by Jan Graham
“I’m not giving you any more details about why I’m in a shitty mood, so you can all just piss off home.” As Steve attempted to leave the conference room three large and imposing bodies confronted him, blocking the doorway. Well Cal wasn’t that large or imposing, but the look on his face was intimidating.
“You’re in my way.” Steve took a defensive stance and glared at his three friends. If they could try and use a show of force to get him to talk, then he could use his own show to get past them. “Move or I’ll use one of you as an example to demonstrate what I did to the vending machine today.”
“I’d pick Cal for the demonstration. He’s a bit boxy looking. Want me to hold your files?” Daniel glanced down at Cal and smiled. “Take one for the team, would you, buddy?”
“I don’t care if he’s in a meeting, now get out of my way, I need to see Steve.”
Hearing Angel’s voice should have provided Steve with a sense of relief, knowing he was off the hook in relation to the discussion he didn’t want to have with his friends. Instead he tensed. She sounded angry, demanding. This was not going to be good.
His three friends looked at him in surprise and moved back from the door. Yep, it should have been a relief, but it wasn’t going to be. Steve stepped back toward the table, placed his files down and leant against the surface. He folded his arms over his chest and crossed his outstretched legs at the ankles. He was prepared for the onslaught as Angel appeared in the doorway.
“Angel, I don’t want to talk about whatever it is that’s on your mind.” Taking the offensive had worked so well with his friends, he decided to repeat the tactic. “I’m in a really bad mood and I don’t need any more grief today, so collect your husbands plus that annoying little fireman and go home.”
“No, thank you, I don’t believe I will.” Angel stepped through the doorway, and slammed the door behind her. The noise caused all four men in the room to jump. Daniel, Christian, and Cal took a step backward and looked at Steve with what could only be described as concerned amusement. Angel kept her gaze firmly fixed on him as she closed the distance between them. “I’m giving you one last chance to tell me what’s wrong.”
“No, thank you, I don’t believe I will.”
Angel’s eyes narrowed in anger. Maybe throwing her words back at her wasn’t a good idea.
“You made my new friend cry.” Her open hand connected with the side of his arm in a firm slap. “You took advantage of her.” Slap. “You kissed her.” Slap. “You made her horny.” Slap. “And you left her hanging.” Slap. “You shithead, Steve. How dare you hurt Rhia? How dare you make her feel special and then lie to her like that?” Slap, slap, slap.
Steve stared at his sister, dumbfounded, trying to take in what she was saying. His mind seemed to stick on the fact that he’d made Rhia cry. God, he didn’t want her to cry. He thought she was okay when she left. She said she understood.
“I didn’t make her cry, and I never lied to her.”
“You let her believe you were impotent. Is that your new tactic for getting away from a woman who might make you feel something more than just the boner in your pants?”
“I told her I couldn’t give her what she wanted, not that I was impotent.” Steve grabbed Angel’s wrist as she attempted to slap him again. Not that her slaps hurt, they were just damned annoying.
“You made her cry. She cried at the coffee shop when she was telling me what happened. She thought you meant you were impotent, you jerk.”
Steve could hear the muffled laughter of the three men watching them. If it wasn’t so serious, it might just be amusing. But it was serious. His day had just gone to hell in a handbasket. He’d made Rhia cry.
Chapter Seven
“I don’t care if you haven’t finished playing with your friends. I want you at home when I get there.” Harper Roderick spat the words into the phone with a determination only a pissed-off woman could give. The burn on her shoulder was still healing, and she hated the new short cut the hairdresser had given her to remove the singed ends of her hair.
“You can be a real bitch, you know that don’t you?” Jaxon’s reply was delivered with equal malice.
“Only when you aren’t behaving like an adult. You know I need a man, not the little boy you so often insist on being.” She reminded herself why she was involved with someone half her age. It was for the sex, pure and simple. If she could meet someone who had money and skill closer to her fifty-two years then she wouldn’t have to put up with all this juvenile bullshit. She’d still have sex with him, but she wouldn’t need to speak to him about anything other than how to please her.
“I’ll be home when you get there, waiting with cock in hand to see if I can put you in a better mood than you are now.”
“Good boy.” She said the words because she knew they pissed him off.
“I’m not a fucking pet, Harper.” The call ended abruptly. Mission accomplished. By the time she walked through the door he’d be so angry he’d probably tear her clothes off and fuck her in the foyer.
Not a pet. Of course he was a pet. She fed him, she clothed him, and she allowed him to live in her house. When she needed to feel loved she permitted him to sleep in her bed. She treated him exactly like the Labrador she’d once owned. He was a pet, a very nice-looking and sexy twenty-five year old lap dog.
Of course you never had sex with the Labrador.
Harper Roderick laughed at the thought. If she knew what fun a boy toy could be, she would have purchased one instead of the dog all those years ago. She sighed, one more task to complete before she headed for home. She hated working, but since the death of her ex-husband she really didn’t have a choice. If she couldn’t say anything else nice about the man, at least he had been a good provider. Until he died that is, then the money stopped. If she’d paid more attention to his business dealings she might have been able to take over the organization after his death. Hindsight was a beautiful thing, but it didn’t pay the bills.
