“That and jealous of you for having a hair stylist that can do such a great dye job on short notice,” I said. “Seriously, whether you’re a natural blonde who went black or the other way around, that is impressive. But your sense of style can be called . . . original I guess.”
“Why thank you,” Rita said with a chuckle before reaching up and pulling the long black wig off her head, “but I can’t take credit for it. I wear it for work only, and I’m on lunch break right now.”
“Whoa,” I said, “that is even more impressive. I wouldn’t have guessed at all. How’d you pull that off?”
“Lots and lots of practice,” she replied, leading me into her living room. She unbuttoned her suit coat top and shrugged it off, leaving just a sleeveless blouse that, while still jarring with the pink shorts, was less so than the black jacket. She took a seat on a comfortable looking, bubbly styled chair, offering me one on the other side of the room. I saw an impressive computer setup in the corner, which she nodded to. “I do freelance work for various companies in Asia, and it helps to look the part, so I wear the suit top for video conferences along with the wig, and sometimes I even do my makeup to accentuate the Asian-ness of my features. Say what you want, most of the old men who run those companies are racist as all hell, and they barely trust me as it is with my American passport. If I didn’t have the wig, I’d lose at least a quarter of my business.”
“What about your name?” I asked.
Rita chuckled. “I have another, in fact. I’m half-Korean, although the math is weird. Both Mom and Dad were half Korean too, so I’m not sure how the DNA works out, but I have a Korean name, Kim Areum. The Chinese and Korean groups I work for go with that, and for the Japanese I go with Rita. They hate the Koreans more than they distrust Americans I think. But you didn’t come by for my insight on the racial politics of East Asia. Relax and let me tell you what I can, or at least answer what questions you’re ready for.”
“Ready for?” I said. “Okay, I guess we can start there. What do you mean?”
Rita lounged back, and I realized that the confident look that she had worn in the hallway as she sashayed away the day before was really her and not an act. She was powerful and strong, compelling in her own way. “Just asking that tells me you have a long way to go. First off, the world of BDSM is deep. There are a lot of couples—I’d say most couples, most likely—who have played around with it a bit. A bit of light spanking, stuff like that. Then on the other end are people who are not happy unless they’re dominating or submitting to the point of stuff that would make most people nauseous. And so many people have a misconception of what it is anyway. Fifty Shades and such. Tell me, from what you know, who’s in charge in a BDSM relationship?”
Rita filled me in with all the details, about the exchange of power and the use of safe words if I ever wanted to end the experience.
I thought deeply. “If I do this, what sort of things can I expect? I mean, what do you two do?”
Rita leaned back and laughed again, and I felt both shy and drawn to her. Despite the fact we were talking about Kade and their sexual history, I thought I’d like to get to know Rita better, make her a friend, even. “Kiss and tell, huh? Listen, he’s not going to yank your hair or arm lock you, and he’s definitely not into erotic asphyxiation. For him, it’s more about the control than the pain, although he’s pushed my pain buttons a few times, but only when I’ve asked him to.”
“You . . . you ask for the pain?” I said, astounded.
“To test my limits, to see if I can take it, of course. It’s an endorphin rush, like the guy who decided it would be fun to do Ironman triathlons, or the first weightlifter who said it might be a good idea to put half a ton of iron on their back and see if they could stand up with it or if it would break them in half. There are times, and Kade knows that line better than any person I sub for, that I’m quivering on the edge, pain and pleasure and everything mixing, and it’s powerful, more powerful than any drug you can think of. I’m like this far from saying our safe word, and then he rides that line right up until the point that my body explodes in the biggest orgasm I’ve ever had. I guess that isn’t quite what you want to hear, but I think you deserve honesty. But you’ll have the power, and he has his control. If you’re strong enough, you’ll see what I mean. I will tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Who knows, Alix? Maybe you can be the one who can show him the levels that he’s shown me.”
