My steps falter and slow.
“What’s wrong?” asks Steph, frowning back at me. “Feeling okay?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yes, good. Go on out, I’ll be right behind you.”
“Okay, sweetie. Hey, it’s okay to be a little nervous. You’ll get through it.”
I smile weakly. “Thanks.”
When she’s gone and I’m alone in the hallway, I slump against a wall and cover my face with my hands. My thoughts move erratically beneath the haze of an existential crisis. A fissure streaks through the center of me—who I was on one side, who I’m becoming on the other.
Oh, Paul, what’s happening to me?
“Second thoughts, kitten?”
I jerk upright, my hands falling like lead weights. Cross walks toward me from his office, filling the hallway with darkness and danger. The overhead lights seem to dim. The walls pulsate closer. For an irrational second, I think he’s the Devil come to collect my soul.
His scent reaches me before he does. Earthy. Mouthwatering. Sucking air into my lungs, I nearly choke on lust. I want… I want…
Punishment.
Atonement for my sins.
Redemption.
Why I think this man can give that to me, I’m too insane to care.
“Breathe,” he commands from several feet away. “In through your nose. Count to four. Out through your mouth. Two—three—four. That’s it. Again. Breathe with me.”
His broad chest rises and falls in steady increments. Starved for equilibrium, my body follows his lead. Within seconds, dizziness fades and my mental haze clears.
Cross nods in satisfaction. “Better?”
I shiver as cool air skates across my flushed skin. “Yes, thank you.”
My voice is low, hoarse with pain. Or possibly need. Whatever it is makes Cross go very still. Dark eyes narrow on my neck and the pulse pounding there. His eyelashes flutter, then lift to expose a maelstrom of emotion, the most predominant of which is anger.
“Get to work,” he grinds out.
I blink, stunned at the shift, and do the only thing I’m capable of in the moment. I flee.
10
I’m so fucked.
Two hours later, that’s all I can think as I stare at the man across the bar. He’s… breathtaking. Chiseled as all get-out, messy auburn hair, and the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Eyes that are currently fixed on me with such intensity I feel skewered.
Steph’s elbow in my back keeps me from foaming at the mouth.
“Hi,” I say too loudly. “What can I get you?”
The gorgeous stranger smiles, those electric eyes crinkling with humor.
Sweet baby Jesus.
“Your name is a start,” he says smoothly.
I open my mouth and close it again. Being struck stupid by a pretty man has happened exactly three times in my life, the last two times alarmingly recent. I really hope it doesn’t indicate a new trend in my life of spineless, lusty female.
The stranger chuckles, leaning forward to prop elbows on the counter. The bar is packed with customers, but for some inexplicable reason, he commands a bubble of space.
He reminds me of someone.
Speak of the devil.
A dark, imposing figure approaches the bar, a tanned hand gripping my customer’s shoulder. Leftover fear and arousal from our last interaction weakens my knees. I glance at him only long enough for politeness.
“The usual, Mr. Cross?”
“Yes, and scotch on the rocks for my friend. I’m glad you could make it, Liam.”
Liam. Good name, but he suddenly doesn’t seem as heart-stoppingly handsome as he did a minute ago. Not with Cross beside him. Dominic, I think irreverently.
I make both drinks and slide them onto the counter, hearing the tail end of the men’s conversation.
“—not an option. Right, London?”
My head snaps toward Cross. “What?”
“I was just telling Liam that you’re not available for play.”
I glance between the men—one scowling, one grinning suggestively. I focus on the blue eyes above the grin. Strangely, I don’t see desire there. Only mischief. Like he’s moving pieces on a game board I don’t know about.
“What kind of play?” I ask for the sole purpose of annoying my boss.
Cross growls, which seems to be exactly the reaction Liam intended. He laughs uproariously and slaps his friend on the back, then winks at me.
“London, is it?”
I nod.
“I was merely commenting on your skin. It’s absolutely lovely.”
More confused than flattered, I mutter, “Um, thanks.”
