Abigail Bennet
Lead Editor of Sinclair Press
It was complete bullshit, but Abigail figured Preston would get the gist and text her.
Abigail discarded the plastic tube in the wastebasket and washed her hands.
Mike knocked on the door. “Girl, are you giving birth or something?”
She opened the door, annoyed. “What’s with all these pregnancy references? Jeez, Mike.”
“Pfft. Relax. We all know the only thing coming out of that pussy is blood.”
She tried to hide a laugh but couldn’t. Mike had no filter. It was a blessing when she needed wardrobe advice—a curse when he couldn’t read a room.
“Did you find him?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The writer.”
“Yes! Just waiting for him to email me back.” She walked to her purse and pulled out a bottle of water. “Speaking of blood…”
“Ugh, come on, Abbs!”
“I am not in control of my menstrual cycle.” She pointed a defensive finger at him.
“You rain checked me last week. We have to work out today. Plus—” Mike looked down in a nonchalant way that piqued Abigail’s curiosity. Michael Bennett was not nonchalant. “—there are some things I want to talk to you about.”
Abigail gathered her gym clothes. “Now you’ve piqued my curiosity. Into the bathroom I go.”
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby. Hurry before the streets get too slippery to jog.”
Abigail rushed into the bathroom, yet again and removed her work clothes. She sheltered her body in fleece and a waterproof vest. She tied her tennis shoes as fast as her fingers allowed before heading out.
As Abigail rounded the corner, she encountered her meddlesome boss.
“Miss Bennett, where are you going?”
She whirled with a smile on her face. “I, Mrs. Sinclair, am going on a date with a very handsome man.”
Mrs. Sinclair looked her up and down, no doubt judging her appearance. “Dressed like that?”
“He’s into fitness.” Abigail gave an apologetic shrug that made her mother jump with glee.
“Please be cautious. The weather is treacherous right now.”
Abigail ignored her comment. “His name is Michael in case you’re wondering.”
Her nose wrinkled like she’d eaten something bitter. “Like your father?”
“Sort of but he looks a lot more like my brother.”
“Abbs, let’s go. I have to get home soon,” Mike whined from the foyer.
Abigail kissed her mom on the cheek. “See ya, Momma!”
As the door closed behind her, she heard her mother say, “Look at that. He doesn’t even say hi to his own mother.”
There was a time Mike and Mom would spend weekends together, drinking wine by the fire, gossiping about the latest political mishaps. Now they rarely acknowledged the other’s presence when in the same room. Abigail felt like the very snowflakes that rained upon her. She was blown this way and that way by the comments each made about the other. Her chest felt rigid at the words that spewed from their lips. Her heart puddled at being incapable of stopping her family from falling apart.
Why couldn’t they let bygones be bygones, forget the past, apologize, and move on? They were all doable tasks, none required effort from the other party, so why couldn’t they do so for the sake of Mr. Bennett and Abigail? For the sake of their family?
Within minutes of getting to Central Park, Mike and Abigail were circling the perimeter. They decided a speedy walk was safer given the weather conditions.
The Blue Oyster was the main topic of conversation. She’d yet to fathom the name, though it suited Mike’s bawdy personality to a tee. The club had quickly become the talk of the gay town, cashing in a very large revenue every weekend. The revenue, large enough to plan a wedding.
Abigail came to a complete halt. “A wedding?”
“Oh, stop it. I know our nosy Mom told you all about my ‘irresponsible’ plans,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Briefly,” she said.
“Do you agree with her?” Here she was, feeling the walls closing in on her as she felt the need to pick a side. She’d fallen into that trap too many times before. She won’t fall into it again.
“It’s not a matter of me agreeing or disagreeing with Mom. I just want whatever is best for you and if that is Niall, then so be it. Get married, have kids, do the whole family thing. I just want you to be happy.”
“He’s the one, Abbs. I’m sure of it. I fall asleep wanting to wake up with him and wake up wanting to fall asleep with him. I love him.” She’d never seen the glint in Mike’s eyes when speaking of another man before. And because she’d never seen it, she knew his love for him was pure. After kissing many frogs, Mike had finally found his prince.
She elbowed the side of his stomach playfully. “Look at you! A boyfriend hopefully, fiancée, a business. You’re living the American Dream, brother.”
“You’ll get it soon enough.”
“I don’t want that.”
“Says the girl who reads romance novels.” Abigail wanted to point out she didn’t read the novels for the protagonists’ love ventures as she did for the sex scenes, which brought her to a question she’d been wanting to ask Mike for a while.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something...”
“Yeah?”
She seemed very interested in her nail polish. “How did you know you were gay?”
“Oh, my God, you’re gay?”
“What? No! I’m just wondering if kissing the same gender and doing...other things would make someone gay or bisexual.” Mike choked on air. “Jeez, relax. It’s just a question. Never mind.” She kept walking, a little faster than before.
“Hey! Wait up. Sorry, sis. In all seriousness, having sex with the same gender doesn’t make you gay because people can’t be made gay, they’re born gay. I’d say not to focus on labels. You like what you like, no need to be placed in a category to comfort others. People fall in love with the heart, not the gender. It’s also about attractiveness. I’ve had sex with girls, and I didn’t like it. It did nothing for me. Vaginas are weird and it’s much easier to make a man come.”
