“Um, a bottle of water with a little bit of lemon juice in it?” she says in answer.
“Coming right up.” I find a bottle in the refrigerator, pour out a few tablespoons of water in a glass, and pour about three tablespoons of lemon juice into the bottle, then screw the top on and shake it up. I use the little dab of water in my bourbon after I’ve poured it. Setting the bottle and the glass on the coffee table, I go back into the kitchen and pick up the bag, carrying it carefully to the table and setting it down. She’s probably going to think I’m crazy, but I had to do it. Something inside me told me to. I rip open the bag and there they are.
Cupcakes. Two red velvet, two dark chocolate, and two lemon with lemon frosting. “Have a cupcake,” I say as I open the little plastic box they’re in.
There’s a moment when she stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, and then, to my delight, she reaches for one of the lemon ones. I take a dark chocolate and unwrap the paper on one side, then take a big bite. “Oh, god, this is good, sir. Thank you,” she says through the big bite of cupcake she’s chewing.
“You’re quite welcome.”
“What made you stop and get them, sir?”
I shrug. “Hell if I know. It just crossed my mind and I decided to do it.” That’s when I catch a glimpse of her in my peripheral vision and my heart thumps wildly in my chest.
There’s that smile again, the one I saw at the club. Accompanying that realization is a thrill I can barely imagine. I made her smile. I brought her joy. There’s really no explanation for why that makes me so happy, but it does. The car. The cheap steakhouse. The new furniture. The cupcakes. Some expensive. Some only pennies. And every one of them worth it. I’m shaken from my ruminations when she says, “Well, thank you again. This has been a wonderful day, the best day I’ve had in a long, long time.”
“It’s been a good day for me too. I’m glad to be able to do some things for you to make your life good,” I say, carefully choosing my words.
“I think this move is going to be very good for me. Tomorrow there’s no club, correct?”
“Correct. Closed on Sundays.”
“Good. We’ll finish your room, maybe go to some stores to find some artwork and linens and such, if that’s okay,” she says.
“That’s great.” I pause, then say, “And thank you for being honest with me.”
“You’re welcome, sir. I wish I could be more honest with you.”
After the conversation we’ve just had, I have no idea what that means.
Once we’ve said goodnight, I lie awake in bed for another hour, unable to even close my eyes as the events of the evening play out again and again in my mind. In some ways it seems surreal, but in others, it seems to be more real than anything I’ve ever experienced. But that one phrase keeps haunting me: I wish I could be more honest with you. What’s she being dishonest about? Or unhonest about? Sin of commission or of omission? I have this weird feeling I’m going to find out.
And something tells me I’m not going to like it.
Chapter Four
When I get up the next morning, I find that, to my surprise, she’s not up yet. There’s a cute little café across the street from the building, so I throw on some clothes, walk over, and get a couple of pastries, slices of quiche, and tiny little breakfast casseroles. It’s a beautiful day, a little on the nippy side but sunny. The sky is robin’s egg blue with fluffy white clouds here and there, and I can’t help thinking about how nice a brisk walk or a long run would be.
She’s still not up when I open the door, so I set everything out on the table, pull some cranberry juice from the fridge, and knock on her door. When it opens, what greets me is a sight I never could’ve expected.
There she stands, in an old-fashioned but cute flannel gown, her hair down and a crazy wild bird’s nest, no makeup, no glasses, and my god, she looks like she’s about fourteen years old. For a split second, I can’t think of anything to say, and what finally comes out is, “Well, good morning, sleepyhead.”
She yawns right in my face. “Good morning, sir. You’re up awfully bright and early for someone who has the option to sleep in.”
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t sleep. I got breakfast. Hungry?”
“Yes, sir. Give me a minute or two. I must look a sight.” That makes me chuckle. “And thank you for the affirmation,” the grump says as she disappears back into the darkness of her bedroom.
“Sorry. But you don’t look at all like I’m accustomed to seeing you, that’s for sure,” I say.
To my surprise, she quips back, “Well, I’m not sure if that’s bad or good.”
Aha! The woman has a sense of humor. That’s a new thing, so happy Sunday to me. “I will neither confirm nor deny. I know how to play it safe.”
“Oh, hahaha,” I hear her call back. In a minute she’s back, hair brushed and in a ponytail. No glasses. And I make a startling discovery.
She’s quite pretty, and I mean that in a wholesome way. It’s funny, but without those heavy glasses, her eyebrows don’t seem as thick and bushy. Matter of fact, they’re not at all. Her eyes are pretty too. There’s something that bothers me about them, but I’m not sure what it is―I’ll eventually figure it out though. She sort of plops down in a chair at the table, then props her elbows on its surface. “Unhappy about something?”
“No, sir. Just tired.”
“You just got up.”
“I have trouble sleeping, sir.”
I could help you with that, my brain chimes in, and then another voice says, Shut it down, Zimmer! “Do you have anything to take for that?”
“No. I never sleep.” No wonder she wears those glasses. They help hide the circles under her eyes. I don’t know why I haven’t noticed them before.
“That’s not healthy.”