An empty Whiskey Sour slams onto the counter. My gaze leaps up to dark, stormy eyes.
“He wants to mark it, kitten. See if it turns as pink as your lips.”
A queer feeling unfolds in my gut. I force a laugh. “Well, then.” Backing away, I point aimlessly. “I’ll just… you know, customers—”
Racing to the other end of the bar, I leave the men to their laughter. As pink as your lips. He’s noticed my lips. He’s thought about my skin.
Has he thought about marking it, too?
Annoyed with myself—my thoughts—my false life—I stack glasses on the back counter with more force than necessary.
“Careful with that one,” murmurs Steph from beside me.
I pause, looking up. “Which one?” I deadpan.
She laughs. “Both. Nate told me Cross and Liam Rourke only go for the 24/7 types.” At my frown, she clarifies, “You know, subs who live the lifestyle. Besides, don’t forget rules number one, two, and three.”
I nod, flashing her a tight smile, and throw myself back into work. But I’m distracted by thoughts I shouldn’t be having—I fuck up three drinks in a row. After I finish apologizing to the last customer, a Domme with blue hair and a spiked choker, a stiff finger taps my shoulder.
“Take a break,” snaps Charlie.
I don’t bother responding, instead nodding briefly and heading for the employee lounge. On my way through the crowds, I happen to glance toward the center of the club. There, in a sunken, circular pit, a woman is suspended in ropes from a contraption on the ceiling. People float around her, touching and teasing. Barely aware of my own body, I slow and stop as a familiar figure steps down into the pit.
Cross—in all-black as usual—looks like a devil amongst lesser demons. Wearing that cold, detached expression of his, he circles the bound woman. Her eyes follow him, wide and blinking. I see her chest undulating as her breath quickens.
My own breath quickens, my feet carrying me forward. Closer. Unnoticed in the throngs, I edge near enough to see her eyes roll back in her head. The cause? One strong, tanned hand stroking from her hip to her ankle.
My legs quiver.
A low voice beside me whispers, “Houston, we have a problem. Methinks she likes it.”
I glance aside at Nate. “What’s he going to do?”
He shrugs. “Nothing, probably. But nothing can be a whole-lot of something. Just watch.”
I turn back to see Dominic complete a circuit around the woman. The others in the pit have moved back in silent deference, peons before a master.
He touches her three more times. Once on the back of her neck. Once at the base of her spine. Each time, her body goes more and more taut. The final touch I don’t see, but nevertheless feel. His hand slips beneath her body, down to the apex of her thighs. Whatever he does makes her jerk and shudder.
The crowd roars.
I look wide-eyed at Nate. “Did he just—”
“Make her come? Yes, London.”
“Holy shit.”
Nate chuckles. “Aren’t you supposed to be on break? I heard you pissed off some customers.”
My gaze narrows. “Does anything get by you?”
He grins. “Not much. You might want to look back at the pit, sugarplum.”
I do. And immediately wish I hadn’t. The devil stands tall and virile
, the replete woman hanging before him like an erotic sacrifice.
But his eyes are on my face.
One mocking finger lifts, pointing first at me, then at the woman. The following movement is so swift I barely see it—his hand cracks against her bare ass. She moans; the crowd titters. Even from fifteen feet away, the bloom of blood beneath her olive skin is visible. And I understand the point he’s making. If he slapped my ass with even a margin of the same force, my fair skin would turn scarlet.
Shaking for a reason I can’t name, I spin around and escape Nate’s curious stare, Dominic’s devilish eyes, and my own body’s inexplicable response. The door to the back hallway slams behind me, dampening the sensual thumping of the club’s music.
Steps from the employee room, I stop, panting. Like it’s on a string, my head swivels to the Exit sign.
For the first time since being hired, I doubt my ability to do this. You wear all your emotions on your face. Bossman was right. I always have. Once, it almost got me killed.
And it killed my husband.
“Calm the fuck down,” I whisper aloud. “Remember why you’re here.”
