with a haphazard shake as he said it. “I couldn’t be more blessed to have her, and she knows it too!”
The three of us simultaneously chuckled appreciatively. “What about Kel? Is he looking forward to going back to school?”
“He was stir-crazy the day after he got home,” Sam told us with the same head-tossing movement. “I told him, ‘Son, take advantage of your vacation now because once you graduate you’ll never relax again!’”
I laughed and Owen raised his eyes to
the ceiling. “Ain’t that the truth,” he remarked. “Well, I’m glad to hear things are going well for you, Sam.”
“Ah, they are, they are. What about you, sir? How is business?”
As Owen and Sam engaged in a brief conversation about Owen’s career, I watched with fascination. There seemed to be a very real friendship between the two men, not the type of friendship that included going to movies and grabbing drinks together, but the type that was sown from honest interest in the other’s well-being. It was a relationship of purity and good-heartedness and humanity. I was intrigued. It was the first time I’d seen Owen interacting on a level deeper than basic courtesies with an employee anywhere — perhaps excluding Stephan — though I knew they were friendly not by what they said to each other but by what they didn’t.
Sam took our drink orders, then bowed his head and strode away, leaving Owen and me alone again. I was still worried the opportunity to ask him all my questions had gone over the time lapse, but I was also wrapped up in the heartwarming exchange I’d just witnessed.
“How long have you known him?” I inquired once Sam disappeared.
“About three weeks.” My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “He’d been hired right before you came to New Orleans for your cousin’s wedding, actually.”
“Wow. It seemed like you’ve known each other for years.”
Owen smiled vaguely, but he didn’t offer any explanation. My fear of a missed opportunity returned in full force, but it was for naught. “So, you have questions?”
“Yeah,” I said slowly. I was inclined to start slow and easy, but that would just waste time and I needed to get to the bottom of things, so I dove in headfirst. “What did Pippa mean last night?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I bid on Pippa the first time she came to The Club, and a few times after that. She seemed harmless at the time. I’ve since learned she’s extremely jealous and impressively manipulative. For whatever reason, she doesn’t take kindly to other women on my arm, and she seems to be under the misimpression that I’d choose her if all other options were taken away. What really gets her steamed is when I’m with a woman who wasn’t in the auction because she is sought after only when she’s up on that stage. The times she’s made an appearance at The Club without participating, she’s left alone while other women are scooped up like hot commodities, and it infuriates her. Last night, you were one of those women and you were with me, so she was determined to find a way to make me look bad, thus extinguishing your interest and her competition.”
“So, there was no truth behind it?” I asked doubtfully. “You’re telling me she just made something up and threw it out there, hoping it would stick?”
“I’ve paid for my women before, if you can call the auction paying for women,” he said unflinchingly. “Not nearly as often as Pippa made it sound, but it’s happened. She was one of the few who always received a check — for her charity of choice, of course.”
“But you haven’t bought hookers off the street?” I pressed.
Owen chortled and shook his head calmly. “No.”
Relief pooled in my belly, disintegrating the balloon-knot. I was fired up now. He was answering my questions without so much as a sidestep, and I had a boatload. Scooting forward on my chair, I lowered my voice and asked boldly, “What are Howie’s interests?”
He eyed me for a moment, then the corners of his mouth edged up in a grin of amusement. “Are you asking because you want to use deductive reasoning to find out my interests or because you actually want to know Howie’s?”
“Both.”
He continued studying me for a long moment before I saw the relent in his face. “Howie likes to be hurt.”
I stared at him. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “Hurt?”
“Yes. Whipped, flayed, smacked, kicked, spanked, choked. He craves pain.”
“Oh my god,” I muttered. I’d heard of such things before, dominatrixes and all that, but I’d never met anyone into that sort of thing — at least, I’d never known if I had. “So… you like to hurt others, then?”
Owen furrowed his brow and asked, “What makes you think that?”
“Because you said Howie’s interest and yours are opposites. If he likes to get pain, you like to give it. Right?”
I wasn’t sure how I was hoping he’d answer. Thus far, he hadn’t exhibited any signs that he wanted to make me cry or leave welts all over my body, but he could’ve been repressing the desire for the sake of his secret. Admittedly, I was mildly enticed by the idea for the sheer novelty of it. The temptation was well shadowed behind fear, however, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t into receiving pain the way he might’ve wanted me to be.
