by Sosie Frost
He ignored my cries.
And, for the first time in weeks…
No one was watching.
I regretted wearing a skirt, a thought that had never once crossed my mind. The situation was getting too dangerous. I stomped on his shoe. He yelled, but it gave me enough time to knee his groin.
And I missed. My knee crashed into his thigh. He spun me around, looping his arms over my stomach.
In another world, with another man, this might have excited me. Held down, tied up, I would have begged for it.
But not now.
Not with this creep.
This wasn’t the dominance I experienced with Anthony. This…
This was terrifying.
I twisted before he dragged me to the hallway with the bathrooms. My back collided with the wall, and I gripped my hands over the doorframe. He shoved me against the brick.
“Right here, baby?” He rubbed his erection. “You are a kinky one.”
He lunged for my neck. I kicked again, catching him in the knee. He buckled, but his response was quicker. A slap across the face. Hard and deliberate.
My lip split, caught by a ring on his finger, but my squeal pinched off as his hand closed around my throat. His other hand unhooked his belt. He squeezed too hard, and a boiling panic bled into my veins. My lungs ached. I couldn’t breathe.
Not this.
Not here.
Please, no!
I wouldn’t let it happen. Another kick. This time square on target. He gasped and released me, but the freedom was short-lived. He reared back, and I ducked, prepared for the hit.
It never came.
The guy yelped in pain and crumbled to his knees, his arm awkwardly bent behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief, ready to thank the bartender, Rose, Martini, or whichever member of the Anathema MC that had saved me.
The flash of red hair and equally crimson lips was not who I hoped to find.
Simone twisted the man’s arm until it cracked. She dropped him, aiming a brutal kick into his groin. He groaned.
“Get lost,” she ordered. He didn’t argue.
The shock overwhelmed me. Bile rose in my throat.
The bathroom was empty. I rushed into the handicap stall and threw up. Once, twice, then more times than my last flu. The bathroom door opened, closed, then the lock twisted into place.
The revulsion churned again, but Simone’s heels clipped across the floor. For the first time, the sound relieved me.
She waited, touching up her makeup in front of the mirror. Our purses clattered to the floor near her feet.
“Don’t start bar fights, pet,” she said. “You’ll lose.”
I couldn’t answer. Another rush of sickness overwhelmed me. There was no way to muffle the sound, and so I hoped I’d choke on the remnants of my dinner and end the humiliation once and for all.
Of all the people to find me.
Of all the people to help me.
“Are you done?” she asked.
There wasn’t much left in me, but that didn’t mean my stomach wanted to give up the fight. We’d went for a nice dinner before heading to the strip club. Twenty-five dollars, literally flushed down the drain.
“I think I’m okay,” I said.
“Finally.”
Every part of me stayed queasy and gross. I wiped my mouth. My stomach turned again, but I ignored it. I would not throw up on Simone. No need for that gossip to spread around Duchess.
Like nearly getting raped was any better.
“What are you doing here?” I closed the stall behind me.
Simone looked up from her cellphone. “Out on the town with my best gals.” Her voice raised an octave as she mimicked my Facebook status. “Good to hit Sorceress and have some fun.”
Damn it.
“Do you have any idea how stupid is it to post exactly where you’re going?”
I did now.
“And do you have any idea how dangerous this place is?” she asked.
“My best friend knows the owner.”
“This is a biker bar. You could have been hurt.”
“Yeah…” I wavered on my feet. “I…I know.”
She offered me a damp paper towel. “Is this what you’re doing now? Bar hopping? Searching the scene for another guy?”
“My friends dragged me out.”
“And where were they while that douche was pummeling the virtue out of you?”
My hands twisted in the towel. A bruise darkened my wrist. Great. A reminder. My stomach heaved again, and I rushed into the stall. Nothing came out but tears. I’d rather have thrown up.
“Don’t tell Anthony,” I whispered.
Simone hopped onto the heat-register against the wall, crossing her legs and watching as I groped my way back to the sink.
“I’m not stupid. You think I want Anthony in jail for murdering some biker prospect? Or worse…starting a biker brawl?”
I closed my eyes. “Why are you here?”
“Why, I’ve missed you, pet.”
“Do you want to gloat?” I turned to face her. Despite my best efforts and my attempt to reignite any bit of my dignity, I still couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Are you here to mock me? Gaze upon Morgan, the laughing stock and failure. Is that how you get yourself off?”
“Careful, pet. You might have walked out on Anthony, but you don’t speak to me like that.”
“Fuck. You. I’m not playing that game anymore.”
Simone slid from her seat. Her steps rattled inside my gut, but there was nothing left to twist and knot. She stopped an inch from my face, her expression a solid mask of beauty and irritation. She pushed me against the sink.
“This isn’t a game. It wasn’t with Anthony, and it sure as hell isn’t with me.” She pointed to the water. “Wash your face and sober up.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Then what’s your excuse?”
I did as she asked, only because the water cooled my skin and cleared my head. She expected an answer. I wondered how long she’d wait for a response. I hoped an eternity, because I had nothing for her.
