“We know this, Dad,” Allegra said with another eye roll.
“Oh, do you, Little Miss Know It All?” She nodded and grinned. “I guess you already know how to throw the perfect spiral, too.”
She shook her head and swung her arms around, the picture of innocence.
“That’s what I thought, smartypants.”
He gently bonked her on the head with the corner of the ball, then crouched to explain offense and defense. Their eyes only glazed over slightly when he talked them through theories on throwing motions, grips and the idea of “looking the ball” into their hands. Once he’d shown them both how to hold it, the real fun began.
“That’s it, Hope. Dig your heel into the ground,” he said, tossing the ball to her, then to Allegra. “Keep looking at the ball.”
Hope was pretty good, her throw surprising for a seven-year-old. Allegra dropped the ball several times, but instead of having a tantrum, she stayed focused, picking it up and trying again. It made him wish he’d made time for days like this more often—that he’d been working less and been more present with the kids. Sure, they’d had fun days together, but he was always too overloaded, deferring to Sam for activity planning. Had that been an excuse? Maybe he’d avoided family time because facing Allegra meant facing what he didn’t like in himself.
He’d caught up some at work, less distracted than he’d been when his thoughts were on Sam. It seemed like he could only be one thing at a time—pet, or husband. Boss or submissive. In order to be one, he had to put another on a shelf. They were all parts of him, yet he couldn’t mesh them together to put all of his different pieces into one cohesive whole.
“Daddy?” Hope asked. “How come you don’t play football anymore?”
Oh. Wow, he’d never told her this.
“Well, I got hurt.” He put the ball on the ground, bent down and rolled up his track pants to show her the slightly translucent section of skin that ran a line from several inches below his kneecap to half a dozen above it. Allegra came over to join them. “You can’t see it anymore, but the muscles here were all torn up.”
The “unhappy triad” the doctors had called it—an injury to the anterior cruciate ligament, medial collateral ligament, and meniscus, one of the most feared sports injuries. The girls didn’t need to know it wasn’t during an actual game that it happened. He hoped they’d grow to live in a world where hatred like that didn’t exist anymore. That it would be a story he’d never need to tell them. But if they were ever threatened the way Nick had been, he’d destroy every bone in his body defending them.
“Did it hurt?” Hope asked.
“A lot.” He could remember the very wrong feeling of his knee changing direction, the pop he’d felt after his head hit the wall and his knee hit the concrete. Bones and hard surfaces didn’t make a good combination.
She put her hand on his leg. “That’s why you stopped playing?”
“One of the reasons.”
“Does it still hurt?” she asked. He couldn’t remember her asking that many questions in a single setting.
“Sometimes.” He unrolled his pant leg. “But sometimes things hurt, and you’ve gotta get up, keep on going.”
Brady stood as his phone buzzed with a two-word text from Jack: “We’re here.” He sent Allegra inside to get them. A minute later, his brother and Patrick were opening the back door.
“We’re learning football,” she told them. “Wanna play?”
Brady retrieved the ball and tossed it back and forth. “Uncle Jack doesn’t play football. He and Patrick play tennis.”
He made his voice high-pitched as he said it. His comment only got a laugh out of his brother.
“Tennis isn’t an easy sport,” Jack said as Allegra tried to drag him across the lawn. “Don’t knock it.”
“Yeah, because which requires more strength and agility?” Brady asked. “A game where you pass a little bouncing ball over a net? Or a full-contact sport where you need a helmet to avoid brain damage?”
He wasn’t really ragging on tennis. It required some serious skill. But that sense of competition was strong between them. Brady had to take them down a few notches in whatever way he could.
Patrick crossed his arms. “You think football is more demanding, huh? Remind me why tennis players can play five sets every other day but footballers can’t play for more than a few hours a week?”
“That’s the networks’ choices. Not the players’,” Brady shot back. “And don’t forget that football is played mainly in cold weather, while tennis is a summer sport. You know, to prepare you for your Florida retirement communities.”
