Mister X

by Shae Sullivan

  “Look,” I say sharply. “You’re my employee. I give you orders. Not the other way around.”

  The serene smile that Peter gives me is more than enough to tell me that he knows I’m bluffing – he knows that he’s really the one who calls the shots.

  The one who handles me.

  It makes me seethe and bristle under the skin. If there’s one thing I hate in life, it’s giving up control ... and Peter constantly makes me feel like I have to follow orders or lose everything that I’ve worked to build.

  To be honest, I don’t even care anymore.

  But I can’t disappoint my father, the man who invested everything he had in my success. It’s true that without him, I’d never have become quarterback of the Indiana Bandits. My father is everything that I’ve been brought up to believe a man should be: cold and aloof and distant, but punishing and harsh. It sounds stupid, but I’ve never felt any kind of affection from him whatsoever.

  If anything, he’s made me feel that I’m being punished simply for being his son.

  Well, and killing his wife when I was born.

  I never met my mother, Amy, but from what I’ve heard, she and my father shared a deep love. When she died, he lost that spark in his eyes.

  And he took everything out on me.

  It’s left me feeling pretty fucked up all of the time – like I have to try my goddamned hardest to make him proud, even if it means forgetting about my own desires and wishes. Since I was responsible for making my father lose the love of his life, I have to work my ass off just to make him proud.

  Thinking about my father as a warm, loving man is nearly impossible. I can’t even picture it when I close my eyes. There was a photo on the mantle of my childhood home, of a beautiful woman with a smiling man sitting beside her. I didn’t recognize either person. When I was a little kid, I’d asked my nanny who they were.

  “Why, Master Logan,” she’d said, frowning and running her hand through my hair. “That’s your mommy and daddy!”

  The man in the photo had appeared so happy, so calm and peaceful that my child mind hadn’t been able to reconcile his face with the face of my father: distant and cold.

  My parents had truly shared a deep love, and I ruined that.

  It was one of many things that had me convinced I’ll never find love of my own.

  Not that I want it.

  “Logan,” Peter says, coming over and sitting next to me on the bed, a little too close for my comfort. “You’re thirty years old. You’re not a kid anymore. You have to think about growing up.”

  “What the fuck do you think I’m doing here, anyway?” I shoot back. “This goddamned football expo isn’t even for a week and we’re already in Vegas.”

  Peter raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re saying you’d rather be back in Indiana?”

  At least in Indiana, I know where to look on Fetlife to find all the good women, I think.

  “If it’s about the girl, I’ll get you another,” Peter says. He glances down at the floor, where a large black duffle bag is still partially unzipped. Toys of all kinds spill out from the opening: dildos and vibrators and spreader bars, lube, rope, paddles, floggers, anything my deranged mind could possibly imagine. But I hadn’t even gotten to use anything on that idiot blonde: she’d merely walked in, taken her clothes off, and expected me to worship her.

  “It’s not just about the girl,” I tell him. “You know I don’t like it when you monitor every single fucking thing that I do.”

  Peter pats me on the shoulder and irritably, I push his hand away.

  “Look,” Peter says. “I’m going to give you some real tough love, okay?”

  I glare at him. The only thing worse than feeling like a child all the time is being treated like one.

  “Look, this ... stuff,” he says, gesturing to my duffle bag full of toys on the floor of the hotel room. “This all has to go. You understand that, right? It was a fun phase, but it’s not like it’s something you can keep doing.”

  “Why the fuck not?” I ask. “It’s my lifestyle. That’s the only way I can get off. You know that.”

  Peter flushes and take a deep breath. “I was hoping you would grow out of it before it came to this,” he says. “But you need to give this shit up,” he says, in a firmer voice this time. “If anyone finds out, you’re dead. Mr. America’s dead, and you’re just some creep in the news. You want to be that? You want people to call you a sex pest, an abuser?”