The sound of her phone ringing interrupted Mike’s advice.
“Hold that thought.” She raised a finger, her heart in her throat when she read unknown on the screen.
“Is that him?” he whispered.
Abigail nodded, shooing his nosy self away when he scooted close to her.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, is this Miss Abigail Bennett from Sinclair Press?” Her entire being smiled at the playfulness behind his words.
“This is she. May I ask who is calling?”
“This is Mr. Preston Trice from Trice Architectural Designs. I’m calling about the exposé you’d like to feature me in. I must say, I was a little taken aback when I searched your firm and read it was all about feministic work. Now you want to feature a male in the architectural field?”
“Feminism is about inclusion and equality for all genders, Mr. Trice. It is not a male versus female rivalry.”
“What’s the problem, Abigail?” The playfulness from earlier left his tone. She knew she spoke to Master Trice now. What had caused such an abrupt change in his attitude?
“I don’t want to get into much detail as I know most men are skittish by the topic, but I got my period. It usually lasts for five days, meaning I’ll have it this weekend.”
An exasperated sigh came from the other line followed by utter silence.
“Hello?” she asked.
“I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I did and I don’t see the point of this conversation.”
“You don’t?”
“If what you think I do is about sex, then you clearly do not understand this. Caning you is a pleasure in itself. I don’t need to penetrate my subs. I do that part solely for their enjoyment.�
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“You’ll still pick me up then? With the storm and everything?”
“Take the weekend off, Abigail. Are we done here? I have real issues I must get back to.”
Wait. What?
Something was off.
Master Trice would never allow a slave to break their agreement. That gave them too much power, and as he said, it was all about dominance for him.
“Pres—”
“This conversation is over. Goodbye, Abigail.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Exhausted, crampy, and wet, Abigail made it safely home. After replacing her tampon and taking a much-needed hot shower, she settled on the couch with a bowl of soup cupped between her hands.
Every channel she tuned into mentioned how massive the snowstorm was going to be. Bothered by the repeated news, Abigail turned off the TV and opened her Spotify app. With music blaring in the background, she edited the remaining chapters of Anderson Clint’s Feminism Isn’t Just for Women: A Guide for the Male Feminist book.
By the time the sky had turned a dark shade of gray, Abigail was utterly exhausted. She closed her laptop and rubbed the ache from her eyes. A profound yawn stretched her limbs. Had she been with her master she wouldn’t have been able to stretch this easily. She’d probably have bruises and cuts accessorizing her skin like beaded jewels. The thought of spending the weekend alone saddened her. Her eyes slowly began to pool. She blamed it on hormones and not because she already missed Master Trice.
She wondered what had caused his abrupt change of tone. He had been playful at the beginning of their conversation and turned stoic the next, not bothering to confront her allegations. It was almost as if he’d been relieved she couldn’t make it for the weekend. Why? Had he had enough of her? What issue had he referred to?
Surely Lauren picked up her slack. She’d been with him for a while, so it seemed. Whatever bond Abigail thought they’d created in mere weeks, couldn’t compare to a bond sealed by history. Her imagination was the cause of her insecurities and her insecurities were worse than reality. That much, her mother taught her, so Abigail chased the jealous thought away.
On her way to bed, she stopped by the kitchen to wash her bowl. From the outside patio, she heard a whizzing sound. Using her hands as binoculars, she pressed them against the cold glass of the window. The deciduous maple tree in the yard tried its best to fight the bitter snow and the once dead grass was cloaked in white. Wanting to make sure an intruder had not resided in her house, she flipped the patio light on.
Her heart melted at what she saw.
Cautiously, as to not to cause the poor thing a fright, she turned the knob. Soon after she’d opened the door, a kitten trekked dainty prints on the wooden floor. When Abigail went to cuddle him, he dashed under the sofa.
She got on all fours as she scooted closer to the sofa, pretending she had food in her hand.
His pupils were enlarged with fear, covering the green in his irises. His fur, though damped from the snow, was ash gray. His body was so malnourished, all Abigail could see were bones.
“Here, kitty kitty,” she cooed. The cat proceeded by scratching her wrist with badly manicured nails.
“A man after my own heart,” she joked as she crisscrossed her legs. “You and I are going to get along just fine, Mr. Grey.”
Giving the kitten a smile, she gathered a can of tuna from the kitchen pantry. From the fridge, she poured a gradual amount of milk into a plastic container. She left both in front of the couch and settled on the armchair as she waited for the cat to come out.
He eyed her with cagey eyes. She returned his wary gaze with care and urged him with an encouraging smile. “I’m not going to hurt you, buddy. Come on. You’ve got to eat. And you probably need a shower, too. And a good cuddle. I give great cuddles.”
Abigail pretended she wasn’t looking at him. From the corner of her eye, she saw as he slowly stretched an arm, digging his nails into the wool rug. He meowed and narrowed his eyes as he walked a little further and a little and a little until his face was submerged into the bowl of milk.