“And why are you here?”
The timbre of his voice pours like a shot of whiskey straight to my stomach, curling warmly and sinking between my legs. I spin around, almost tripping over my own feet, to find Cross right behind me. I hadn’t heard the door opening or closing—not over the blood roaring in my ears.
As I see it, my options are to either hump his leg or punch him in the face. Compromising, I hiss, “That was fucked up. Why did you do that?”
One dark brow cocks. “To teach you a lesson, of course.”
“You’re not my fucking teacher. I’m not your fucking submissive. I’m your employee.”
He tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. Mirth alights in his eyes. “Do you think cussing makes words more persuasive?”
“Yes, I fucking do.”
He smiles. Smiles.
Asshole.
“Now, tell me what you were begging yourself to remember. The reason you’re here.”
“For money,” I snarl.
He grunts. “Part of the truth, at least.” He takes a step toward me, eyes fixed on mine. “Ask me why I followed you back here.”
“I don’t care.”
I do, of course, and he knows it. His lingering smile edges toward smug. Two more steps and he’s in my face, looming over me with his broad shoulders filling my vision. Blocking me from the world—or the world from me.
I can’t seem to get my breathing under control.
“So beautifully defiant, kitten,” he murmurs. “I’m here to offer you something.”
I stare at the curl of his sinful lips. “What?” I breathe.
“The first is an apology for my anger earlier this evening.” He pauses, gaze flickering to the side before returning to my face. “For a moment, I treated you as I would my submissive. Your reaction… it threw me for a loop. But you didn’t deserve my harsh words.”
“Thank—”
My voice chokes off as he shifts forward until mere centimeters separate us. Heat from his body cascades over me, his scent permeating my nostrils. My mind is instantly hijacked by a fantasy of his glorious, tanned, muscled body against mine. Sweat and friction and a red imprint on my ass.
I screw my eyes shut as my pulse thunders between my legs. More than anything in recent memory, I want his lips on me. Everywhere.
His breath whispers against my ear. “Ask me for the second offering, kitten, or my hands stay in my pockets.”
Annoyance opens my eyes. “You’re trying to find a reason to fire me, aren’t you?” I demand, though my voice is laughably weak.
He hums agreement. “Ask me.”
Poised on the brink of throwing my job away for one measly orgasm, I finally remember why I’m here. Only the reason doesn’t seem so important right now. It’s all jumbled up with my craving for something else. Something earth-shattering and dangerous and punishing.
The thought is just repellent enough for me to regain composure. Turning my head, I lift my chin until our mouths are a hair’s breadth apart. Then I look into his hooded eyes. Despite the shock of what I see—desire to equal mine—I stay the course. He wants to teach me lessons?
Turnabout is fair play.
“There’s no point denying it—you do it for me. I’ve exhausted the batteries on my vibrator once already over you. But if you think I’m going to throw away the first good thing to happen to me in years, you’re sadly mistaken. Back the fuck up, Dominic, or I’ll sue you for sexual harassment.”
He blinks, then smiles slowly. It doesn’t reflect in his eyes. “Good girl,” he whispers, then spins on a heel.
I watch him retreat down the hallway. The door to the club closes behind him, the thump resonating in my chest. As I turn toward the employee lounge, I can’t shake the feeling that another door—this one symbolic—closed as well.
A door I wish I had the bravery to keep open.
11
The next three months pass in relative peace. My nightmares, anxiety, and depression fade little by little as I trudge ahead. Willfully surrender to my new existence.
I call this new life—this new person—London 2.0, which Paris thought was funny until I told her why. The new version of me is skin-deep. Superficial armor fashioned of denial and survival instinct. On the outside, I’m a confident, put-together bartender who earns great tips and makes her customers and coworkers laugh. No one knows about the darkness lurking beneath my skin, in my soul.
London 2.0 also has a budding social life, comprised mostly of breakfast after work with Nate and Steph. They’ve taken me under their collective wing, inserting themselves shamelessly in every aspect of my life—which, according to them, is boring as hell.