  “The fucking nerve of you,” I say loudly as I get to my feet and cross my arms over my brawny chest. “You have to be fucking kidding me! An abuser?! What the fuck kind of outdated nonsense is this?”

  “Logan, this is America,” Peter says gravely, and for the first time I have the sinking feeling that I’m not going to be able to talk him out of whatever it is that he’s decided to lay on me. “You can’t do this shit. People are going to think you’re a psychopath. You’re not going to win The Bachelor – hell, you’ll probably get kicked off the Bandits and even as a free agent, I doubt any other team would consider hiring a pervert.”

  His words feel like a slap in the face. “That girl ...” I say slowly, trailing off and clenching my hands into fists. “You didn’t even ask for someone who would do what I wanted.”

  Peter nods. “You’re right,” he says. “I was hoping that you’d realize what a colossal mistake this is, and how dangerous it is to keep playing with fire. This is Vegas, Logan. Everyone has a camera! You think that you can just do whatever you want? You’re one of the most recognizable men in the world. Tom Brady doesn’t have shit on you,” he says. “You lucky bastard.”

  I don’t feel lucky – I feel like this is a fucking burden, that I have to bear all on my own. But there’s no use telling Peter that: he’s made it clear that he wouldn’t understand.

  “And what do you want me to do?” I ask coldly. “You want me to spend the rest of my life, living a lie? Go on The Bachelor and meet some girl and then happily ever after until we inevitably break up and then she gets more famous? And then I get hurt and retire? Then what?”

  For a moment, Peter’s face is lined with pity. Then it fades, and he presses his lips into a thin line.

  “Then, you can live your life,” he says quietly. “When you’re no longer in the public eye, I doubt anyone would give a fuck what you do.”

  Hot anger fills me and I feel like punching a hole through the very expensive hotel room wall, but I don’t. I stay rooted to the spot and try to channel my anger into something else, try imagining how it would feel to tackle the biggest, strongest linebacker of the opposing team. Grind his face down into the dirt. Make him sorry that he ever looked at Logan Fucking Hart.

  “Logan?” Peter asks. “Are you okay?”

  Of course, I’m not fucking okay, I think as I glare at him. For a moment, we hold each other’s gazes and I feel an incredible amount of contempt for the man who’s supposed to be helping me through life.

  There’s no use discussing it, though. The conversation would only go in circles, as I’ve just proven.

  I’m a fucked up man with fucked up desires, and I’m doomed to live the life of the all-American dream boy.

  Just my fucking luck.

  “Yeah, sure,” I mutter. “I’m fine. Whatever.”

  “Good,” Peter says. He’s back to his normal, chirpy tone and he practically leaps to his feet. “Because there’s an event tonight, and you need to look stunning! Several of the possible contestants for The Bachelor are going to be there, and I really want you to make a first impression.” He bustles across the room and opens the wardrobe, pulling out a black tux still wrapped in the dry cleaning bag.

  “Sure,” I mutter again. “Yeah. That sounds fine.”

  As I get dressed, my mind begins to wander and just for a moment, I let it. If only Peter had gotten me the right girl, a true submissive, then I’d be totally fucking fine with going out and going to this stupid Bachelor-themed Halloween party. I’d be relaxed and conte
nt and spent and ready to do my duty and make Peter, and by extension my father, as proud as they could be.

  That’s why I need this darkness, this kink in my life. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Most of the time, I feel that I have no control or autonomy over my own existence.

  But when I’m in the bedroom with a beautiful young thing, tied down and blindfolded and whimpering in a delicious mix of pain and pleasure ... well, knowing that I’m responsible for that is what gives me purpose in life.

  It’s what makes me feel centered and calm and grounded, completely in the moment – even more so than when I’m on the football field, catching the ball and making the crowd cheer with pride.

  I need to dominate in private in order to live the rest of my life in public.

  And I’ll be damned if I’m going to give that up.