I shook my head in wonderment. “I have a lot to think about. I mean, I haven’t even seen him naked yet, and we’ve only kissed once.”
* * *
After leaving Rita, I went to the bank, and after showing them two forms of picture ID as well as signing a document declaring that I understood I was taking out such a large sum in pure cash, I walked away just before the close of business with sixty thousand dollars in cash. The bank was nice enough to give me a complimentary tote bag to carry it in, but still a guard walked me all the way to my car from the door, which I did appreciate.
As I drove toward Sydney’s place, an irrational hope filled my chest. I kept thinking that with the payment, I could have a new life, one that was free of the stress of terrible boyfriends, exploitative clients, and the like. I realized that it meant leaving the modeling industry, but the idea of showing my body to just one person filled me with more anticipation than posing for a camera.
For one of the most sought after photographers in the Los Angeles area, Sydney lived in a pretty crappy apartment in North Hollywood, just on the edge between it and Burbank. When we first dated, I had wondered about it. As time went on and I learned more about him, I realized why he lived where he did.
Sydney Hale was born in what a politician might politely call a lower working-class family. What this meant in real terms was that his parents both worked jobs, his father sometimes working two, along with taking government assistance in order to make ends meet as their son grew up along with his two sisters and brother in what the locals called ‘The 209’ portion near Stockton. While his eye for photography, good looks, and ability to smooth talk people had gotten him out of the tiny, two-bedroom house that he’d grown up in, he was still marked by the neighborhood and its culture.
Syd was a hustler, as it was often called on the street, always looking for an angle or an advantage. I realized after he’d hit me that he was always looking to take advantage of people and situations. If a normal situation said you could gain five dollars, he’d look for an unfair advantage to get ten.
It was this attitude that attracted me to Sydney at first. He was dangerous, cocky, the bad boy type. And of course, Mom disapproved of him from the start, saying he wasn’t deserving of me, which only spurred me on to be with him even more. Looking back, Mom was right, at least on that subject if nothing else.
Moving to the Los Angeles area to further his photography career, Sydney settled in the North Hollywood/Burbank area because it was close to the movie studios. He was constantly trying to get in with them, doing test shoots and trying to work some angle. He thought that if he could, he’d be able to work his way into some sort of fame and security, I think. After a few years of being so-called stuck in the fashion photography world, I think he stayed in the same area because he was the top dog in a low area, the big fish in a small pond.
Knocking on Sydney’s door, I held the bag tight against my chest, looking around carefully—it was that sort of neighborhood. Sydney lived and worked out of the same studio apartment a lot of the time, and I assumed he’d be home.
“Who is it?” Sydney called from inside.
“It’s Alix. I have what you asked for,” I replied, unwilling to even say the word ‘money’ anywhere someone might overhear. I reached behind my ear and tapped the button on my new Bluetooth headset, starting the record function on my phone. According to what the app said, for the next ten minutes it would record continuously, or longer if I kept up a string of conversation.
Sydney’s door rattled as he undid the three locks that he kept on the door, and he opened it, turning and walking down the narrow hallway to his living room without even a greeting. “Come on,” he said instead, knowing that he was drawing me inside. “I want to count it.”
Feeling that I had no choice, I followed him, closing the door behind me. He sat down on his couch, pointing to the low coffee table in front of him. “Go ahead, show me.”
I unzipped the tote bag, laying the cash on the table. “There it is, all sixty thousand. Fresh from the bank this afternoon.”
“You were quicker than I anticipated,” Sydney commented as he counted the stacks. “That’s good.”
“I just want you out of my life,” I replied. “I’m not into blackmail as a form of communication in a relationship.”
“It still doesn’t answer the question though. Alix, I want you back,” Sydney said as he finished counting the money. “You were the best girl I’ve ever had.”
“And you spent time after time going behind my back, having sex with other women,” I retorted. “I mean, what about that girl at the UFC party? Did you even know her name?”