Snapping a picture of the kitten, she sent it to Mike.
[Abigail]
Look what the snow dragged in.
[Mike]
Oh, poor thing. Where did you find him?
[Abigail]
He was outside freezing in the cold! Should I keep him?
[Mike]
Keep him? I thought you said you didn’t want kids.
[Abigail]
A cat isn’t a kid, Mike. I can leave a cat alone for a few hours, even days and he won’t die… hopefully.
[Mike]
It looks like you’ve thought of everything.
How’s lesbian sex treating you?
[Abigail]
You mean the girl-on-girl scissoring? I can now understand your preference for dicks.
[Mike]
Speaking of...gotta go. Night.
[Abigail]
Night.
Abigail giggled at the kitty whose snout was wet with milk. What was she going to do now? Was she really thinking about keeping him? She wasn’t a cruel human who’d throw the orphaned cat back into the cold after he’d sought refuge in the warmth of her home.
Although she didn’t have a bed or toys for the cat, she was happy to have a companion, even if said companion didn’t speak her language or was distrustful of her. He’d found his home under her sofa, and no one was going to get him out of there unless they offered him a bowl of milk and tuna.
She sure as hell wasn’t going to risk more scratches. No need of getting Master Trice jealous, though she doubted he ever was. There was only one man she’d let scar her body.
After the storm this weekend, she’d get Mr. Grey groomed and buy him some goodies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lauren awoke early in the morning with a pivotal mission in mind. She washed up in the en-suite and quickly made her bed just as her master liked it made. She ate breakfast perched on the island and gazed out onto the city. Snow slowly pooled on the balcony and the streets below were mostly empty.
When the weather got too rigid, Preston bypassed his daily runs and played basketball for hours on the inside courtyard of his penthouse. It was a favorable sport and one he was good at thanks to his towering height.
Engaged in her master’s routine, Lauren found the time to wander the halls. She told herself it was the universe who’d made the weather this bitter to allow her just enough time to conquer her exploration.
When she’d walked into her room last night, it’d felt uninhabited and impersonal as if his new precious slave existed no more. There wasn’t any body wash or towels hanging in the bathroom. The bed smelled musty and stale—the closet empty of clothes.
All the women he’d been with shared the same bedroom, which was the one Lauren had been sleeping in for the past five years. The fact her room was lacking character, led her to believe Abigail slept in another room.
The question was which one?
She was going to get her question answered today.
There were eight rooms in Preston’s apartment—the master bedroom, playroom, office, sub room, and the rest were guest rooms used for family members and friends.
She loitered the house, opening, and closing doors, never finding so much as a brown hair on the floors. Mrs. Thomas was a great housekeeper, but even she wasn’t this good. There was no sign of Abigail—no dirty sheets, no perfume, no personalized foods. Nothing.
Lauren came to a halt as she faced the last room in her quest. It was the only room she had not searched. It was Master Trice’s sanctuary, only used for tranquil sleep. No submissive was allowed inside his bedroom.
She had followed his most stringent rule for five years.
Today, she obeyed it no more.
She fanned her perimeter, not finding any eyes in sight other than the camera in the corner. She didn’t worry about it. Preston only checked them if something horrid happened. He’d never kno
w of her rebellious act. And even if he did, he wouldn’t do a thing about it simply because it was Lauren who’d broken the rule.
Enraged by the thought, Lauren twisted the knob.
With her back pressed against the door, she closed her eyes. She allowed his unique scent to seep into her pores. If for a mere optimistic second, she considered the future. Preston made sweet love to her as her toes curled with every sensual touch of his lips on her. It was a farfetched future—a daily fantasy that fed her hysteria.
She searched his bathroom, bypassing the bed as she knew he wouldn’t be that careless. She found no feminine products and a sole towel. The walk-in closet was empty of skirts, dresses, and heels. Lauren directed her search to the bedside tables. She opened each drawer, finding condoms, keys, and his wallet.
Defeated, Lauren deflated on the floor with an audible sigh.
Where did Abigail sleep?
She had to be missing something.
Think, Lauren, think!
Just when she was about to give up, a precious thought entered her mind. The thought was so precious, she nursed it in her heart. His new shiny slave hadn’t satisfied his dark urges. No wonder he only used her once a week at the club. No woman was good enough for Master Trice. None but her.
Stretching her arms, she let a victorious smile graze her lips. Her arm connected with the side-table, causing the sketchbook atop it to stumble on the floor. She picked it up as fast as her heart could beat. Not fast enough to unsee the comforter hidden under the bed. She brought it to her nose—the scent unfamiliar to her.
And just like that Lauren had found Abigail’s sleeping quarters.
Her eyes twinkled with unshed tears. Her throat wrung. The new smile on her face showed no teeth.
He’d found her. He’d found the woman he’d always wanted—the one she could never be.
One minute.
She allowed herself sixty seconds to mourn the death of her unrequited love for Preston Trice. A tear for the years they’d known each other.
When the minute was over, Lauren wiped her grief away and folded the blanket, placing it back in its hiding spot. She put the sketchbook back on the table, knowing the drawings inside weren’t of buildings but of the woman who’d taken her place.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 16