  “You know,” Peter says archly, breaking me out of my mind and bringing me crashing back to the present. “This might be good for you, Logan. It might be good for you to meet women the old-fashioned way. It’ll give you some practice for the show.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “What?” Peter asks. “What’s wrong now?” His tone implies that I’m nothing more than a petulant child ... and I hate to admit it, but he’s not exactly incorrect. That’s another thing about this whole arrangement that really bothers me: the more freedom I want, the more I chafe against Peter and my father and my manager, they just tighten the reins until I feel like I don’t have a choice but to buck as hard as I can.

  “It’s just, nothing about The Bachelor is old-fashioned,” I say. “It’s the most artificial, contrived bullshit on earth. No one thinks it’s real ... not even the women who watch it.”

  “Well, you’re going to do it anyway, so you may as well get used to the idea,” Peter says. He smirks at me. “The party should be fun. Vegas on Halloween ... more fun than Indiana, no?”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Growing up, even though I led a privileged life, I always snuck out with my friends and got drunk in a cornfield somewhere to celebrate. It was fun – it was freeing, it made me feel normal, like I was just like everyone else. That was when I’d had my first real experience with a girl, this cute thing back in high school, who’d slurred into my ear that she’d wanted me to make her my slave.

  I’d obliged, of course.

  And she’d loved every single moment of our encounter.

  If only things are still that simple.

  Peter has played the loyal assistant for years, discreetly getting me girls who signed contracts of silence before we played together, girls who were more than happy to take my money if it meant being dominated by a gorgeous quarterback for a few hours.

  But now, it was starting to seem like all of that was changing.

  Peter and I leave the hotel together and joined the swarm of people on the Strip. The one good thing about Vegas is that unlike at home, I don’t seem to be getting constantly recognized and hounded for autographs. I don’t know if it’s because of Halloween or what, but people are dressed to the nines in crazy, eccentric clothing and makeup – even the men, which I think is ridiculous. Peter leads me into a large hotel, and I follow him into the ballroom.

  “The Bachelor has arrived!” Peter hisses in my ear, obviously meant to be a vote of confidence. I barely hear him: the sight of the crowded room fills me with a cooling sensation of relief. Everyone’s already plastered – it’s past ten – and they’re drinking and singing and dancing.

  No one’s going to notice me. I won’t have to do any dog and pony show tonight. I won’t have to be cordial to a bunch of idiot blondes who want nothing more than a giant diamond on their finger and the prestige of being a footballer’s wife.

  I can just have a few drinks and go home, back to the hotel, and jack off to some locked-away fantasy in my head, some fantasy that apparently I’m not going to be allowed to indulge in anymore in real life.

  Peter gasps at the sight of some producer, touches my arm briefly, and then darts across the room. Relieved to be alone, I make my way to the bar and hold up my hand for the bartender’s attention. The place is so crowded that it takes me almost five minutes to get served, and the flustered girl serving drinks doesn’t even notice who I am.

  Perfect, I think as I swallow my two fingers’ worth of free whiskey. Maybe Peter was right – maybe I just needed a night like this to put everything into perspective.

  I haven’t been here for long, but the room is getting more crowded by the second and I make my way to the edge of it, standing and observing as people dance drunkenly, swaying their arms over their heads and screaming the lyrics along to the music. The lights are dim and I finish my drink and grab another from a passing waitress, this one dressed up as Lady Luck.

  Maybe my luck is changing, I tell myself as I swallow the drink in one gulp. The crowd jostles and pushes, and someone knocks into me from behind. I drop my glass to the floor and whirl around, ready to shove whoever pushed into me.

  But when I see her, I freeze like a goddamned deer in the headlights.

  Standing in front of me is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She’s got the biggest, bluest eyes in the world – even in the poorly lit room, I can see that they’re the color of cornflowers. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head and she’s wearing a ripped-up little black dress that leaves little to the imagination. Her big eyes are ringed with black liner and her delicate neck is ringed with costume necklaces. The room around us seems to slow and stop spinning as we stare at each other.

