by Cathryn Cade
She smiled brilliantly at the nearest guy, a cute, shy-looking redhead in a pink dress shirt and dark slacks.
“Hi, I’m Carlie. You wanna dance?”
His eyes lit up, a blush suffusing his fair cheeks. “Y-yeah. Are you a d-domme?”
“No, sweetie.” With an inward sigh, she patted his arm. “But good luck with that.”
She headed for the bar. Screw her diet; she was going to have another margarita.
Chapter Two
Carlie finally gave up on sleep sometime after sunrise the next morning, wrapped herself in her fuzzy pink robe and shuffled into the kitchen of her condo to make coffee. On autopilot, she leaned on the counter with her gaze fastened on her coffeemaker as it slowly dribbled hot, life-giving liquid into the pot.
When there was enough for a cup, she jerked the pot out, filled her favorite over-sized purple hand-thrown mug, shoved the pot back under the spout and traipsed out onto her tiny patio to watch the sun rise over the oak trees across the greenbelt. Her apartment building was built into a rise, so although she had to climb stairs to the front door, her patio was on ground level.
Pushing her hair out of her face, she sat at her tiny patio table and peered around.
It was a beautiful late summer morning, golden-green, cool but with the promise of heat later on. The air smelled fresh and sweet. A few people were already out walking and jogging along the paved pathway through the greenbelt that backed the apartment grounds, edged with rhododendrons and azaleas.
But despite the beauty of Portland in the summer and the caffeine jolt of strong, Pacific Northwest dark roast, Carlie knew there were only two ways to make her twitchy, grumpy feeling go away.
Well, three, but she evidently wasn’t getting great sex anytime soon, so that left two. She could either head to Dark Magic Donuts a few blocks away and eat enough fresh maple bars sprinkled with real bacon bits to put herself into a sugar-and-fat coma, or she could don her workout gear and exercise hard enough to get some major endorphins pumping through her blood.
She yawned so widely her jaw popped and rubbed her eyes. She’d hardly slept. Despite enjoying another excellent strawberry margarita, and a few more dances, the party had gone as flat as a popped balloon after Jake walked away with his tiny brunette. Every time Carlie closed her eyes, she saw him again, climbing the stairs at Club 3 with his arm around the woman’s miniscule waist.
Darn him. He was like a big, jagged rock in the middle of her road to feminine fulfillment. An immovable object smack-dab in the middle of her plan to get busy and find a guy to give her great sex. Great, slightly kinky sex.
She’d been so excited to help plan the Pink Night party for Club 3—she’d get to work side by side with Jake and the guys and pre-function at the club. This was her chance to dip her manicured toes in the BDSM scene before she finally got up enough courage to apply for membership and jump on in.
But Jake had only bothered to show up for the first planning session, held in Trace’s office at the club. He’d listened with his huge arms crossed over his chest, face grumpy as usual. Then he’d commented that since Trace managed Club 3, he’d leave them to it. And he had, the big jerk. He’d strolled out with only a perfunctory jerk of his sculpted chin at her.
She’d been trying her hardest not to hyperventilate at actually being in the club, at seeing him in his milieu as a dom. When he exited the plush office behind the front desk and disappeared out into the summer sunshine, she’d wanted to stomp her feet and howl.
Instead, she’d taken a breath and pulled her head back where it belonged. She’d listened attentively to Trace’s ideas and added her own. The Pink Party was a fund-raiser and meant something to Daisy and the local cancer foundation, even if it didn’t to Jake.
As a fundraiser and a surprise for Daisy, the party had been a huge success. As a chance for Carlie to discover if she belonged in Jake’s chosen sexual milieu, it had been an epic fail. After last night, she wanted to do more than stomp—she wanted to kick the big weightlifter for good measure, with her pointiest pair of lipstick-red Emma Blake’s. And then go buy a dozen donuts, fresh from the deep fryer, soaked with fat and sugar and devour them all, until she was too comatose to care about his lack of interest.
As if on cue, her phone pinged. A text from Sara. R U up?