Harper had cut back where she could. She’d sold the lavish home she’d been given during the divorce and bought something cheaper. For her, cheaper didn’t mean cheap. The neighborhood was nice and the house large, plush in fact. A five-bedroom, three-bathroom brick home in an upper middle class suburb couldn’t be scoffed at, but it certainly wasn’t the luxurious ten-bedroom mansion with private guest wing she’d grown accustomed to. Her friends had been surprised by her insistence on returning to a trade as they called it.
She’d always known the women she associated with were snobs, but when they slowly disappeared out of her life after she had moved to the suburbs, as they’d called it, and returned to teaching, she’d been slightly annoyed. Teaching was not a trade, it was a profession, and she wasn’t just a teacher. She was the principle of a high school, albeit not a very prestigious one.
She looked at the paperwork on her desk. When Rhiannon McCabe had walked through her door for the interview as social worker, Harper had beamed with delight. Suddenly all her Christmases had come at once. The woman couldn’t have been more perfect for the job. After listening to the rhetoric and fanaticism of the newly trained university graduates and middle aged do-gooders previously interviewed, Harper had all but given up hope. Ms. McCabe had been a quiet woman, very nervous. She’d looked embarrassed at times as she answered the barrage of questions Harper threw at her.
Rhiannon’s qualifications were old, outdated according to today’s standards. The fact the woman had spent most of her life in a convent meant she hadn’t really lived a normal life. And she had freely admitted she hadn’t dealt with teens and their specific issues like drug use when she had been in England. “I really don’t know anything about drugs. I mainly dealt with parental issues and domestic violence, that sort of thing, when I worked with the parishioners.”
The words were music to Harper’s ears. The last thing she needed as a principle of a high school was a social worker who knew what she was doing. Ms. McCabe had all the naivety and lack of qu
alifications needed for the position. Her degree was outdated, she didn’t know anything about drugs or drug education, she hadn’t worked with teens, and she appeared quiet and shy. The kids at this high school would eat the woman alive. Harper assumed Rhiannon would have nothing in common with the young people in the community.
They were, after all, simply bored country bumpkins pretending to be cool like the city kids. Bored teenagers and a woman who couldn’t relate to them fit her plan perfectly.
“Enter.” The knock on the door both surprised and annoyed her. If this was one of her staff with a stupid question or looking for polite conversation they were seeking out the wrong person. Just because she ran the school didn’t mean she had to care about those working for her.
“Can we talk?” The young man standing in her doorway was the epitome of the word geek. His skin resembled the pallor of a modern day vampire. His tall, reed thin, body screamed wimp. He wore glasses that magnified his eyes, and his clothes…Harper could only describe them as less than fashionable. For a young man who, according to the Stanford-Binet intelligence test, rated close to being a genius, he asked some dumb questions. Of course they could talk. They were both very adept at using language. She refrained from answering his question literally when she saw the forlorn look on his face.
“Of course, Patrick, come in. Now tell me what’s on your mind. I hate to see you looking so troubled.”
“I don’t think I can work for you anymore.” He toyed with the corner of his shirt and didn’t make eye contact with her across the desk. “I’m worried someone will find out what we’re doing.”
While he stared into the piece of material between his fingers, Harper took the liberty of rolling her eyes. She did not need this today. She rose from the desk and walked around to stand near the young man. Most eighteen-year-olds would be overjoyed at the thought of making large amounts of money but not Patrick. At least she knew how to manipulate him into compliance. She mentally put on her kid gloves and stretched her arms around his shoulders.
“Patrick, you know we have to do this. I would hate to see all your intelligence go to waste. If I had money, I’d gladly help you, but you know that since my husband died I’m barely able to make ends meet. This venture helps both of us.” Harper kept her tone soft and gentle, taking in a deep breath before she played her trump card. “I know you fear for your mother’s safety, that you want to be able to take her away from your father and give her the life she deserves. But without money...well, we both know that isn’t possible.”
“But the fire—”
“Don’t even think about the fire. As I’ve told you, it wasn’t your fault. If anyone should be held to blame, not that I think blame needs to be apportioned, it would fall on my shoulders. I should have found people that were more reliable and intelligent to make your recipe. I mean, neither of us can be held responsible for what happened to three idiots who didn’t understand the word ventilation.”
“But three people died. You lost your house.” Patrick shook his head, before he turned his gaze to her and looked at her with tears in his eyes. “You were hurt. I’d hate if you hadn’t gotten away.”
Harper gave him a loving smile. God help them both, he had a crush on her. Not that it surprised her. After all, she was a nice-looking woman for her age. A momentary twinge of sympathy for the young man flowed over her. She’d obviously hidden her repulsion for him well enough that he was under the illusion she cared about what happened to him. That was something she could definitely exploit.
