Taming Me

by Alexandrea Weis

  Taming Me

  By

  Alexandrea Weis

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Alexandrea Weis 2015

  Licensing Notes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Cover: BookFabulous Designs

  Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

  Editor: Karen Hrdlicka

  Day 1

  Sitting in my agent’s office on that cool spring day, I half-listened to the man’s nasally voice lecture me about how I was getting barn sour as a writer—something I thought only horses did when left in the stall for too long. According to Al Berger, my agent, writers could be the same way. He was insisting I get out in the world and do a little research to find a new idea for a book. How could I do that? Venture into the world of living, breathing people and have to interact with them? That was death to any writer. We hated interacting with anyone...except for our characters.

  “You need to face facts, Lexie. Your book sales have tanked, and I can’t get another publisher interested in you. You need something new to put out there,” Al insisted, leaning his pudgy arms on his crappy little wooden desk. He was too cheap to invest the money in a bigger one.

  What I needed was a new idea for a story, a marketable idea for a book that would sell. The grinding feeling in my stomach made me painfully aware of the harsh reality of being a writer; you had to sell books to be able to write more books.

  “You’ve written four tame romances about hot doctors falling in love with different kinds of women. It’s getting stale,” Al droned on. “Your readers are bored. Hell, I’m bored reading your books.” He mopped his hand over his red, sweaty face.

  Al’s face was always red and sweaty. For the five years I had known him, I had never seen the short, dumpy Jewish guy without a red, sweaty face. I know cliché, but that was Al; a myriad of clichés. If you looked up unsuccessful literary agent, with a heart of gold, in the dictionary, you wouldn’t find Al; he would be listed in the asshole section.

  “What do you want me to do?” I stood from the flimsy Ikea chair in front of his desk and began to pace the floor of his cramped corner office. “I can’t think of anything else to write.”

  Al slapped his chubby hand down on my latest failure of a manuscript, which was sitting on top of his desk. “This shit doesn’t sell anymore. Sweet romances are fine for little girls, but every woman over the age of twelve, nowadays, wants to be tied up in leather and fucked until the cows come home.”

  Al always had such a way with words. I was amazed that he had never taken pen to paper.

  Glaring at him with my brown eyes, I tossed my deep brown hair about my shoulders, attempting to look angry, but I was pretty sure I failed miserably.

  “Hey.” He pointed his stubby finger at me. “Don’t give me that look. Get your ass out there, hit the pavement, and find something sexy to write.” He stood from behind his desk, giving me an unwanted view of his protruding belly. “You know this Fifty Shades of Grey is killing you and every other romance writer out there. So get me something like that. Tie the woman up in your next book and have her banged the hell out of by a Dorian Gray type.”

  “You mean Christian Grey.”

  “Who gives a shit what you call him? For Christ’s sake, just do it and then I can sell the hell out of it.”

  “Tie them up?” I snickered with all the contempt I had in my sinful little soul. “I can’t just tie women up without a story, Al. And I don’t know the first thing about bondage.”

  “Google it!” he shouted. “Like everybody else.”

  Folding my arms, I huffed for a moment, languishing in my self-pity. I should have gone to nursing school like my mother had suggested. I could have married a doctor and taken up tennis like every other woman dreams of doing. No, I had to become a writer, to express my creativity and give myself a goddamned ulcer.

  “Whatever I write will sound like everyone else’s Googled crap, Al.” I shook my head, knowing I needed something different, something real. “If bondage sells, then I have to find a way to make a real story out of it. To do that, I have to make it real to me.”

  Al appeared stunned for a moment. His beady brown eyes were all over me. “Real? What you gonna do? Go out there and actually hang out with those sick fucks that tie each other up and other weirdo shit?”

  The idea was intriguing. “Maybe that’s what I need to do.”

  The laugh he gave me was not only offensive; it spurred on my sudden desire to prove him wrong. Arrogant little shit.

  “Sure. Why not?” I threw my hands up. “Maybe I need to go to a few of those seedy clubs in the Quarter and hang out with that crowd.”

  Al’s face paled—well, got even paler than it already was. “Are you out of your mind, Lexie? This is New Orleans. Every sick pervert hangs out in the Quarter.”

  “I know that, Al. I was raised in the Quarter, remember?”

  “Yeah, but that was twenty years ago, when it was nice and just filled with drunk tourists and hookers. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up in a ditch somewhere with your throat cut.” He waved his hands about looking like a fat, flightless bird. “I can’t allow you to do that.”

  “Allow?” I hiked by eyebrows, incensed. No one allowed me to do anything. Even the lunatic I was married to knew better than to say anything like that to me.

  Al sighed. “I just meant, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Don’t get your independent female panties in a twist. I wasn’t telling you what to do.” He rolled his little eyes. “God forbid, anyone tells Alexandra Palmer how to live her life.”

  How to live my life? I’d always had too many people telling me how to live my life. The only problem was they didn’t seem to be doing any better with their lives, so why bother taking advice from someone who was as clueless as me?