Did she want a fight? An agreement?
I didn’t even know why she was standing there. Anthony wouldn’t have sent her, not after he made it abundantly clear how he felt about me.
Then again, Simone was a sadist. And probably evil. Screwing with my head would get her off for weeks.
“Leave me alone,” I said. “You wouldn’t care even if I could explain it.”
“I’m insulted.” Simone faced only her reflection, boosting her cleavage with a tug on the shirt. She kissed at the mirror. “I didn’t hear a thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, what.”
Absolutely not. I reached for the purses, but her shoes cracked down between me and the bags.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m leaving.”
“No. What are you doing.”
I spoke slowly this time, brave enough to stand toe to toe with her. “I’m leaving.”
She kicked my purse towards me. For the first time, her voice wavered too.
“You broke his heart.” It was the first genuine emotion she’d ever shown me, and it hurt. “You broke his fucking heart, and you don’t even care.”
“His heart? He doesn’t have one to break.”
“You think so?”
“You don’t know the things he said to me.”
“You’re unfocused. Ruining your life. Wasting your talent.” She counted on her fingers like it was a guessing game. “You aren’t trying, you gave up on yourself, and you aren’t good enough for him.”
I wished I had something left to throw up. My stomach did not like dropping alone.
“He told you.”
“He tells me everything.” Simone shrugged. “And you have a problem with what he said because…”
“He used it to hurt me!”
“Isn’t it all true?”
Yes.<
br />
Every word of it.
And I wasn’t ready to admit it.
“I don’t need this,” I said. “Thank you for saving me, but I am not going to stand here and let you insult me just like him.”
Simone whipped out a compact and dusted her nose and cheeks as I stormed to the door.
“Anthony is a narcissistic ass,” she said.
I regretted stopping. “Glad I’m not the only one who sees it.”
“He was supposed to collar you at Duchess a few weeks back. Everyone was talking about it. He’s never taken a permanent slave. And, pet…” She shimmied. “We had all sorts of nasty surprises for you. You would have hated it and loved it, and everyone there would have eaten it up.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Not me,” Simone said. “Anthony. He’s never been rejected like that. Never had a sub walk out on him. You can imagine the scandal at the club.” She winked at me through the mirror. “Poor thing hasn’t been back to Duchess since you left. Hell, he hasn’t even been in the city.”
“Am I supposed to feel bad for him?”
“I’m sure you feel a lot of things for him.”
“Not many of them are good.”
“You were right though. He doesn’t understand you.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, he told me all about how you left in a huff…” She winked. “And I told him you were absolutely right.”
I froze. “What?”
“Anthony was born into a trust fund the size of Manhattan. He never had to work for anything in his life. He went to good schools because his daddy put him there. He got into Yale and did fine, but Daddy got him there too. Joined Daddy’s law firm. Got the best accounts. Only took six years before his father retired and Anthony inherited everything. Do you understand?”
“He’s lucky.”
“Listen to me, Morgan. He invested his money in a fetish club so he could indulge in his wildest little fantasies. He fucks submissive women. He made his every desire come true. And he’s never once been denied anything he’s ever wanted.” Her eyebrow rose. “And then he met you.”
I rolled my eyes. “He told me I was a natural submissive.”
“You are,” Simone said. “For him. But he still had to work to get you there. Any of the girls at Duchess would have climbed on that table and gotten fucked the instant he ordered it. But Anthony had to seduce you. Dominate you. Mold you into the woman he wanted.”
“Great.”
She scowled. “Don’t you dare take that for granted. Anthony is a great man. He sees something in you that you’re too afraid to find.”
“He doesn’t want me,” I said. “He said I wasn’t good enough for him.”
“Did you fuck up the audition?”
I didn’t dare answer that question, but my flash of panic revealed the truth.
“That makes much more sense.” Simone smiled. “Anthony’s too dense to realize it. You fucked up the audition. Didn’t get the part. And you’re running because you’re ashamed.”
“He wouldn’t understand now if I told him.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“So, what does it matter?”
“It matters.” She shrugged. “What are you doing here? Drinking at a strip club? Wasting your night alone and miserable? That’s not you. What are you doing with your life? Right now? In this instant?”
I lowered my gaze. “I’m trying to make it stop hurting.”
Simone finished with her makeup and adjusted her outfit to look as lethal and sexy as she could manage without her crop. Then again, she didn’t need a crop to inflict pain. She was doing a pretty good job twisting the hypothetical knife in my gut.
She passed by me, unlocking the bathroom door.
“Then do something about it. For once in your life, Morgan. Take control.”
The door closed behind her. I collapsed over the sink, splashing water in my face until I felt like I was drowning from the inside out.
How had I messed so much up?
Not just my classes or graduation, the music or my family. I couldn’t pinpoint the moment when everything started to suck, but I knew exactly when I’d ruined my last chance at happiness.
I missed Anthony almost as much as I hated him.