Sydney shrugged and sat back. “No, but it doesn’t matter. That was just fucking. What we had, Alix, that was a real relationship.”
“I honestly don’t even know how to respond to that,” I said. “If you actually think that, then you’re more screwed up than I thought. So good-bye, Sydney. I’m not playing your games anymore.”
I turned when Syd spoke from behind me. “So I guess this means that you’ll be bringing me another payment in say . . . two weeks? I think twenty thousand should be more than enough. I don’t want to take all your money, you know.”
I turned back, shocked. “I can’t pay you more. I had to borrow this much just to pay you this time.”
“Well, you could always pay in other ways,” Sydney replied, his eyes roaming over me. “Say, twice a week? I mean, I know you’d hate to see those videos and photos on the web for everyone, including Derek Prescott himself, to see live and uncensored.”
I shuddered, repulsed by the idea. “No. You’re not going to whore me out.”
I turned to go when Sydney sprang from his seat on the sofa. He ran toward me and grabbed my arm from behind to stop me. “You don’t get it, do you, bitch?” Sydney asked, looking down at me with hatred and anger in his eyes. “Nobody says no to me. Nobody.”
Chapter 10
Kade
I was on the 405 heading north, skipping the more picturesque PCH in order to get back to Portland quickly while still bypassing the overcrowded center of LA. As much as I wanted to stay in Los Angeles, I had to get back to work. If anything, I had bills to pay and payroll to sign for. While Monica and Vince were good people, nobody sticks around a job where the boss takes off for a week, extends his vacation and then forgets to sign the paychecks.
I was in Northridge, just about two miles from merging back onto the 5 when my phone rang. My music, Creedence Clearwater Revival that was great for making the miles disappear, went mute as my in-dash system showed it was from Vince. “Yeah Vince, go ahead.”
“Hey boss, it sounds like you’re driving. You sure I’m okay?” he asked cautiously. “I don’t want you to get pulled over. I’ve heard the LAPD are a bunch of assholes.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’m on the Interstate, so the only thing I have to worry about is the CHP. And I’m on hands free, I just look like any other idiot talking to himself while he drives. What’s going on?”
“I’ve got more information for you. I tracked down a contact on one of those other people on Alix’s photo shoot, Karla McDonald. I gave her a call, and as soon as she heard who I worked for, she demanded to talk to you. I couldn’t get a peep out of her, but she sounded pretty frantic about it.”
“All right, I’ll give her a call. Give me a minute to get off the Interstate though, there’s an exit coming up in half a mile. Text me the number?”
“Sure thing,” Vince said. “Just be careful that you don’t get off in the wrong part of town.”
“Not an issue,” I said, hanging up. I took the exit and ended up parking next to a Catholic cemetery of all things, while in the meantime Vince sent my phone the number it needed. I quickly dialed the number, hoping that this Karla would be able to shed some light on the situation.
“Hello?” a voice with a definite Australian accent said.
“Miss McDonald? Hi, I’m Kade Prescott, my paralegal said he spoke with you earlier. I was hoping you had a minute to talk,” I said, while outside my window I watched a groundskeeper rake the grass on the other side of the fence. “I’m Alix Nova’s stepbrother.”
“I know your name, mate,” Karla replied, and it took me a second to get her accent through my phone. “Good onya to call me so quick. So from what your assistant was telling me, you want to know about the photo shoot last week.”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. When Alix came to our parents’ house, she was sporting what turned into a very large black eye. Now, she had a story about walking into some equipment. Is that true?”
“Hell no,” Karla replied, outraged and surprised. “I canna believe that bastard actually hit her though.”
“Who?” I asked, my emotions rising as I thought of Alix being the victim of violence. I had my suspicions, and for them to be confirmed . . . I kicked myself. I should have done more earlier. “Miss McDonald, please. Who are you talking about?”