Patrick grinned. “I’d have no problems if Cassie wanted to move us down to Miami, my friend. None at all.”
“Uncle Jack, are you gonna play or not?” Allegra was putting all her effort into yanking Jack’s arm, her feet pedaling against the grass.
“Okay I’ll play,” he said, giving in. “What position should I be?”
“Wide retriever!” She let go of him at that and started barking, running around the yard in circles. So much for her focus, but she’d fall asleep faster tonight if she ran the energy out of her.
“I don’t think Uncle Jack could be a wideout,” Brady said as he tossed his brother the ball. “He’d have to run too fast every play. I’d worry about him having a heart attack.”
Jack caught the ball and smiled. “Nice.”
Brady’s grin was smug in return. “Just speaking the truth. You’re getting up there in years.”
They threw the ball back and forth, the girls running between them, trying to grab it from the air. Patrick kept his arms crossed, standing off to the side.
“Not gonna join us, Patrick?” Brady asked. “Too afraid you’re gonna mess up that pretty face?”
Facts were facts. Patrick was a good-looking guy, but he wasn’t big or fast. There wasn’t a single position he could play that wouldn’t end in him getting beat on.
Patrick put a hand to his goatee, pretending to be deep in thought. “You know what else makes tennis harder than football? If you’re tired or sick, you’ve gotta stay on the court, toughen up and get through it. You can’t call in a sub to replace you.”
The word meant substitute, but the way Patrick said it seemed intentional, meaning a different kind of sub altogether. It flustered Brady, had him looking at the ground as the girls jumped in between them. No matter how comfortable Sam had made him with his desires, he still didn’t want that shit on display right now. And he never wanted Jack to know.
Frustrated, Brady spiked the ball without realizing Hope was running toward his side. Her head collided with his elbow, and Brady’s heart stopped in the first awful moment of silence when the shock hit her, then she burst into tears.
“Shit! I’m sorry.” He dropped to his knees, ignoring the sudden sharp sear of pain. Jack and Patrick bolted over to them while Allegra hovered a few feet away. “Shhh. You’re okay. Can you tell me where it hurts?”
“My head,” she hollered, then sobbed even louder. Damn it, this child never cried. The sudden outpouring of emotion was completely out of left field for her.
“I know your head, but where?” He put his hands in her hair and felt around. “There’s a bump. Shit. Shit!”
“Daddy, you cursed,” Allegra said. “Mom’s gonna be mad.”
Brady couldn’t give a rat’s ass about his language right now. “Allegra, enough.”
“But Mommy said—”
“You’re in a time-out.”
“But—”
“Now!”
She cowered in fear, then ran inside. And Hope was looking just as terrified. This evening was quickly unraveling.
“I’m sorry, munchkin,” he said, hands open like he was approaching a frightened animal. “Come on. Let’s get you some ice.”
He finally coaxed her inside. Once he’d gotten her an ice pack for her head, wiped away her tears and settled her in front of the TV clutching a stuffed animal, he went
up to Allegra’s room. She shouted at him to go away. Defeated, he returned to the kitchen and slumped over the table. Jack and Patrick sat there with their eyebrows raised, like the two old guys from the Muppets.
“You gonna call Sam?” Patrick asked.
“And tell her about my parenting fail?” Brady propped his head up in one hand and flipped his phone around with the other. He really was unprepared to parent in Sam’s absence. “No. I don’t want to ruin her night. It’s her first time at a gay bar, after all.”
Patrick’s brow wrinkled as he looked over at Jack. Now he looked even more like a Muppet.
“What?” Brady asked.
“Brady,” Jack said. “I don’t think they’re going to a gay bar at all.”
20
Gabe opened his door and gave Sam a once-over. “I know I said shabby chic, but is that what you’re wearing?”
Sam lifted her bag. “Nope, got a much sexier top and shoes in here.”
“Good.”
He took her hand and brought her inside his and Nick’s Beacon Hill brownstone. Down the long hallway, she could hear laughter and music.