  I picked up my leather five-gallon purse from the chair in front of Al’s desk. It would seem I had said about all I could to my agent. He wasn’t going to be much help.

  “Thanks for the advice, Al.”

  He gawked at me like a bullfrog dazed by the beam from a flashlight. “What are you going to do?”

  “Research.” I tugged my heavy purse over my shoulder, making a mental note to clean the damn thing out before I gave myself a hernia.

  “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.” He shook his head. “You’re going to do something stupid, I just know it.”

  “If you don’t hear from me in a week, call the police and file a missing person’s report.”

  “Aww, for shit’s sake, Lexie, don’t say crap like that to me.” He plopped down in his squeaky desk chair, sounding like he was sitting on a family of mice. “Now I’m going to worry about what crazy ass horseshit you’re pulling out there.”

  “Who cares what I do, Al?” I smacked my hand down on the assortment of papers that always seemed to be cluttering his desk. “If I can get a great book out of it, make us both some money, it will be worth it, right?”

  That shut the greedy little bastard up. Mention money to an agent, and he would stuff his grandmother in bandages, then try to pass her off as an Egyptian mummy to a bunch of archeological students.

  As his eyes looked up and down my five-foot-four-inch frame, I could tell he wasn’t going to argue with me. He never argued with me; he just ranted, and then told me to do what I thought best.

  “You do what you think best,” he whine
d.

  Did I know the man or what?

  He raised a pencil in his hand and pointed it at me. “But if you get into any kind of trouble, don’t call me to bail you out.”

  “Thank you, Al. That’s exactly what I would expect my agent to say.”

  He sighed and sat back in his chair, making it squeak louder than before. “You know I love you, Lexie. I would love to see you back on top, but don’t do nothin’ stupid, all right? No book is worth ruining your life for.”

  The man called himself a literary agent? I was a writer; the only thing worth ruining my life for was a book. Men, family, pets, even the fear of death never mattered. As long as I was writing my next book, all was right in the world, and everyone could go to hell.

  “Sure, Al.” Why bother enlightening the man? “Thanks for caring.”

  He raised his black eyebrows up on his bald head. “Who said I cared?”

  I turned from his desk, chuckling to myself. Agents...got to love them. Lucifer probably started out as an agent. Who else could piss off God, but a guy wanting ten percent of everything he had created.

  Walking out of Al’s five-story square office building on Baronne Street, I stopped and took in the hum of the city around me. For a moment, I was distracted by the sights and smells of New Orleans. God, I loved this city. Hedonistic, eccentric, wild, provocative, and alive with the ever-changing human condition, no matter where I went in this town, it always thrilled me with some new discovery. Not a lot of places could do that—especially to a writer—but New Orleans could. It’s probably why so many creative people came from this place; it always stirred the imaginings of the soul.

  Heading down the sidewalk to the car park, I mulled over my meeting with Al. The only problem with any new project was where to start. Like putting down the first words on an imposing white page, finding a starting point for a story was always difficult for me. Hell, it was difficult for any writer. I had heard a professor in college once say, “There are two points when a writer feels at their best in a book: when they type the first word, and when they type the end.” Then again, the asshole who’d taught that class never wrote a New York Times Bestseller. I had, and there was a hell of a lot more angst with the first word than the last.

  After retrieving my beat up Honda Accord from the garage and making that absurd drive down all those levels—cursing the schmuck who designed parking garages for a living—I veered out into the traffic in the city’s Central Business District and decided to head to the river.

  I always headed to the Mississippi River to think. Ever since I had been a kid, I would escape to the banks of the river by the French Quarter. I’d get lost in the flowing dirty water and colossal trade ships maneuvering the dangerous bend. It grounded me, making the torrents of my life appear miniscule next to the tide of that immense river. Being raised by a single mother who was always working had made for an interesting childhood, albeit a lonely one.

  At eight, I was given a key on a chain around my neck and told by my mother that I was old enough to stay home after school by myself. I was too young to know the impact of such a decision, only that it scared me. Thank God for the good neighbors that lived around our little cottage on Burgundy Street. Without them, I would have been completely alone.

  I never voiced my fears to my mother. Telling Lily Palmer what to do was about as bad as telling me. Every lesson on independence I had taken from my mother. An operating room nurse who thrived on work and a series of unsuccessful relationships, she had tried to be there for me, but never was. Probably the reason we rarely spoke…she had her life, and I had mine.

  Leaving my car in the lot in front of Woldenberg Park at the edge of the French Quarter, I crossed the streetcar tracks that carried the Red Lady line of trolleys up and down the riverfront. A hot tourist destination, the park offered majestic views of the river and assorted sculptures. During the festival season, it was the place to take in some of the best music the city had to offer.

  On this chilly spring Tuesday, the park was relatively empty except for the smattering of tourists. There were always tourists in the Quarter. I had grown up dodging them on the sidewalks outside of our cottage, giving them directions when they were lost, and always telling them to be careful. After all, this was New Orleans.