“Neither are these pastries, sir,” she says, picking one up and holding it aloft before taking a bite.
“Wow. You really are in a bad mood,” I tell her as I pour a cup of coffee for her. When I set it in front of her on the table, she reaches for it and clutches it in both hands like she’s hemorrhaging and it’s a bag fresh from a blood drive. “Hope that helps.”
“Me too.” We sit there in silence for what seems like a long time until she says, “I wish I could go for a walk.”
That’s confusing. It’s Seattle―everyone goes for walks, jogs, runs, biking, everything. “Well, then go.”
There’s a look that crosses her face, and I can’t decipher it, but it looks a little like panic, like she’s said something she shouldn’t have. “I don’t really have time,” she says into the cup before she takes another swallow, and when she sets it down, she doesn’t elaborate.
I finish one pastry and reach for another. “Well, I’m going to try to catch up some work so we’re ready to go tomorrow morning. Baxter and Baxter is still looking for office space in Kingsport, and I think I have a lead on a building for that pharmaceutical clearing house. I guess tomorrow it’s business as usual.”
“Yes, sir,” she says as she starts in on another pastry. And when Cirilla intends to get back to work, that’s the end of that.
* * *
I’m amazed at how easy it is to get back into a routine, especially when I’m just walking down the hallway to go to work. By nine o’clock on Monday morning, I realize I’ve messed up. A lot of my clients are in the Central or Eastern time zones, and I’m going to have to work accordingly. Then I realize something else―that’s going to mean I’ll have a lot of trouble working at the club because it’ll be so late in those time zones when I get home, and I’ll have to get up really early. Cirilla will too. I’m not sure how to get this to work, but I’ll figure out something.
As soon as I think of it, I call the local chamber of commerce and ask what professional organizations meet in the city and how to get in touch with them. There are several, the usual ones, but there’s also one called HQSeattle, and I like the sound of it. It’s mostly made up of small business owners with less
than five employees, and many of them offer services, not products. Their meetings take place on the second and fourth Tuesdays of the month, and tomorrow is that day, so I get the information and tell myself I’m going.
We end the day having gotten quite a bit done, and I’m pleased with our progress. Between the two of us, we decide that we should end our work day at three o’clock, but one of us will have to be willing to take calls until five Pacific time, and Cirilla volunteers. “You have to go to the club, sir,” she reminds me. “I don’t. So I can handle that for you.”
“Thank you! But what if you start going after orientation?”
She just shrugs. “We’ll work something out then, I suppose.”
“You’ll get extra pay,” I tell her, and she shakes her head. “What?”
“I don’t need extra pay. You’re already giving me a place to live. Why would I need extra pay? You should take some of my pay to help with the lease.”
“Nonsense. It’s already paid. Besides, you can always chip in on utilities if you want.”
“Yes, sir.”
And that’s the end of that conversation.
By the time I leave for the club, she’s decided that she’ll lie down as soon as five o’clock comes around and try to catch up on some sleep, so I apologize ahead of time for waking her when I come in. She, of course, tells me that’s unnecessary.
It’s never been busy on Mondays at Bliss. That’s kind of an “off” night, if you will, and everybody’s tired from the first day of the work week. Two Dominants come in with their collared subs and do a little scening. Bless them, they even sanitize everything afterward so I don’t have to. That’s the beauty of this club―everyone feels invested in it and they’re willing to help out.
I’m about to lock up and leave when the back door opens and Dave steps in. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“Have you found a little key ring? With three stubby little keys on it?”
I duck into the office, reach in the top drawer of the desk, and pop back out into the hallway. “This little key ring with three stubby keys on it?” I ask, dangling them in the air.
“Yes! Oh, god, those are to the storage building. Olivia’s mad as hell. She wanted to get something out of there for the baby and I couldn’t find the keys. Must’ve had them in my pocket one night and just took them out and put them in the desk. Thanks, man,” he says and reaches for them.
“Since you’re here …” I say.
“Oh, shit. What?”
“I need to talk to you about something. Come in here.” I point to the chair in front of the desk and I take the one behind it. When Dave sits down, I say, “I’ve got a situation.”
“Situation? What kind of situation?”
“An orientation kind of situation.”
“Didn’t you ask Melina if she could be the submissive for the evening?” he asks.
“Yeah. That’s not the situation. The situation is one of the women I’ve got coming through the orientation.” He doesn’t ask, so I finally say, “It’s Cirilla.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. Holy shit. I can’t do the orientation if she’s going to be there. It wouldn’t be appropriate. She’s my employee.”
Dave nods. “Yeah. I can see how that’s a situation. Okay, I’ll do it. No problem. I’ll have to check with Olivia, mind you, but I’m sure that, under the circumstances, it’ll be okay.”
I can feel the tension in my chest start to relax. “Thanks. Thanks so much. I didn’t know what I was going to do.”
“Did you sign her up yourself?”
“Well, yeah.”
“How does she feel about that?” he asks, and I realize my mistake.
