Sweet Surrender

by Rebel Wild

  Sweet Surrender

  Copyright © 2021 by Rebel Wild

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-7359763-2-7 (print)

  Cover by: Amanda Walker PA and Design Services

  Interior formatting by Alt 19 Creative

  www.rebelwildbooks.com

  For Amy

  Thanks to Katherine and Marie-Lyne, for helping me stay sane.

  To J. Tryon and Angel Nyx, for seeing what I couldn’t.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Books by Rebel Wild

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The meeting with the school board ran late. I’m just now leaving the campus. I’m all for helping disabled college kids get ahead, but not when it’s this much of an inconvenience. I have to be on the opposite side of town in less than half an hour and I hate feeling rushed. This is why I leave these types of meetings to my general manager.

  Specks of rain fall on the freshly dried concrete, warning me to walk faster. I glance up at the bright blue lightning bolt that just screeched across the sky. Luckily, I make it to my car just as the rain starts to pour. I’d thought by now it would have let up. The city’s not equipped to handle it.

  I hate the rain. It’s the reason I’ve stayed in Southern California all my life. They say it never happens here, but the flooded curb I’m trying to drive around proves that’s a damn lie.

  The traffic light up ahead turns yellow and I step on the gas. I have to brake when the car in front of me stops. I throw my hands up at that asshole. We could have both made that. I feel a twinge of guilt when I see the handicapped sticker hanging from his review mirror. Doesn’t matter. He still knows how to drive. Clearly, not well enough to take a light. Now I’m stuck at an intersection with a four-minute wait time.

  This is just fucking great. I lean back on the headrest and close my eyes. The sound of the windshield wiper thrust me into a flashback. I’m in the car with Mom and we’re stuck in traffic. My head is moving back and forth with the windshield wipers and she’s telling me to stop. She’s laughing so I keep doing it. She’s looking at her watch and tapping the steering wheel with her fingers. My brother’s baseball practice ended early due to the rain and Mom’s worried he doesn’t know she’s picking him up. Normally, he rides his bike home, but Mom doesn’t want him to today. She says it’s because people here don’t know how to drive in the rain.

  “Hopefully, we’ll catch him,” she said, trying to keep an eye on the sidewalk as well as the slow-moving car in front of us.

  “Mom,” I yelled so loud it made her slam on the brakes.

  “What is it?” She said, looking around like she hit something.

  “It hurts. It hurts.”

  I held my stomach, but it wasn’t just my stomach. It was my whole body. The pain was unbearable. I curled up into a ball and cried. She took her hands off the wheel to help me, but the car horn that blared behind her forced her to move again.

  “It’s okay,” she said. She looked around to find a way to pull over, but she was blocked in.

  She didn’t have to stop. The pain was already gone. It had just floated away and I couldn’t feel it anymore. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. It was like I was dead. Slowly, we came upon the reason for being stuck in traffic. An accident. A crumpled-up electric-blue bicycle laid mangled in the middle of the intersection and just beyond it was a body.

  “Mom,” my voice was barely a whisper, but I knew she heard me. I knew she saw it too.

  She left her car door open as she raced over, falling on her hands and knees next to him.

  “No, baby, no,” she sobbed. “Where’s the ambulance?” she yelled as she looked around for someone to help him.

  “They’re on their way, ma’am,” someone said. Apparently, they were stuck in the backed-up traffic too. A man picked her up and pulled her away as the ambulance finally pulled up. She was yelling at him to let her go. “That’s my son,” I heard her yell as I opened my door to get out, but the man refused to let her go.

  “I’m so sorry, lady,” another man said. I could hear the panic in his voice. “I didn’t see him. I swear, I didn’t see him.”

  The bright red lights of the ambulance made the wet street look like blood. I ran past Mom and pushed my way through the crowd of people who had gotten out of their cars to help. A woman tried to stop me from seeing him, but it was too late. I saw him. He still had on his baseball uniform and a pair of my shoes he snuck and wore because his smelled so bad Mom threatened to ground him for a week if he didn’t start washing his feet. He didn’t look hurt. He just looked like he was sleeping. Maybe he was faking it because he didn’t want to get in trouble for getting hit by that stupid car.

  “Ryan? Ryan, come on, quit playing around. We gotta… we gotta get home,” I told him.

  I was glad that the rain was on my face because I was crying and that’s how I knew. The rain was hitting his face, but he didn’t blink, he didn’t move. He was gone… dead. I felt it when he died. I know I did.

  “Reed.” Mom said, grabbing hold of me, turning me away from Ryan and pulling me into her.

  “Mom, Ryan’s dead.”

  “I know, baby,” she cried. “I know.”

  The quick beep of the horn behind me brings me back to reality and to the fact that I’m sitting at a green light. I wave to him in my rearview before I take off.

