At one-and-a-half miles, she turned around and headed back at a nice pace. A motion in the brush caught her eye. Wild turkeys. Then she caught a glimpse of a deer with last year’s fawn. This was such a lovely park.
As she passed a water station, a man jumped off the bench. “Hey, hey, you. Lady. I could use a buck.”
“No money, sorry.” She increased her pace, but he caught up easily.
“Gimme a buck, woman.” His clothes were dirty, his hair greasy. His fingers twitched. And his eyes looked mean.
Oh spit. “Leave me alone.” Don’t show fear. Be loud and firm.
“Money, dammit, bitch.” His long legs kept up easily.
She veered away from his hand into the path of two young men who were passing her. “Hey, guys,” she called. “Could you escort me?”
They slowed, stopped, and turned.
“Fucking cunt,” the guy spat out before veering into the underbrush.
One of the men motioned to her. “C’mon, we’ll get you out of this area and let the cops know there’s someone harassing women.”
“Thank you so much.”
When out of the park, the men resumed their run, and she slowed to a walk, still shaking.
Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to give up her jogging. She simply needed to figure out how to defend herself.
Would pepper spray work? Or she could take self-defense courses? Something.
At least the two men had been nice.
It’d been embarrassing to be panting like a bellows and drenched with sweat trying to keep up with even their reduced speed. She sure couldn’t blame them for not looking at her twice.
Although…could Alisha and Kahlua be right, and no man would be interested in her? That she’d have to pay for sex?
Heavens, how insecure could she get? Then again, after the months of them tearing her down and Barry not disagreeing, of course she was. Who wouldn’t be?
But she wouldn’t let herself stay caged and afraid. They were wrong, and she needed to prove it, not to them, but to herself.
Her shower left her smelling like jasmine rather than sweat—a vast improvement. Picking up her dark red planner, she walked out onto her small balcony that overlooked the preserve.
Settling into a chair, she put her feet up on the railing and flipped past the pages with her goals for the week.
The next page held her goals for the year. She’d started the list on the day she asked for a divorce.
Then when her divorce was final, she narrowed the goals down to what she really needed to work on. Didn’t it figure the list turned out to be all F-words?
And, of course, the first item on the effing list was effing fitness.
Fitness
Friends
Family
Finances
Fun
Two weeks ago, she’d added: Friskiness.
How nice that neither lover nor husband started with F and thus couldn’t be part of her list.
The thought was bittersweet because she really missed having someone to talk with in the evenings. And, sometimes, she wanted to be touched so badly she ached with it.
But loneliness was better than betrayal.
She didn’t need to love anyone or live with anyone. The risk wasn’t worth it. However, in this century, women could do hookups as easily as men could. Maybe she’d consider that…eventually.
After all, “fuck” started with the right letter.
Laughing under her breath, she studied her list.
Fitness. Doing well there. The jogging helped—and the weights. Too embarrassed to use the campus gym filled with young hard bodies, she’d bought elastic straps and weights and worked out at home. It was paying off. She bent her arm and actually saw her biceps flex.
Friends. Well, she had quite a few friendly colleagues. Real friends would be better. Still needed to work on this one.
Family. The children were doing well, although they still hoped she and Barry would get back together. There was nothing she could do about their wishes, except maybe tell them about the slaves and his drinking.
Should she ever reveal he’d hit her?
Just the thought was uncomfortable. A good parent didn’t destroy a child’s image of their father. Maybe telling the children the truth would be easier on her, but that didn’t make it right, especially since Barry would, hopefully, see the mess he was making and turn things around.
Finances. Better. An adjunct’s pay was dismal and less than what she’d earned teaching at the community college, but this fall, she’d be an official assistant professor.
Fun. Ouch. She worked. Worked some more. This goal needed attention.
Then the last goal: Friskiness. Total fail. She’d tried flirting but hadn’t really been interested in anyone.
Maybe if a guy had offered to spank her?
Amused at herself, she glanced toward the bedroom where there were two new toys in the bedstand. Toys didn’t spank either. They did deliver orgasms, at least.
Okay, maybe she needed to work harder on this goal, too.
Chapter Two
In his pickup, Ghost—or as his mother called him when he’d screwed up royally, Finlay Kamron Blackwood—rolled the windows down to savor the humid air of the Florida countryside. Pine and grass, and nearby wetlands added a sulphury hint.
Stretches of hardwoods and conifers vied with marshy areas. Red-winged blackbirds and yellowthroats perched on fence posts. Nice. It’d been too long since he’d escaped the city.
He frowned. How long had it been since he’d visited the club?
A month? Two? He’d been so busy recently it was a wonder he found time to breathe. Hell, he wouldn’t be here this Sunday if he hadn’t volunteered for the open house way back in the fall. He’d completely forgotten it until the calendar reminded him.
Turning, he drove through the iron gates that had been left open for this event. The setting sun reddened the graceful palm trees lining the long drive up to the stone mansion.
Once parked, he swung out of the pickup and glanced down to be sure the leg of his pants hadn’t hung up on his prosthetic. He didn’t particularly care, but no need to startle people who weren’t used to seeing a metal shaft where a lower leg should be.