“What’s this mysterious change of plans you texted me about?” she asked. Gabe’s message had been cryptic, just that she should up her game clothing-wise, and it had made her glad she’d opted on the corset.
“We’re not going to a gay bar,” Gabe said.
“We’re not?”
He led her into a kitchen that had been converted into half a beauty salon, half a photo studio. A light stand and white umbrella were propped up behind a wooden high-top table where Lilly and Cassie were doing their makeup.
“Nope. We’re going to a dungeon.”
“We’re doing what now?”
Cassie’s head fell back in laughter, and Nick snapped a quick photo. “Told ya Sam would flip out.” She was dressed in head-to-toe leather and spiked leather ankle boots, looking like Catwoman minus the mask. “But, in a good way.”
Lilly turned around to face Sam. She was wearing a schoolgirl outfit, complete with knee-high socks and her hair in pigtails. Her collar was clearly visible, too.
“I hope you’re okay with this,” she said.
“I am—”
Lilly squealed and clapped. “Jack gave me permission to go without him because there’s so many of us.” Her mouth dropped open on a pause. “Which is a thing with us…”
She cringed and Sam smirked. “I know.”
Lilly’s eyes went wide. “You know…what?”
“About you and Jack.” Sam tapped on the padlocked heart hanging from Lilly’s collar. “And why you need permission.”
Her friend turned about twelve shades of crimson. “But, how’d you know?”
Nick stepped between them, camera in hand. “Everyone knows.”
“They do?” Lilly asked.
He grabbed a grape from a bowl sitting amidst the makeup, popped it in his mouth and chewed happily. “Yup.”
She turned back to the mirror. “Okay. I’m not completely humiliated or anything.”
If that was humiliating, Lilly didn’t have half the stomach Brady did.
Cassie propped a hand on her hip. “I didn’t have to ask Patrick’s permission. He knew I’d pummel anyone who gave me a hard time, including him.”
Sam reached for a grape for herself. “I know your deal, too.”
“And what’s that?”
Chewing thoughtfully, she said, “I imagine it falls somewhere in the consensual non-consent category?”
“Damn,” Cassie said. “Chica knows her shit.”
Sam looked at Nick and Gabe. “And you two are vanilla and boring.”
Nick cupped the back of Gabe’s neck and squeezed. “So boring that we’re thinking about moving to the suburbs, adopting a bunch of kids and getting a station wagon.”
Lilly side-eyed him. “If you get a station wagon, I’m renouncing you as my brother.”
“Okay,” Nick said. “Make it a minivan.”
Lilly threw a tube of lipstick at him. “That’s even worse!”
Sam recalled Gabe’s comment from the other day about wishing he needed a babysitter and wondered if Nick was joking. He took that moment to turn on her.
“And what about you, Samantha Archer?” he asked. “What’s your deal?”
It was like truth or dare, like Washington, a politician hiding her dirty secrets. She thought about Hanna, about the enigmatic persona she put on in the corset shop, and smiled like Hanna would.
“A magician never reveals her secrets.”
Sam reached down to pick up her bag. Nick leaned in close and grabbed it from her.
“I think you mean Mistress,” he said quietly enough that no one else could hear.
“I plead the Fifth.” Sam snatched her bag from him. “Where can I change?”
She got ready in the spare bedroom. The corset cinched her waist, giving her the kind of hourglass figure she thought only existed after a serious amount of photoshopping. She closed the top button of her shirt, then left several of the ones beneath open, creating a keyhole effect around her cleavage. This was why she’d left her necklace at home—it hadn’t worked with the buttons. But going where they were headed now, it could’ve looked like a collar.
Still, it felt strange to not have it on.
Sam reached for her phone, took a selfie, and sent it to Brady with a text.
“Turns out we’re going to a fetish club. But don’t worry. I’m just a spectator.”
His reply came a moment later—a simple, “K.”
She frowned. “You okay?”