  “Shit!” I slam on my breaks again.

  The Walden University packet I was just given goes flying from the passenger seat onto the floor. A blonde is standing in front of my car with her hands straight out as if that was enough to stop me from hitting her. The books she was holding are scattered on the wet ground. She bends down to pick them up as a boy runs over to help her. He waves an apology to me as he takes her books and escorts her across the street going toward the campus.

  Jesus Christ, I almost hit her. That’s the last thing I needed to happen. Fuck! My hands are still gripping the steering wheel when I hop on the 5 freeway.

  Twenty minutes later I’m driving down Pacific Coast Highway, looking out at the gray sky and blue ocean trying to decide if I should take the yacht out or go surfing. Making a right onto Candon Road, I pull up to the four-story, brick Tudor-style house known as The Dragonfly. It’s one of two kink clubs in Orange County that I frequent. Both are run by Madame Desdemona, soccer mom by day and Domme by
night. She goes to great lengths to protect not only her identity but those of her members and her screening process is extensive. Her clientele is also impressive. If ever the cops raid her establishments all of Hollywood will be shitting bricks. She doesn’t seem too worried. I’m guessing because the police chief is on that list.

  I park my car and hop out. The ocean will have to wait. I have more urgent matters to deal with. Desdemona isn’t here yet, but she promised to have someone special for me so I see myself downstairs. I’m expecting to see her waiting, but the room’s empty. I check the time and it’s five after four. I’m sure Desdemona told her I expect her to be prompt. I sit and wait, mentally preparing myself for the scene. The door opens. I check my watch again. It’s ten after and I’m fuming.

  “You’re late.”

  “Yes, sir. I apologize. I was held up at work.”

  “I don’t give a damn what the reason is. Take your clothes off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I go over to the canes hanging on the wall and take one down, ripping off its plastic. I was in the mood for something slow earlier, but she’s fucked that all to hell. She stands naked and still as I look her up and down.

  “You have thick thighs.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been trying to diet—”

  “Shut up. I didn’t say I didn’t like them. I hope you have a high tolerance for pain because I plan on working them over. Ass in the air.”

  I torture her for two hours before I fuck her, toss her a hundred-dollar bill, and leave her naked and sore on the basement floor. I don’t even know her name. It’s not like I give a shit. I won’t be using her again.

  The next day started out promising but Ryan’s back on my mind by mid-morning and I can’t stop him from haunting me. I’m sure he’s somewhere loving this shit. If I ever make it to where he is, I’m going to kick his ass the minute I get there.

  Coming back to my office after a two-hour lunch, I throw my shit down on the desk. I’m in a fucked-up mood and the bullshit that’s printed about me in Mogul Weekly magazine hasn’t helped matters any. I take out my vibrating phone and see that it’s my mother calling. I push ignore. The last thing I want is for her to be a victim of my temper and I’m sure to let her have it if she asks me one more time if I’m accepting the invite to my sister’s party.

  What I want to do is call and chew Desdemona out. Whatever her name was I fucked yesterday did nothing for me. If she thinks that’s what I’m into I have to rethink what she thinks about me.

  “Sharon, get Lyle in here,” I command over the intercom at my assistant. My fuse has been short all week and she’s the only one I can tolerate at this point.

  “He’s on his way, sir,” she assures me. “I’ll be heading to lunch now. Paris is here covering for me.”

  “Make sure she knows I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Of course, Mr. Dixon.”

  Lyle, my PR manager, comes waltzing into my office a few moments later so I can take my mood out on him. His blue tailored suit is setting off the frosted blond tips of his dark hair and I’m reminded to amend the dress code. I stare as he sits his ass down in one of my chairs without me offering it to him.

  “I think you’re overreacting just a tab bit, Reed.” He starts in on me. “Martin Fitz can’t write his way out of his own ass, let alone critique luxury yachts. He’s just mad because he can’t afford one. His entire operation consists of him, his daughter, and a printing press. Why are you wasting time being pissed off by that peon?”

  “That bastard’s trying to ruin the reputation of my shipyard.” I pick up the magazine I tossed in the wastebasket earlier to read it to him. “B-list TV show actor still making subpar yachts to impress his celebrity friends. He’s gone from Bay-Hot to Bay-Not. Be sure to wear your life vests when riding one of his sinking ships.”

  “Okay, that was a little harsh.” He takes the magazine from me and throws it back in the trash. “I’m not saying he’s not an asshole, but you know what we say: Any press is good press. He’s helping to put the Deuce Dixon name out there.”