After locking up, he strode up the sidewalk to the three-story building that stood alone in the wide acreage. Probably wise, considering this was the home of the notorious Shadowlands BDSM club.
Pulling open the heavy oak door, he walked inside and frowned. An unfamiliar security guard was at the reception desk in the entry room.
How long had it been since Ghost’s ass had been planted in that chair?
When he’d arrived in Tampa—damn, was it two years now?—a military buddy had needed someone to relieve him at his receptionist-slash-bouncer job here. Ghost had nearly refused. He’d left the West Coast for a reason, abandoning his past, his friends…and the lifestyle.
But Ben had needed time to pursue a Domme, and yeah, Ghost’d been bored after only a few months of retirement. Besides, sitting in the club’s entry wasn’t technically participating in BDSM.
Ben should have warned him about the owner, Zachary Grayson, known as Master Z. The renowned psychologist took far too much interest in his dungeon staff and the regulars.
Z had first manipulated Ghost into assisting in the dungeon, then pushed him into more activities, then made him a full member. Hell, Z and the members had even nailed Ghost with the title of Master.
Ghost grinned. The Machiavellian Shadowlands owner—the bastard—was a credit to the Green Berets, although Z had been with Special Forces less than a decade.
After signing in at the desk, Ghost studied the security guard, assessing him with the skill forged by over twenty years in the military—and nearly as long in the lifestyle.
The man was six-two, maybe two-twenty. Bouncer-sized, but his muscles were flabby, his gut big. His mandatory dark pants and button-up shirt were rumpled. The two-day-old stubble, bloodshot eyes, an
d the stink of a previous night’s bender completed the picture.
Z hadn’t hired the man. Wrecker, the club’s new manager, had.
In Europe, on New Year’s Eve of all things, Z’s mother had broken her leg. Z took his family overseas to help, planning to return in two to three weeks, but then Madeline had caught pneumonia. Realizing there’d be no quick return, Z had done a long-distance hiring of a manager for the Shadowlands.
Meanwhile, all through January, the Masters had been at the club constantly, trying to cover for Z’s absence.
But a couple weeks after being hired, the manager had seemed to have gotten the hang of things. Near the end of January, he’d hired dungeon monitors.
Good thing, since all of the Masters were burned out at that point.
Ghost rubbed his jaw. It would be interesting to see how the club was doing without Z’s supervision. Had to say, when he first met Wrecker, he hadn’t been particularly impressed.
“The club is open to guests tonight.” Ghost eyed the guard. “Do you know how to process them?”
The guard straightened from his slouch. “Yeah, I’ve been told. Get names, check IDs, have them sign the paperwork.”
“Very good.” Ghost started to leave and stopped. No, he couldn’t ignore this idiot’s appearance. “In the restroom, there’s a locker labeled VISITOR with disposable razors. Use one and get cleaned up and presentable. You’re the first person people see when they enter. I’ll watch the desk until you’re back.”
“Jesus, are you serious?”
Ghost gave him a hard stare, one that worked as well on civilians as it had in the military.
Flushing, the guard rose. “Right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
With a sigh, Ghost rested a hip on the desk and prepared to greet visitors as they arrived.
From the number of cars in the lot, the club members who’d volunteered for demonstrations had already arrived. Thanks to a batch of homework to grade, Ghost was running late. The perils of being a professor.
As the door opened, Ghost smiled at the wide-eyed couple. “Welcome to the Shadowlands.”
Ghost had turned the desk back over to the adequately presentable guard and set up his demo area.
For the next two hours, visitors trickled in and out. It seemed Wrecker hadn’t done any advertising, since there weren’t as many people as normally attended an open house. But the ones who came were enthusiastic. They watched the demonstrations, asked questions, and participated.
In half an hour, the visitors would be escorted out. It did seem strange to be here on a Sunday, didn’t it?
Rising from his chair, Ghost shook his head at the hopefuls grouped outside the roped-off scene area. After answering nonstop questions in the noisy room, his voice was rasping worse than normal. “Sorry, but I need to take a break and get some water to keep my voice from disappearing.”
As the group gave him sympathetic nods, he smiled at the two probable Doms who had stopped to watch the spankings. “Never forget to hydrate yourself and your submissive.” Turning, he spoke to the handful who appeared to be submissive. “If your Top doesn’t make sure you get fluids, find a better Top.”
Such wide eyes.
Innocence could be deadly in the lifestyle. “When you’re under orders, whether for a scene or a lifetime, if your health isn’t important to your Dom, then you’re with the wrong person. Don’t take up with a slacker.”
Slightly puckered brows indicated they’d heard and were considering what he’d said.
As a professor, as a commanding officer, as a Dom, he was pleased.
Stepping over the rope, he turned the signpost “SPANKINGS” to face the wall, then headed for the food and drink tables.
Around the perimeter of the room, the scene areas were busy. Like Ghost, the Masters and Mistresses who’d signed up last fall to help hadn’t forgotten.
It was good to see them again.
Silver-haired Sam was treating people to a taste of a black snake whip—and the sadist undoubtedly savored the occasional yelp.