Carlie’s finger hovered over the smiley, but on second thought, she sent back a frowny-face graphic as her message.
Her phone rang, and she clicked it on. “Morning, coach.”
“Hi, whatcha doing?” Sara asked, her voice still husky with sleep.
“Slugging dark roast,” Carlie said, her voice just as froggy. “Why are you up so early the morning after a party?”
“Checking in with my favorite fitness trainee. You’re not at Dark Magic, are you?”
Carlie sighed wistfully. “No, I’m not stuffing fat and sugar in my face. But I must admit the urge is there. The strong urge. The craving.”
Sara yawned audibly. “I figured. You know, since…”
“You saw him, huh?” Carlie asked gloomily.
“Jake and that woman? Yeah.” Sara sounded puzzled. “You know, I really thought he was into you. I mean I still think he is. I don’t get it. I saw you two talking.”
Carlie snorted. “The only reason he spoke to me was to reprimand me for staring at a couple getting it on right by the bar.”
“Ouch. I saw a few things that shocked the hell out of me too, and I’ve already been there once. Mason, the guy you danced with? He’s a total hottie, but he’s also a complete exhibitionist. Swear to God, when I left, he was doing that blonde chick in the middle of the dance floor!”
“Holy cow.” Carlie took another drink of coffee, got nothing and stared into her cup. It was empty. She rose and walked back into her kitchen to pour another cup. “That’s brazen.” And she was so bent for kind of wishing she’d been there to watch.
Mason was indeed a hottie. And he thought she was attractive. Maybe he’d like to do more than dance. But not in the midst of an audience… That was just too weird. If he liked that, she had no problem with his choices, but she knew she would never be willing to share with an audience.
Although, she did want to go upstairs. A guilty thrill coursed through her just at the thought. The stairs at the club were a portal, she knew that. The things that happened on the second floor were different. The people who ventured up those stairs were involved in a higher level of play, not just there to play in public.
Carlie was still trying to puzzle out if she belonged up those stairs. She certainly hadn’t responded to any of the vanilla guys she’d dated lately. Full coffee mug in hand, she walked back outside.
“It was pretty damn sexy,” Sara said. “And I feel like such a slut for admitting that. Anyway, back to Jake. He was watching you dance with Mason.”
“Laughing at me, you mean. I tripped.”
“Yeah. And for a sec? I thought he was going to vault onto the dance floor and rescue you. I’m telling you, girl, he wants you.”
“But he—he did that other woman,” Carlie burst out. Her mug wobbled in her hand, and she had to set it down on her little wrought-iron patio table before she spilled scalding coffee over her hand. It was no hotter than the tears that filled her tired eyes. She sniffed and swiped them away with the edge of her palm, taking a fortifying slug of coffee.
Sara sighed. “Certainly appears that way. But he is a dom. That’s what they do. I’m betting Dack was with a lot of women before he met Daisy. If looks could kill, she’d have died on the dance floor last night.”
“Well, those other club bitches better not mess with our girl,” Carlie said.
“That’s right,” Sara agreed, a grin in her voice. “So, you gonna be okay?”
Carlie sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Sooner or later. “Maybe I’ll just hook up with Gerry.”
“Eww, is he the EbiTeck man-slut you told me about?”
“Well, what are Jake and Dack and Trace? And Mason?
” Carlie retorted. “Seems to me we’re judging the Club 3 guys by a different standard, and that’s not fair, just because they’re doms.”
“Good point,” Sara said quietly. “I guess I’m used to judging guys by my ex-husband.”
“He is a man-slut, because he was married to you and still couldn’t keep his pants zipped. Geez, that boy is so blind it’s a wonder he can find his—his cock to use it. Or maybe it’s fallen off by now, due to some STI.” Now that would be poetic justice.
Sara cracked up, snorting with laughter. “Oh God, Carlie, you are so prim and proper, and then sometimes you just shock the hell out of me. Thanks, girlfriend.”
“Anytime, sweetie. Thank you for the morning-after anti-donut rally. I guess I’ll go work out.” Okay, that sounded whiney.