“Sydney Hale,” Karla answered immediately. “He and Alix were dating up until a few weeks ago. He was the photographer for the shoot. I thought he’d been a bloody cunt during the shoot, but I never thought he’d . . . that fucker.”
“Miss McDonald, this is important to me. Alix borrowed a large sum of money from me, and I suspect she’s being forced to give it to this Sydney Hale. Can you tell me where I can find him?” I was squeezing the steering wheel hard enough to leave divots, and there was an ominous creaking coming from the metal inside. I peeled my hands away by pure force of will. “Please, Karla, Alix is my family.”
“I’ve done shoots with him at his private studio, it doubles as his apartment,” Karla said. “He lives in North Hollywood, near Burbank.”
Karla gave me the address, which I punched into my car’s internal navigation. The drive wasn’t far, and I turned around to get back on the road. “Thank you, Karla. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“No worries,” Karla said. “Just a warning to you, Syd’s a regular dunny rat. Keep your eyes out if you run into him.”
I had no idea what a dunny rat was, but I got the idea. “I will. Thank you again, Karla.”
As soon as I was back on the 5 heading toward North Hollywood and Burbank, I tried calling Alix. Her phone immediately went to voice mail, which for some reason scared me. I tried again, hitting redial as I pushed faster. I moved over to the passing lane, willing the evening traffic to go faster, but finding myself increasingly frustrated. The miles crawled by as I broke every rule I’d ever given myself about driving, weaving in and out of gaps in traffic until my car told me to get off the Interstate. I followed the directions to a dumpy looking apartment building. It looked like something out of the nineteen eighties, and had probably last been shoddily repainted ten years ago. What a professional photographer would be doing living in such a dump was beyond me.
My heart leapt into my throat when I saw Alix’s car parked in one of the visitor spots in the parking lot, and I threw my car into park, blocking her in but not really giving a damn. If someone wanted to call the cops and give me a ticket, I’d be happy about it. Shutting off the engine, I sprinted up to the main gate, frustrated when it turned out to be locked by a number code. Looking around, I saw a gap in the stucco wall that surrounded the building, so I hopped it quickly, landing in what I thought was the middle of someone’s tiny little front yard, probably the building superintendent or handyman. A startled woman stared at me through the windo
w before pointing and beginning to yell.
“Sorry!” I replied before she could come outside. Instead, I ran through onto the main walkway through the building, keeping the number for Hale’s apartment in my mind. It was on the second floor, I quickly figured out, taking the stairs three at a time to the next level, only to find I was on the wrong side of the huge horseshoe that was the building.
I ran as hard as I could, my fear growing with every step. Apartment two twenty-nine was on the corner of the building, and from the way it was shaped was most likely larger than its neighbors. I came closer and slowed to a stop, reaching for the handle, which was locked. “Alix! ALIX! It’s Kade!”
Inside I could hear something moving, then a sound that would haunt me the rest of my life. “Kade! Help me!”
I lowered my shoulder and rammed it into the door frame, the whole thing shuddering but not giving way. Stepping back, I reached up and kicked, wishing I’d chosen kickboxing instead of boxing as a hobby in college. Still, my kick was enough to splinter the simple lock on the door, one of those automatic jobs that was supposed to only supplement deadbolts and chains. The door banged off the hallway drywall before trying to shut on me again, but I threw my shoulder into it again and was in.
Running down the hall, I burst in to see a man, shorter than me but still taller than Alix, kneeling over her with his fist bunched. Alix was on the couch, and the man had one foot on the floor and the other beside Alix’s hip, his left hand reaching for her throat. Alix’s fingers were hooked into claws and she was trying, but he was too far away. Similarly, his legs were positioned so that he could push on her, but she couldn’t knee him in the balls or reach with her hands.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” I yelled, grabbing Sydney as he turned his head toward me. With all of my anger and rage I pushed him, slamming him into the wall on the far side of the room.
Dirty Little Secrets: A Stepbrother Romance Page 8