“No.” The word was a tonic to my soul, and I instantly relaxed. The mystery about his own interests still lingered, but it suddenly didn’t feel quite as important. Just knowing he didn’t want to spank me sore or whip me bloody was a relief to know in itself. It must have shown on my face because he was watching me with the same expression one would watch a funny TV show. “I’m more complex than that.”
“How?”
It was at that moment Sam reappeared with two drinks in hand. “I’ve come bearing libations!” he crowed, placing them down before us. He then stepped back, looked between us, and asked, “Have you had enough time to peruse the menu?”
I hadn’t even glanced at the menu, nor had Owen, but he answered, “I hear Nikolai wants to test run the fondue prix fixe.”
“Oh, yes, and you’ll be the first to give it a try,” Sam said jubilantly.
“Excellent. We’ll have that.” Owen collected my menu from in front of me, stacked it atop his own, and handed them both to Sam. “By the way, is Rafael working?”
The Cajun waiter shook his head. “Not tonight, sir. His wife is due any day now, you know.”
“That’s what he told me when I saw him last Wednesday,” Owen nodded. “Give him my best next time he’s in, won’t you? And let him know that basket I sent was prewrapped, so I’m not responsible if the contents are crap.”
“I will,” Sam laughed.
When he departed with our menus and our order, I cocked my head at Owen and repeated, “Basket?”
“Rafael is one of the bartenders here. I helped get him the job, actually. He used to mix drinks at The Club on and off. He’s having his first kid, so I had my assistant send him one of those cheesy baby baskets with the diapers and the bottles and whatnot,” he explained.
I’d known Owen was a man of surprises from the beginning, but this night was taking the cake. Just when I’d thought I was starting to figure him out, he’d pulled out this completely new side for me to discover. To be honest, I was finding this new side just as sexy as the other one.
“You seem to really care about people who work for you,” I noted in admiration. “I mean, I’m not sure if they work for you, exactly, but you get my drift.”
“Sweetheart, if there’s one thing I learned early on in my career, it was that one can only feel wanted, needed, and happy when those around you feel wanted, needed and happy,” he said sagely. “And that doesn’t just apply to work, either.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Owen
I was on tenterhooks throughout the meal. While the food was fantastic and the service impeccable, I was waiting endlessly for the moment Tabby would remember where we’d left off in the conversation about Howie and ask to know about me. Frankly, I didn’t hate the idea of confessing my fetish and it was something I’d done many times in the past, but this was the first time I was going to have to tell it to someone whose reaction actually mattered to me. If she reacted negatively, or worse, if she didn’t want to see me anymore at all, I knew I would take it harder than any other adverse responses I’d met throughout the years.
The question never arose though. We talked with such an effortless flow as we ate that the moment never came in which she met my eyes and expressed a desire to know. Of course, I already knew she wanted me to tell her. S
he’d made that clear over the course of our romance. This evening was her chance to find out once and for all, though, and yet she spent the dinner discussing the food and Chicago and her last few photography gigs. When we stood to leave, I realized I was mildly disappointed. I’d prepared myself so thoroughly to lay everything out to her that it hadn’t crossed my mind we’d get distracted, and I felt like we’d bypassed the whole shebang.
It was anticlimactic, and I was antsy.
I led her out to the Honda and helped her in like a gentleman should, then got in myself. I had no intention of taking her to The Club tonight. There wasn’t an auction anyway, and that seemed to be the thing that held her interest about the place. Starting the car, I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I suggested, “If you’d like to see it, I’d love to show you my house. It’s probably right up your alley, with the whole creative gene in you and everything.”
“Really?” Her entire face lit up like a Christmas tree, and I could see the regret in her eyes that she hadn’t brought her camera. I had no idea what kind of house she imagined I lived in, but I had a feeling she wasn’t going to be disappointed either way once she saw it. “Absolutely!”
We didn’t speak during the drive, but this time was different than last night. There wasn’t any discomfort or tension between us, unless sexual tension counted in which case it was as ripe as ever, and I could feel the excitement radiating from Tabby beside me as we zoomed out of the commercialized districts and into the quieter neighborhoods with sprawling yards and exquisite wraparound porches. It occurred to me she probably hadn’t seen New Orleans properly during her last stay, and I decided I would have to be her tour guide during this one.
“Here it is,” I announced as I turned onto a long, winding driveway. I came to a stop outside a closed iron gate and leaned out the window to punch in the passcode.
“No, it’s not!” she cried.
I paused in the middle of stabbing numbered buttons with my index finger and looked around at her. “What are you talking about? I might be an Average Joe tonight, but I still know where I live,” I joked.