“Sure,” his reply said. Then, after that, “Have fun.”
His words were too clipped. There was no joking around, no normal Brady present. Why did he shut down like this? He was so hard to read sometimes. Was he overwhelmed with the girls, or was he mad? Did going someplace like this without him violate some kind of BDSM rule? Before they’d started this, tonight would’ve been just a crazy night out with her friends. She wouldn’t have to clear it with him, and if she was the Domme, did she have to anyway?
But being a Domme didn’t give her license to do whatever she wanted.
She frowned at her reflection. When was she Brady’s Mistress, and when was she his wife?
Back in the kitchen, she received some flattering catcalls from her friends. They piled into Nick’s car, and Gabe rattled off a list of protocols, things Sam had to remember before walking into the club. They’d already been vetted, allowed in on Nick and Gabe’s behalf.
Maybe they weren’t as vanilla as they let on.
“You don’t have to participate in anything,” Gabe said as he drove through darkened streets—an area of Lynn she’d never been to before. “We’re all there to watch. And try not to yuck anyone’s yum.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Cassie asked.
Nick turned around in the passenger seat. “It means don’t gawk if something grosses you out.”
It was like cramming for a test Sam didn’t know she had. They parked at a row of what could’ve been office spaces during the day and walked to where a small crowd had amassed in various levels of kink wear and costumes. The second floor of the building they were standing by had its windows blacked out, but a pounding bass could be heard despite that, loud and gravelly enough to get things outside rattling. A garage-sized door opened, and Sam followed behind as Nick led them in. Once their names were checked off a list, they were carted into an elevator that felt designed more for meat or freight than people. When it opened up on the second floor, the music was even louder, and they inched forward through a hallway in a single file.
Sam’s nerves flew. She reached for her necklace, then remembered it wasn’t there. Maybe that was a grounding thing for her, too, to reach for Brady when she was uneasy. She wanted to text him again, but if he was unhappy about her whereabouts she didn’t want to start a fight about it here.
Gabe was telling Cassie and Lilly something else as they neare
d the front of the line. Sam leaned in to listen.
“There’s a wristband system,” he said over the pounding beat. “It shows the level of play you’re interested in. Green if you’re actively looking, yellow if you’re not but might consider it, and red if you don’t want to get propositioned at all. Dungeon Monitors have reflective armbands—easily seen in the dark in case someone has a problem.”
“Got it.”
Sam stepped forward and got her wristband. Red, of course.
The others went into a room with a coat rack on wheels. She hadn’t bothered with a jacket tonight, and everything else she needed was in her jean pockets.
“I’m gonna wander around,” she told them, then stepped into the main room. Her breathing went shaky in a combination of exhilaration, feeling completely out of her element and right at home. Had she been folding laundry and cleaning snotty tissues and toys out of her purse a few weeks ago? Now she was at the holy grail of kinky communities, and her apprehension eased as people eyed her in her corset.
Hanna had been right; this was like wearing armor, and as Sam received more approving glances, she felt her former self return, the Boston Bombshell walking through a sexual playground.
The space was like a vacant office that had been converted overnight. The only lights were from several color-changing bulbs that swirled from one hue to the next, and throughout the room people grouped around different demonstrations.
First was a man in a lab coat in front of what looked like a medical table. He was passing a bright purple device over the pants-covered crotch of a writhing woman. Standing next to him was a woman holding a chalkboard that said, “Violet Wand-gasms—23.”
The wand gave off an eerie glow and the distinctive scent of ozone, like the coming of a thunderstorm. A shower of electrical charge simmered off the tip, sparks coming off it as the woman on the table jolted and shuddered. The one with the chalkboard erased the number and wrote “24.” Everyone surrounding them clapped.
“You wanna try?” someone in the group asked Sam.
The recently satisfied woman sat up, wiped her brow and smiled at the man in the coat. Sam held up her wristband. “I’m good. Thanks.”
Their Discovery (Legally Bound Book 3) Page 20