“No! I mean, yeah, I signed her up, but she asked me to. No, I didn’t do it without her knowledge, or tell her she had to go, or anything like that. Nothing like that,” I say in horror. I could never do that to somebody.
“Oh! Okay. I just misunderstood. So she actually asked to come?” I nod. “And how do you feel about that?”
“As long as I don’t have to lead the orientation, I suppose it’s fine.”
He gives me a side-eyed look. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”
Now I’m confused. What the hell is he trying to say? “Why wouldn’t it be fine? I have no say in her personal life.”
Dave chuckles and it kinda offends me. “Well, okay, if you say so.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing. I’ve gotta get home. Gotta take care of my girls and it’s late. Night,” he says and stands to go.
“No, what did you mean by all that?” I ask, irritation festering under my skin.
“Nothing. Forget I said anything,” he says as he walks away.
“Dave! Dave, you come back here and―” The sound of the door closing behind him stops me, so I just sit there and fume.
What the hell did he mean by that? Who knows? All I know is I’m off the hook for the orientation, and that’s fine by me.
* * *
“If you’re a potential new member and you like what you’ve seen here today, we have a packet of membership information for you up here on the table. Please feel free to pick one up and ask any of us any questions you might have,” the woman named Peggy says. Her pink suit is amazing―amazingly ugly. Why she thinks that’s okay for business, I have no idea. But I did learn a lot from the meeting. I learned which charities are doing the best in the city, and I also learned the five best businesses to be involved in within the county. Number two?
Commercial real estate.
I’m feeling pretty good about everything when I leave with the packet I scooped up from the table before I walked out. I clear the front door and Cirilla calls out, “How was the meeting, sir?”
“Very informative. I’m going to join.”
“That’s very wise, sir. It always helps business to get involved in the community,” she says as she wanders into the kitchen. “Filling out an application?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, bending over it with a pencil. It asks all the regular things―name of business, number of employees, my position, years in business, location, and plenty more. Down toward the bottom it asks if I’ve ever chaired a charity event before. That answer is yes. I chaired one for the children’s hospital in Cincy every year for the past eight years. Then it asks if I’ve ever sponsored or co-sponsored one. That’s also a yes. I had three I co-sponsored every year for the last five years.
In all, it takes me about fifteen minutes to fill it all out, and I fold it and slip it into the provided envelope, then stick a check for membership dues in and seal it. Done. It’ll go out with the rest of the mail.
By two forty-five, Cirilla’s out the door to the mailbox downstairs and I’m trying to relax. As soon as she comes back in, I tell her, “I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
“Yes, sir, please do. What time are you going to the club?”
“I’ll try to go about six thirty.”
“What would you like for dinner?”
I just smile. “Surprise me.”
She wakes me at five forty-five and it takes me a few minutes to pull myself together and drag my clothes back on. Simply opening the bedroom door fills my senses with the attitude and atmosphere of exotic cuisine. “Smells like Indian food,” I say, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply.
“It is. I found a great little place that was recommended by the doorman, and he was right about it. Fast, not expensive, and delivered on time. Come and eat, sir. You’re going to be leaving soon,” she says, pulling plates and silverware from the cabinets and drawers.
At six thirty on the dot, she’s picking up plates and utensils and telling me to have a good evening. I leave my office phone behind so she can answer it and pocket my personal one, then wave and head out.
A guy could get used to this.
* * *
I get Thursday evening off. When we’re having an orientation, the club is closed to general memb
ership. There are only two a month, one for subs and one for Doms, and that’s only if enough potential members have signed up. Some months we don’t have them at all, and potential members have to wait until we can get a large enough group to make it work.
I have no idea why, but Thursday finds me jumpy and skittish. I can’t relax, can’t think, can’t find my center of gravity. Cirilla asks me a few questions and I can’t clear my mind enough to answer her correctly, so she finally gives up. At two o’clock I tell her, “You should probably go take a nap since you’re going to orientation tonight.”
“Then you won’t be able to nap, sir,” she says without a hint of emotion on her face.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going.”
Her eyebrows hike up. “Then who’s going to open the building?”
“Dave is,” I say, reaching for some papers and slipping them into a file folder.
“I thought you did the orientations,” she says, her voice soft.
“I do. I will. But not this one,” I say, never looking back at her.
I can hear a tiny tremor in her voice when she asks, “If you’re not doing it, who is?”
“Dave.”
“But why, sir?”
The papers I’m holding in my hand drop to the desktop and I stare at her. “Don’t you think that might be a little awkward? Me doing the orientation you’re going to be in?”
She looks a little pale and her eyes are wide. “I guess so, sir. But …” And she just stops.
“But what?”
“But …” I wait and it takes her forever to say, “But I wasn’t afraid if it was going to be you.”
Now I’m confused. “Why are you doing this if you’re afraid?”
“Because … I think I … It’s just that … Well, um, I watched the other night and I was, um, intrigued, I suppose, sir. Curious.”
“No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, Cirilla. It’s always your call. Always. A submissive has the power because he or she can stop play at any time with their safeword.”
Completely Mine: Bliss Series, Book Four Page 7