“Good for you,” Sara managed before her voice broke on a gigantic yawn. “I’d come with you, but I need more sleep. You wanna head out to the river this afternoon, do a little tanning?”
“Sure. Two o’clock?” If she could stay awake that long. If this workout didn’t perk her up, she’d be asking Sara to wake her up to turn over on her beach towel, as sunning always made her sleepy anyway. She could always take an extra-large bottle of iced tea.
“I’ll call Dais, see if she can meet us.”
They said good-bye, and Carlie went to change into her workout gear.
This was personal progress, she reminded herself. A year ago, she would’ve gone straight for the donuts, her favorite cure-all for all the humiliation that seemed to come attached to her attempts to connect with attractive men. And somehow the pain of Jake not wanting her was the worst yet.
But thanks to Sara, who taught physical education for a living and worked out as a second religion, Carlie now knew that getting her body moving hard enough to break a sweat was a much better option for dealing with anger and hurt than overeating. She always felt great afterward, and it made her pants looser instead of tighter, whereas a sugar-and-fat hangover would leave her feeling like one of the slugs that occasionally slithered out of the manicured garden borders onto her condo patio.
She fixed a bowl of granola and blueberries to eat while she changed into a pair of black shorts, sturdy black sports bra and pink exercise tank piped in black. She paused in front of the long mirror in the hallway between her bedroom and bath, turning to look at herself from the side. Seemed like her stomach stuck out less than before she’d started working out. Her posture was definitely straighter and her arms were more toned. And maybe her high cheekbones were a teensy bit more defined? She wasn’t sure about that one.
She might not be as thin as that little twig Jake preferred, but she never would be. All she could be was her own personal best.
She tied her hair back in a sloppy ponytail and washed her face. Frowning at her heavy eyelids in her bathroom mirror, she added some concealer, mascara and lip gloss. Better. She didn’t mind having what her Uncle Liam called “bedroom eyes”, but she drew the line at going out in public looking droopy as a basset hound. Luckily she was lightly tanned, so she didn’t need blush, and her full lips were naturally a dark rose, so she rarely wore lipstick.
Her apple-green Volkswagen Bug rolled smoothly through the quiet streets of Beaverton. Traffic picked up the closer she got to the boulevard, and when she pulled into the big parking lot in front of Big Iron Fitness, it was half-full already. Fitness fanatics, she’d labeled the taut, muscular crew who always seemed to be at the gym, but there were worse obsessions—like donuts. Or Jake Stone.
Ack, he’d probably be here this morning. He was the manager, after all.
Unless he’d taken the day off because he was still in bed with his tiny little brunette.
Maybe he’d roll over on the woman and squash her. Yeah, she’d squeak like a puppy toy being stepped on and Jake would beg her to forgive him, but she’d be so scared she’d run out of his place stark naked. He probably lived in an apartment, or a condo. The neighbors would all be outside, at one of those community-building meals-on-the-lawn things that condo managers were always trying to talk their tenants into. They’d gawk as Jake and his bimbo came bolting outside with their junk flapping, and Jake would be ab-so-lute-ly humiliated.
Grinning with satisfaction, Carlie sauntered through the big, glass front doors, said hello to Brian, the young Asian-American on desk duty, and headed back toward the women’s locker room. She spotted a familiar set of massive shoulders in the back of the huge space before the mirrors. Her smile slipped. Awareness tightened low in her belly. Jake was here—not in bed with that other woman. Okay, that was good.
Wait a minute. Wait just a darn minute! No, it was not good. How ridiculous was she being, to care that he was in the vicinity? Last night he’d turned his back on her and gone off and boinked another woman. Couldn’t get much clearer than that about his disinterest in her.
Who cared if he’d managed to drag his tight ass out of her bed? Not Carlie. Nope, time to ignore him right back. And she could do that. She’d had all kinds of practice from junior high on, when she developed breasts and hips before the other girls. She still got plenty of practice with the computer techs at work and their weird, geek humor. It wasn’t overtly sexual, but still clueless.
She did well with her Ignore Jake Stone Plan until it was time to use the pectoral fly machine. With D-cups, she never missed her pec flies. She did not want her girls sagging to her waist by the time she was forty.