  I don’t know who she is.

  I don’t know why she’s here, or what she wants.

  All I know is that I want her, that I feel a powerful spark with her, more powerful than anything I’ve felt in years.

  Hell, maybe even more powerful than anything I’ve felt in my entire life.

  And from the look in those eyes, I know she wants me, too.

  Chapter 3

  Alyssa

  “I don’t think this is very convincing,” I say loudly to Caro, hoping she’ll hear me over the din of the party. “No one’s going to think I’m in costume! I just look like a girl doing a walk of shame,” I add, biting my lip and pulling a mirror out of my purse. I’m wearing more makeup than I ever have in my entire life, and my eyes are itchy and dry but I resist the urge to rub them.

  “You’re eighties Madonna,” Caro says coolly, turning her head and speaking loudly into my ear. “You look great. Shit, I wish I’d done that myself.” She’s wearing one of my white blouses and a black miniskirt with a tie around her neck, a naughty schoolgirl complete with pigtails, and next to her I feel like I’m going to be invisible.

  I don’t mind, though. My mind is already on when I can leave the party: when I can go home and order food and get to work. I have to hand it to her: Caro was right about one thing. Being out on the Strip and watching the groups of girls (and the groups of men gawking at them with every passing second) makes me feel like I’m doing research in real time. If they wouldn’t laugh at me, I’d be tempted to chase after them with my phone and pepper them with incessant questions about the bar scene.

  “I was totally right,” Caro declares loudly, as if she’s reading my mind ... which to be fair, she does relatively often. “This is exactly what you need.”

  My heel catches on the sidewalk and I stumble and nearly fall, but I brace myself against the wall of a casino and gasp.

  Caro bursts out laughing. “We shouldn’t have had so much beer at home,” she says. “You can barely walk!”

  “It’s not the beer,” I say defensively. “It’s the heels. I can’t remember the last time I wore these.”

  “Probably never,” Caro teases. “I think the tags were still on.” She checks an address at her phone, frowning down at the screen, then takes my arm and leads me into the Egyptian Splendor casino, decorated with towering Sphinxes and larger-than-life mummies. I follow her into the bright, shiny, glossy casino floor, then down a hall and into a ball
room.

  The party is raging: there’s a huge throng of people already on the dance floor. Top forty hits are playing, and my head already hurts as I follow Caro through the crowd to the bar. She orders shots and cocktails for both of us, and knocks both down immediately, gesturing for me to follow. I haven’t gotten drunk in a long time – alcohol usually makes me feel anxious, not relaxed – but I’ve started catching some of her infectious spirit for fun, and I follow suit.

  Caro grins at me. “Good girl,” she says, patting me on the head and smirking. “I think you just needed to relax.”

  The alcohol bubbles in my stomach and I swallow hard so that I won’t get sick. I can already feel myself starting to get tipsy, and against my better judgment, I like the sensation. My fingers feel like they’re buzzing, like an electric current is rushing through my whole body. In my artfully torn dress and pounds of eyeliner, I feel strangely sexy and it takes me a moment to realize that my body is unconsciously swaying to the music.

  “Sure,” I tell her. “Maybe, yeah.”

  “Oh my god, look, over there,” Caro says. She squints and jerks her head to the side. I follow her gaze to the corner of the room where a dark, brooding guy is standing.

  “He’s so cute,” Caro breathes. She turns to me with an apologetic look on her face. “You wouldn’t kill me if I abandoned you, would you? Just for a little bit – I just want to talk to a guy and feel normal again,” she says.

  I open my mouth to protest – she’s the one who dragged me here, after all. But it wouldn’t do much good: she might stay, but then she’d just resent the fact that I kept her from meeting someone and that’s the last thing I feel like dealing with right now.

  “Sure,” I say, for what feels like the tenth time in less than five minutes. “Go ahead.”