And I hated everything that he said almost as much as I knew how true it all was.
I also hated Simone, but nothing much had changed there.
But the hatred I had for myself? That was new. I loathed feeling so damn worthless. It was my own fault this had happened.
Enough was enough.
This had to end sometime.
I had to fix things.
I texted Rose and Martini and apologized for leaving without saying goodbye. I hurried home, racing nonexistent traffic, desperate for the quiet, dark solitude of my apartment.
The door closed behind me.
And I locked every last bit of fear, anxiety, and depression outside in the cold.
I grabbed my violin and set up a chair. The sheet music was tucked inside a marked banker’s box, the last concerto I played. The one I loved so much I tattooed it onto my ankle.
I played the movement until it was time for work.
I played it as soon as I got back.
I played it until my body trembled with fatigue and I passed out on the couch, bow in hand.
And I felt...better.
22
Life Goal Number Eleven: Forget the past.
The nicest part about being single was that the silence never lasted long when I got home from work.
I could play the violin all night if I wanted, and no one would complain.
Even better, I could play the same parts of the same song hundreds of times.
It took me fifty-five hours over two weeks, but I’d managed to create the illusion of a thirty-piece string harmony with only my violin. Just me, the recording software on my laptop, and hours of digitally laying over one hundred pre-recorded tracks, one over the next.
My masterpiece? The theme song to Game of Thrones. I’d created the most epic and nerdiest project of my life. I plastered that sucker all over YouTube and my social media sites.
It worked.
Only two days passed before I received a message. Ben, a former cellist from the music program, found me on Facebook. He’d recently graduated from our prestigious school and had formed a quartet. During the day, he worked at an office supply store with his viola player. But at night? Their quartet played dozens of venues.
And he was down a violinist.
Ten minutes later I’d signed up to earn one thousand dollars to play for four hours at some fancy one-percenter’s birthday party.
It was formal; he warned. But the birthday girl wanted contemporary music. Top 40s and pop princesses and some Beatles for her husband. Not a problem. I knew exactly the songs to play. After a full week of practices—far more than they’d wanted but the only way I’d dared to perform again—the only thing I had to worry about was what to wear.
The lovely black dress that had christened my appearance at Duchess hung in my closet. It spent more time on the floor than on my body, but it was no worse for wear. I hadn’t touched it since that night. I had no choice now.
The party’s venue was styled like a masquerade-style ball. Cinderella’s castle set in a large gala ballroom. Waiters in tails, white chandeliers, and string quartet courtesy of the misfit alumni from my school.
I couldn’t imagine the cost of the white roses blossoming from every exposed surface or the champagne that bubbled from fountains. A little ritzy for my tastes, but they’d provided us a decent dressing room to prepare—like we were some real band and not a bunch of adult-kids trying to figure it all out.
Ben’s dreadlocks gave us away. Paul sported a tribal tattoo on his neck, and Caitlin dyed the tips of her brunette hair purple. If I was the normal one, we were in trouble.
We circled around Ben to tune, but he played only three notes before leapi
ng out of his chair. His bow almost snapped in his hands.
“Keep going guys.” He nodded to the hallway. “That’s the lady who hired us. She’s a bit...demanding. Let me go see what she wants.”
“Ben’s got a crush on her.” Caitlin strummed her viola. “I don’t get it. She’s always been a royal bitch.”
I busied myself, warming up with a few scales. “Maybe he likes that.”
“No one could like that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
My last note warbled flat, and I adjusted the betrayer string as Ben tripped over himself to introduce the party-planner to the quartet. My peg stuck, and I grunted, trying to get my D string back in line.
Nothing would be worse than getting tossed out of tune on the first note.
“Ms. Lesley, this is the rest of the quartet.”
Except that.
I dropped the violin. Caitlin caught it before it tumbled to the floor, but my stomach crashed, burned, and resurrected only to harden into cement in my gut.
No. Fucking. Way.
Ben stopped right behind me. “That’s Caitlin, our viola. And Paul, he’s our second violinist. And Cassie couldn’t make it, she has pneumonia. So, this is our replacement—”
“Morgan.”
Simone’s voice tuned to the exact pitch that threatened to shatter my spine. My worst fear confirmed, wrapped in a floor length emerald dress.
Simone gave me the twisted smile she reserved only for those who earned the happy place at the end of her riding crop. Christ, the demon was everywhere! My own poltergeist, ready to crawl out of a TV, whip a priest, and strap me down to a bed.
It’d been weeks since my last panic attack. So much for the lucky streak. My chest compressed until no oxygen could possibly squeeze through my lungs. I hoped—prayed—for a heart attack.
If I dropped dead from official medical causes, maybe all of Duchess wouldn’t know how I melted into a puddle of Morgan-panic and wept like a baby in Simone’s shadow.
“Well, well, well,” Simone said. “I had no idea you were a rent-a-musician now.”
“Friends.” The words tumbled from my mouth before I could filter them for coherence. “They’re friends from college.”
“Is that right?”
“You know Morgan?” Ben asked.