However, the machine was situated at the end of one of the long rows of gleaming exercise machines, back near the big mirrors where the weightlifters did their thing. Weights were racked beneath the mirrors, padded benches arrayed nearby, so the lifters could watch their conformation.
Jake stood with his back to her, clad in his usual brief tank and shorts, tanned skin gleaming with perspiration, a streak of sweat down the back of his tank.
Carlie tried not to stare, really she did, but criminy, his muscles were all pumped up and gleaming, his back was amazing, and his huge biceps bulged when he curled dumbbells of a weight that she doubted she could pick up off the floor with both hands.
Of course, he caught her at it. He squatted to set down a weight, and her eyes drifted down to the taut, hard ass outlined in his clinging shorts. He straightened, and she looked back up, into the mirror. She was jerked out of her reverie by that icy gaze trained on her like homing lasers. He held her gaze with his own for a moment and then deliberately looked her over, head to toe and back. Then he smirked, not overtly, just that tiny lip curl that made her want to do something violent to his person.
A blush scalded over her face and down across her chest. She turned away, firming her mouth, which wanted to tremble. She wished she’d left her hair down so she could hide behind it.
She knew what he saw—the opposite of his ideal woman. Her snug pink top displayed her 36D breasts and the pooch of her tummy, which she could not seem to get rid of no matter how many crunches she did. The black shorts fit well, but on her rounded hips and ass, well…she’d joined the gym for a reason. She was going to tone up if it killed her. She was fairly sure it wouldn’t, but it meant a lot of hard work.
Sara coached her through her exercises every Saturday morning. Carlie then did the exercises on her own three evenings a week after work. She also walked every evening, even when it was hot. She’d tried getting up early to walk before work, but she was not a morning person. She was also not a jogger—no matter what sports bra she bought, her breasts bounced around, so it was uncomfortable at best, and downright painful the week before her period.
Well, tough. Jake didn’t like the way she looked, but plenty of other guys did. Gerry and Mase and Rafe—although he was so off her list, after the way he’d acted on their first and last date.
She’d met him at the coffee shop at which she stopped every Friday morning for a sugar-free cinnamon dolce latte, finally got the courage to say hello when he looked up from his phone, on which he was usually scrolling as he waited in line for his own
coffee. He’d nodded, looked back at his phone, then done a double-take that was pretty darn flattering, looking her up and down in her green wrap sleeveless dress and bone platform sandals, her hair caught up at the back in a messy knot with a few curls escaping, one down the back of her neck, one dangling by her cheek.
He’d given her a lazy smile with lots of white teeth. After they’d chatted for a few moments, he’d asked her if she had plans the next evening. They’d arranged to meet at The Palomino, a classy bar and restaurant in the Pearl, the artsy district of downtown Portland.
Carlie showed up a little early, nervous but excited about a first date with an exciting, handsome man, sat at the bar and ordered a mojito, a Palomino specialty.
Rafe showed up ten minutes late, smiled but gave no excuse for his lateness, and then proceeded to demonstrate that he now thought she should a) be grateful for his attentions because she was, as he put it, an armful, but he liked that and b) be easy pickin’s because she’d agreed to date a guy she did not know.
They hadn’t made it to dinner. Tears threatening, Carlie had scooted back on her bar stool away from his hand on her thigh, told him quietly she had changed her mind about their plans, and walked out, her mojito unfinished.
Remembering the surprise, anger and then scorn on his handsome face, she scowled as she squeezed the pec-fly machine together, let it swing wide again and then squeezed again, pretending it was Rafe’s head. Yeah, like a fembot, she’d squeeze until he screamed like a little girl, and begged for mercy, his handsome face contorted with pain. She’d let him go, and he’d drop to the floor, promising he’d never disrespect a woman with curves, ever again. After a regal nod, she’d stalk away, leaving him staring after her, cursing himself for not appreciating her when he had the chance.
She finished her weight set and sat back, panting with triumph. Until Jake rose from the bench where he’d been doing a different weight off to her right.