Anne was using a cane on a young man. Ben, her submissive, handed her various sized canes as ordered. Ghost was glad his buddy had caught his Domme—although Mistress Anne probably thought it was the other way around.
Visitors were wandering around, lining up at the various stations. Getting into the spirit, several had stripped off shirts and blouses to better enjoy the sensations.
In a sleeveless black top and black jeans, Olivia demonstrated wax play by dripping candle wax on visitors’ forearms and backs. When a hopeful young woman offered her breasts, Olivia smiled slightly and shook her head.
Ghost studied the British Mistress with the aggressively spiked golden-blonde hair. Her fair skin revealed dark circles under her eyes, and her stocky, muscular frame appeared thinner.
Earlier, Anne had mentioned Olivia had broken up with quiet little Natalia sometime in January. Although the Brit didn’t appear happy, she was a very reserved person. It was doubtful she’d welcome anyone’s help.
With a bottled water in hand, Ghost wandered down the back hallway to see who was in the theme rooms.
Wearing white lab coats, the former Feds, Galen and Vance, had taken over the medical room. Vance was showing a drawerful of enema bags to the visitors—and Ghost chuckled at the shocked exclamations.
In the office theme room, Cullen role-played a billionaire to the hilt. Ghost grinned since there were as many male “secretaries” in there as there were women. Submission had no gender.
The end room—the one Ghost thought of as “orgy central” had been transformed into a giant pen for Saxon to supervise puppy and kitten play. With painted-on whiskers and headbands with furry ears, guests yelped and meowed, batting balls around with furry-mittened hands.
The Shadowlands was a special place.
Wasn’t it a shame Saxon hadn’t provided anyone with furry, anal plug tails?
Smiling, Ghost headed back to his area, swinging by the wall of paddles to pick out a few.
His hand was getting sore.
“Ghost, it’s been a while.” Bottle of water in hand, Nolan slowed to talk. “Connor and Grant drafted Beth and me into coaching their soccer teams. We didn’t make it in last month at all.”
“Same here.” Ghost shook his head. “At the end of January, the university dumped an extra class on me—and I’ve been scrambling to catch up ever since.” In addition, his trialing a new lower leg prosthetic had required a fair amount of time.
“Teaching.” The building contractor grimaced. “I’d rather have a scaffold collapse underneath me.”
Now that seemed excessive. Ghost grinned, then sobered. “We’re not the only ones who took a month off. Cullen’s been tied up with some serial arsonist. Galen, Vance, and Anne…well, their company got busier than they have staff for.”
“The downside of being too good at finding shit.”
“So, it seems.” The retired FBI agents and Mistress Anne specialized in locating missing people, money, children, and anything else that was misplaced.
Nolan frowned. “I’d hate to think we all disappeared the minute we were relieved from duty.”
“Hell, even Josie was gone.” The Shadowlands bartender had married Holt, one of the Masters, the last day of January. “She and Holt took February and the first week of March for their honeymoon. I think they get back this week.”
Frowning, Nolan looked around. “The place is still standing, at least.”
“The Masters aren’t essential; we just like to think we are.”
“True enough.” Nolan eyed the paddles in Ghost’s hand. “Your hand getting tired, Colonel?”
Ghost grinned. “Age must be catching up with me. You ready to take over?”
“My Beth would have a fit if I put some submissive over my lap.” Nolan’s smile said he didn’t have any problem with his woman’s possessiveness. “Your demonstration is popular tonight…even though spankings can easily be done at home.”
“Confused me, too, until a lady told me she wanted to see if she liked it before telling her husband. I guess after being married a decade, it’d be tough to say, ‘Hey, honey, could you spank me tonight?’ ”
Nolan rubbed his jaw. “Good point.”
“If they like the spanking, most head over to your flogging area.”
“Yeah? Then thanks for warming them up for me.” Laughing, Nolan headed back to his scene space.
Ghost took a final sip of water, tightened the lid, and tossed the bottle onto his toy bag. The paddles went onto a table stand.
After turning the SPANKINGS sign back around, he took a seat on the comfortable armless, leather chair.
Open for business.
His first takers were three women who’d waited for him to return. The first two got paddled. The third wanted his bare hand. She offered to drop her pants and pouted when he said no.
After he was done, she slipped her phone number into his pocket.
Jesus. She was young enough to have been his daughter if he’d ever had one.
He spanked a trans woman, then a gay lad, and two more women. The next—a masochist—asked about joining. Ghost pointed her toward the table set up near the front and then frowned.
Wrecker should have been there to handle applications and answer questions. Instead, there were a few scattered forms on a table. And no manager.
Lazy bastard.
Ghost rubbed his chin, realizing he hadn’t been contacted last month to teach classes or do demonstrations. Who was doing the educational work Z considered so important?
Which made him wonder… If Z hadn’t arranged this event last fall with the Masters to staff it, would the open house have even happened?
As the masochist left, Ghost noticed a couple of women who looked familiar, one with eye-catching red and purple hair? Was her name Queenie? He’d seen her at the few faculty receptions he’d been unable to avoid.
The other woman was a lush blonde around his age—the same one he’d saved from a fall the other day.
The Effing List Page 3