When they learn I live in a mostly-empty apartment, they bully me into a day of shopping for secondhand furniture and basics like curtains, bathmats, and silverware. After a drunken, pizza-filled evening of decorating, my apartment still doesn’t look anything like home, but it does have a new set of memories attached to it. Memories that don’t hurt. And my mattress isn’t on the floor anymore.
As expected, Crossroads’s opening was massively successful. In the weeks following its debut, more staff was hired—cocktail waitresses, performance artists, valets for VIP guests. Nightly entertainment—usually a demonstration of safe bondage or play—takes place in the sunken, central area that Nate dubbed the Epicenter of Sin. And although in the early days I was hit on and even propositioned a few times by customers, it soon became common knowledge that the club’s employees aren’t in the lifestyle and are therefore off-limits.
The only hiccup in the club’s short history happened last Thursday night. I wasn’t working, but came in the next day to the aftermath—installation of closed-circuit cameras throughout the club and security personnel to monitor the feeds, as well as a shift to an invitation-only guest list and vetting for all prospective members.
When I finally hear the full details of what happened, it sounds like a horror story. A woman’s safe word was ignored in one of the private rooms. As the curtains were drawn over the viewing window, no one knew anything was amiss until it was almost too late. She was whipped so badly an ambulance was called.
“My God,” I gasp. “Cross found her?”
Nate, Steph, and I are sharing breakfast at a café on Wilshire, all of us having worked until 4:00 a.m. Outside, the sun is just waking, the first touch of dawn coloring the sky.
Nate nods. “I thought he was going to kill the guy. It took four people to pull him off the scumbag.”
Steph shakes her head. “So freaking sad. That poor woman. I’m glad about the new security, though.”
“Me too,” remarks Nate. “Just not the way it came about.”
Setting down my coffee, I ask haltingly, “What about the woman? Is she okay?”
Sorrow clouds Nate’s eyes. “She’s okay. Turned d
own the club’s offer to pay for a lawyer.”
“Do you know her?” I hazard.
He nods but doesn’t say anything else. The look on his face prevents me from pressing further.
“She’s not pressing charges?” demands Steph. “That’s nuts—why not?”
Nate and I share a glance. I don’t know who the woman is, but I can suss out her motives easily enough. I cock a brow at Nate, who waves a hand for me to speak. I turn to Steph.
“I’m not saying she doesn’t have a case, or shouldn’t seek justice, but let me put it to you this way—in my former career, my most valuable asset was my reputation. Anything that might jeopardize that…”
The frown clears from Steph’s brow. “Ah, I get it. She might be avoiding the press coverage.” She sighs. “I’m not even into kink, but I hate that she has to make that choice. People should be free to explore intimacy however they want, as long as it’s safe. And assault is assault.”
“Amen,” murmurs Nate, picking a napkin to shreds. “Mr. Cross is really torn up about the situation. He truly believes in Safe, Sane, and Consensual and feels like he’s failed the community. I guess he always wanted the added safety measures, but Charlie thought it would limit the club’s exposure. He blames himself for not pushing harder. She’s angry because she thinks he blames her. It’s a total mess.”
“Aw, your mommy and daddy are fighting?” coos Steph, effectively breaking the dark mood over our table.
Nate throws a packet of sugar at her. She laughs and tosses it back.
“Anyway, enough about work,” Nate says on a loud yawn. He grins at me. “You still up for what we talked about?”
My conflicting feelings about what I’ve learned—specifically Dominic’s guilt and the niggling urge to diminish it—vanish at his words. Anxiety shivers down my spine.
“You were serious?” I squeak.
Nate sticks his lower lip out. “Of course!”
“What’s this?” asks Steph. “Do tell.”
I swallow past a dry throat. “He wants to, uh, photograph me.”
Steph’s brows lift. “Why does the word photograph rhyme with murder when you say it?”
Perfect Vision Page 4