  Finding a metal bench painted a morose shade of blue, I had a seat and breathed in the humid air from the river. I already felt better. Eventually, my mind wandered back to the task at hand. What in the hell was I going to write about?

  In the distance, the sound of a lonely saxophone drifted over the dingy yellow floodwall along the edge of the park. Meant to protect the French Quarter from the overflow of the river when it was built, no one in the city had much faith in such eyesores anymore. We had all learned our lesson after Katrina.

  Katrina was a name that made every New Orleanian quake with ungodly memories. It was bad enough we had to survive it, but doing so on a world stage only made the pain more…pathetic. I had been one of the lucky ones. My apartment, at the time, had been on the fourth floor of a building not far from the college where I had been finishing my journalism degree. I had been spared from the destruction of the black water, but not from the looting. Shuddering at the image of my apartment when I had returned home from my two-month exile, I wondered how I had rebuilt my life. Still, Katrina had made me stronger. A few years later, when my brief marriage had ended, I was better equipped to handle the rebuilding process. After Katrina, anything was possible.

  Putting all the ugly thoughts from the past out of my head, I concentrated on discovering a story. To me, a story came like a desired lover in the night…softly, with adept hands that caught hold of my insides and never let go.

  The simile made me shake my head. That was exactly the kind of shit I needed to avoid for this next book. Bondage, hot sex, men in leather…those were the kinds of things I had to put in my story. Considering the only leather I was familiar with either came in shoe, handbag, or coat form, I had a strange feeling I was in for a very difficult journey.

  “Excuse me.” The deep voice next to me instantly hooked me.

  Peering up, I could not see the tall owner of the intriguing voice for the glare of the morning sun behind him.

  “Do you have the time?” he asked, making my insides quiver.

  The time? I almost laughed out loud. Before the advent of cellphones, that would have been a plausible excuse to talk to a woman, but now it sounded like a cheap pick-up line. Figuring this was some bum—or worse, a serial killer in search of his next victim—I stood from the bench, ready for a quick getaway.

  “I’m not sure. My cell phone’s dead.” Oh, I was very proud of myself for that one. Quick thinking, Lexie.

  It was then he moved out from the sun, and I was better able to see his face. Stunning was the first word that came to mind. With angular features, jutting cheekbones, a round chin covered in dark stubble, and a high, square forehead, he was almost too good-looking. Then I saw his eyes. That was where the attraction ended for me. They were very cold, almost evil in their design. It was not so much how they appeared, but how they made me feel that was the most disturbing. Such eyes did not belong to normal people.

  “I’m sorry.” He dipped his head slightly, and the gracious gesture lowered his eyes from my view. “I was waiting to meet a friend and my cell phone died, as well.” The slight smile that curled the edges of his thin red lips was as hypnotic as the rest of him.

  Taking a step back, I was able to evaluate his body. Toned and towering over me, he wore a black pressed suit, without a tie, and very nice black leather loafers. His hands were the next thing that caught my eye. Fine, pale, almost delicate, they were the hands of a priest, or some other kind of spiritual man.

  I smiled nervously. With those looks, he was probably a real successful serial killer.

  “I hope I didn’t startle you.” He had not the slightest hint of a New Orleans accent, making me all the more paranoid about mine.

  �
�No, not at all.” I pronounced, sounding a little too formal.

  “I saw you sitting here and I….” His perfect smile grew a little wider, taking away from the unsettling stare of his eyes. “I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed lost in your thoughts.”

  Lost in my thoughts? Yeah, he was a serial killer.

  “No, I ah….” Gazing about, I searched for some friendly witnesses to my abduction. “I was just thinking.”

  His calculated smile spread. “Do you always come here to think?”

  I know I should have made a beeline out of there, but despite the warning signals going off in my head to ditch this guy, I could not make my feet move. I was not an idiot. Of course I was leery about him. Yet, there was just something…soothing about his voice, the way he leaned ever so slightly toward me, and he was exceptionally handsome, so I had to see where this went.

  “Sometimes…well, a lot of times.” Running my fingers through my hair, I hoped I came across mysterious and not ditzy. “I grew up around here, so this place is…comfortable.”

  “You’re from New Orleans?”

  I nodded. “Born and raised.”

  “What a fascinating city to call home. I just moved here from Dallas.” He held out his hand to me. “I’m Garrett, by the way.”

  I took his hand, and the instant our fingers touched there was a spark. It was what I used to write about happening between two strangers, alluding to their destiny. For the first time in my life, it had happened to me. It was not as all-consuming as I had written about, but more unnerving. The problem with running into the “touch of fate,” as I called it in my books, was that you didn’t know if this was going to be a good kind of fate or a bad one.

  “I’m Lexie.” I pulled my hand away as a feeling of dread began to rise in me. Suddenly, I felt like prey.

  “Lexie?” His eyes narrowed on mine. “Is that short for anything?”

  “Alexandra, but I never use it.”

  He stood back slightly. “Why not? It’s a beautiful name.”