  “Yeah, as a shitty company. Bad press can cost us the Rough Waters movie deal. Do you know how many of our yachts they’re using for that thing? How much they’re paying to blow them up? He’s trying to come in between me and my money. Nobody gets away with that. Especially some old prick who wouldn’t know what a sleek yacht design looked like if the damn thing went careening up his ass. I want his ass handed to him by our lawyers. I’m suing him for every penny he’s got. I’ll own that lame-ass magazine by the time they’re done with him.”

  He clears his throat, shifting his weight as he crosses his right leg over his left. It’s his not-so-subtle way of letting me know he’s not in agreement with what I’m saying without actually telling me I’m being unreasonable. He does it when he wants me to shut the hell up before I ruin the image he’s spun of me to the public.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I’m just letting you get it all out.”

  I’m starting to get annoyed with him. He’s a step away from being on my shit list. I don’t give a damn if he’s right or not. He works for me, not the other way around.

  I feel a draft from my open office door and I glare at it to see who the hell’s interrupting my private meeting. I’m about to let them have it until I see a young girl, no more than twenty standing in the doorway. Her hair’s the first thing that catches my eye. It’s light brown with streaks of blonde that look like sunbeams in her hair. It’s pinned back in what looks to be a low bun so I can’t tell the length. My admiration for it turns to fury when I remember her ass is in my office unannounced.

  “Who are you?” I demand to know. “And what are you doing barging in on my meeting?”

  Her mouth falls open and her eyes widen. It looks like she’s struggling to think of something to say. How did she even get in here? This is the second time some college-age girl has crossed my path.

  “Where the hell is Paris?” I ask her. She was supposed to prevent all interruptions. How this girl got past her is beyond me. She’s obviously an employee of mine, but not a competent one. Everyone knows not to barge into my office. “How much of my conversation did you hear?”

  Her refusal to answer my questions has just pissed me off and I let my barely checked temper get the better of me. I round my desk getting ready to rip her a new one before she holds up a legal-sized white envelope as an offering to me.

  “Reed, hold on a minute,” Lyle tells me as I move to take the envelope, but of course I ignore him.

  I don’t have the patience for this bullshit. I snatch the envelope from her hand and she runs out of my office as fast as her legs can take her.

  “What the fuck was that about?” I ask Lyle.

  “Her name’s Reagan Montgomery.”

  “So? I don’t give a damn who she is.”

  Her not answering me felt like a goddamn dismissal.

  “You really should give a damn. She goes to Walden University.”

  “Again, so?”

  “Reagan’s part of the outreach employment program. The one you were so hell-bent on starting there last year in your brother’s honor.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about? You’re full of shit. She seemed perfectly normal.”

  That program was designed to help physically and mentally disabled people gain on-the-job training and possible employment.

  “Oh, she is perfectly normal. She’s great, in fact.”

  “Says you. And aren’t you supposed to be gay? I thought you people didn’t notice shit like that.”

  “Well, aren’t you itching for all kinds of discrimination lawsuits today.”

  “Will you just spit it out already. Why is she in the program?”

  “She’s deaf.”

  Shit!

  Chapter Two

&nbs
p; As I rush past Paris, she stands up from behind her desk. I can tell by her gestures she’s talking to me. She’s probably asking me what happened, but I just keep going. It seems I’ve messed up on my job already and I need to go back to the mailroom before I get into any more trouble. What was I thinking accepting this job. I should have known the very first day when I stood outside and looked up at the building it wasn’t the right fit. It’s only three stories, but it’s one of the largest buildings in Dana Point. Although it looks harmless with the shipwrecked boat and the giant anchor leaning on it out front, it’s very intimidating once you get inside.

  When I saw the shipping and receiving mail clerk position advertised on the university’s job board, I asked my guidance counselor about it. She said it was a part of an outreach program for Deuce Dixon Yachts. I wasn’t going to apply since I know nothing about yachts. When she said it would look good on my resume and that they have an interior design department, I thought I’d give it a shot. It’s right on the water, which is a big plus.

  Sorting and distributing mail isn’t my idea of a dream job, but until I graduate in a few months, it will have to do. It’s really not that bad and my co-workers are friendly. There are quite a few of them since the mail’s divided by management groups. I was part of the accounting mail team until my boss, Carol Stream, moved me over to the executive offices earlier this week.

  There’s not much mail that filters through to the big bosses, so I have a lot of downtime, which is fine with me. I get to work on classroom assignments I have due. Mrs. Stream comes from a long line of female college professors, ending with her mother, so she’s all for education as long as I keep up with my work. When something does come my way, I’m to deliver it upstairs right away.

  Today was my first time having to deliver to Mr. Dixon. I’ve heard the horror stories about him, but I thought people were over exaggerating like they often do about their bosses. I was sure the man couldn’t be that bad. He has to work with entitled billionaires, movie directors, and celebrities, after all. He’s even gone out of his way to reach out to people with disabilities.