“I did get away, and I’m fine and safe. I do miss my matching handbag and wallet, but that’s beside the point.” Harper swallowed the lump of emotion building in her throat. She loved her Gucci handbag and customized wallet with personalized gold initials on it. She determined as soon as she had the spare six thousand dollars she’d replace them. “Death happens to everyone, Patrick. It must have been time for those three people to die. Yes, it’s unfortunate, but if they hadn’t blown themselves up then I’m sure they would have died by some other means, maybe in a car accident.”
“I guess you’re right. And I do want to help my mother get away from home. I can’t afford to do that and have the money to go to university.”
Harper gave him an encouraging nod as she listened to him rationalizing all the reasons he should keep working for her. Money was a powerful entity. The desire for it drove even the most sensible and intelligent people to do truly desperate things. Whether he realized it or not, Patrick was desperate, and if Harper needed to remind him of his desperation every day to keep him in line, then she would.
“So do we still have deal? Are you still my clever chemist in this little venture?” She ruffled his hair as she spoke.
“Yeah, we still have a deal.” The look of adoration he gave her was potent. Harper smiled to herself. Kids who had a bad home life were so easy to manipulate. Show them a little love and they were putty in your hands.
* * * *
Steve arrived at The Dungeon about eight p. m. It hadn’t been his intended destination, but by the time he decided not to go to Miss M’s he was on the outskirts of the city. The Dungeon seemed his next best option. He sat nursing his drink, looking around.
The club had been designed specifically for members of the Kink community. A recent surge in the popularity of BDSM meant the already thriving business was busier than ever. The club’s premises, a mainstay of the city’s red light district for many years, use to be an old palatial homestead on the city fringe. Once urban sprawl hit, the original owners moved out and the seedier side of town engulfed the home’s original residential charm. The Dungeon could only be described as impressive. It housed private and public play spaces, a main bar and dance floor, function facilities, a quieter chill-out bar and lounge area as well as the area where Steve now found himself seated. The discipline room, technically not a room at all, housed the club’s performance area. Tall round tables and high barstools filled what used to be an atrium in the old home. The redesign of the home saw the impressive lobby area relegated to the side of the club with the front entry now located on the side street.
The atrium possessed perfect acoustics and the atmosphere of a small theatre. With the addition of a stage and the seating arrangement, patrons could come and sit to learn new techniques in the art of BDSM. Live shows included performances by visiting Masters, to demonstrations on piercing, and everything in between. The regular Burlesque shows were always popular, but tonight, Steve’s entertainment came in the form of a Master in the technique of Shibari.
Steve loved creating the intricate patterns of Japanese rope bondage. When he practiced the art, he found it to be an intimate act between a Dominant and his submissive. The patterns created with the rope not only bound the body but accentuated each erotic curve and line of his submissive, no matter what size or shape she was.
As he looked at the bound and suspended model on stage, he couldn’t help but visualize what Rhia would look like wrapped in the soft rope. He saw her on her knees, her breasts and arms bound, the knotted designs decorating her sternum and upper spine. He visualized her head pulled back, immobilized by rope that encompassed her hair, forming a ponytail, before it reattached to the design over her upper spine and wrists. He knew it would never happen, but there was no harm imagining.
Rhia was the reason he hadn’t gone to Miss M’s, although he didn’t really understand why. All he knew was, the closer he came to the possibility of giving a professional sub his intimate attention, the more adverse the idea seemed. His stomach had knotted, but not from nerves, far from it. His aversion came from a deep sense of guilt.
The reaction wasn’t new to him. It had happened before, two years ago. The first few times he’d attended Miss M’s after his wife’s death elicited the same response. He’d found himself at The Dungeon those nights as well. The only difference being tonight, instead of drowning his sorrows, getting into a fight and ending up being dragged home by the club’s owner to sleep o
ff his drunken stupor, he sat contemplating.
In the few days he’d known her, Rhia had gotten under his skin. He didn’t usually obsess about women, but that was the only word to aptly describe the situation. He moved uncomfortably on the chair. His dick annoyingly hard, and the imaginings of Rhia bound before him did nothing to ease his predicament. She appeared to be slowly taking him over. His body wanted to be buried deep inside her, and his mind was consumed with her image. His senses had been on high alert all day. The smell of her arousal lingered, teasing him, calling to him. The sound of her soft moans, her lust-filled voice as she begged him for relief, echoed in his ears.
An unfamiliar ache encapsulated his chest when he thought of her tears. You made my friend cry. Angel’s accusation had pierced him, and the discomfort loitered like a partially healed wound.
What have you done to me, Rhia McCabe? More importantly, what have I done to you?
He’d befriended her, aroused her, left her hanging without relief and made her cry. For those crimes alone, Steve realized he deserved to feel as he did.
“You know, I should throw you out of here.” The deep male voice bought Steve out of his ponderings.
“Why is that, Zane?”
The club’s owner perched himself on one of the stools and stared. Zane Reynolds was tall and built like an outhouse that had been carved from stone. The man was a Viking, distinctly Nordic in appearance. His facial features were hard, with an icy stare. He’d metaphorically plundered his way around the local Sydney business community for many years. He’d been the owner of The Dungeon for the last three years, friend to Steve for the last two.
