“All right. You can have final approval of my book. But we discuss any changes you want to make before they are made. This is fiction and does have to be tweaked to be believable.”
“I’m sure the information you get from me will make it more than believable.” He motioned ahead to Decatur Street. “Shall we?”
We started walking toward the stoplight. “I have one last condition. You can’t use my name in your book, Lexie. I have a reputation to protect. A reputation I’ve spent years cultivating.” The tinge of discomfort in his voice fired my curiosity.
“Fine, we can call the main character…Ralph, if you like.”
“Ralph?” He scowled at me, making me grin like a malicious child. “We’ll have to work on the name.”
“Sure, Garrett, anything you want. Just tell me your story.”
He placed his hand in the small of my back, escorting me across the busy street. “My story? They’re just experiences, Lexie. You’re going to need a lot more than that to make your book convincing.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll discuss it over lunch.”
Anyone who has been to New Orleans can tell you about Café Maspero and the food, but for me the allure of the restaurant was the family who owned it. Charlie, the owner, had known me since I was a little girl, when my mother had frequently sent me to the crowded corner restaurant for takeout orders. Charlie Jr., better known as CJ, had taken over the reins from his father a few years back. As we stepped through the heavy wooden doors inlaid with glass, I spotted the dark, curly mop and lanky figure of my childhood friend behind the bar.
“Hey, Lexie,” CJ called to me.
“CJ, how are you?” I shouted out.
“A friend?” Garrett asked bedside me.
“Old friend,” I assured him.
CJ emerged from behind the bar and came up to me, giving me a big hug. “Damn, girl, where you been? I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Working, CJ, always working.” I gestured to Garrett. “CJ, this is Garrett… ah….” I realized I didn’t even know his last name.
Garrett held out his hand to CJ. “Hughes, Garrett Hughes.”
“CJ Toupopolis.”
The two men exchanged a cordial handshake. I was always intrigued by the way men shook hands. Taught to do so from a very young age, I found it odd that boys were encouraged to shake the hands of strangers and girls were not. Yet, men refrained from touching, almost avoided it, thinking it unmanly. Women did nothing but touch, caress, and revel in that special sense. I pondered what Freud would have made of that one?
“So, you two here for lunch?” CJ guessed, displaying his crooked smile that I had always adored.
“You know it, CJ,” I replied.
He gazed about the packed dining room. “Take that one in the corner, Ashley’s table.” He pointed to a table by the open french doors that overlooked the sidewalk on Toulouse Street. “What can I get you two to drink?”
I glimpsed Garrett and shrugged. “Iced tea?”
Garrett nodded, smiling back at CJ. “Two iced teas, CJ, thanks.”
Winding our way through the maze of packed wooden tables that were spread about the cement floor, we finally reached ours. The cool breeze that came through the open doors helped blow away the mix of humidity and the stale smell of fried food that permeated the restaurant. As I went to have a seat, Garrett stepped behind me and pulled out my chair.
Whoa, that was a new one for me. I was lucky if the guys I dated were sober enough to get into their chair, let alone pull one out for me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking my seat. “It’s been a while since a man did that for me.”
“Why do I not find that surprising?” Garrett commented, taking the chair next to me. “It pains me to see how many men have forgotten the simple acts of chivalry.”
I had to laugh at that. “Is that part of that Hallmark philosophy of yours about women?”
He lifted his chair closer to mine, then rested his arms on the table. “Can I ask you a question?”
Those were the words every writer hated to hear, because they always led to a question we never wanted to answer, usually about ourselves.
“Why are you so hostile toward men? Does that come from your divorce?”
Hostile? Was I being hostile? I thought I was being female. It was, after all, called the battle of the sexes. Unless there was a recent truce declared that I missed on CNN, I was pretty sure the war continued.
“No, all women feel this way about men, because all women at some point in their lives have been hurt by a guy,” I explained.
He inched in closer. “And who hurt you?”
I sat back in my chair, glaring at him. “We came here to talk about you.”
“Does that mean I can’t ask you any questions?” He squared his shoulders. “How can I get to know you as a writer, if I can’t ask questions, Lexie?”
“If you want to get to know me as a writer, you could just read my books.” I knew that was a silly thing to say, and tried to regroup my thoughts. “All right, yes, you can ask questions, but let’s not talk about who has been hurt more or any of that stuff. We each have enough pain in our lives without brooding over it.”
“Fair enough.” He was inching closer again. “Then I would like to ask the first question.”
I grimaced, searching for an escape route. “Fine.”
“You know my last name, but I don’t know yours.”
I sulked down into my seat. “Sorry, you’re right. Palmer, my last name is Palmer. And yours is Hughes.”
“How do you know CJ?”
“I grew up down here.” I glimpsed out the open doors next to our table. “Not far from this place on Burgundy Street.”
“It must have been wonderful to grow up around these historic buildings.” He sat back in his chair, and the sudden distance between us made me feel a little sad. I liked him being close to me.
“Yes, it was.” I checked my feelings. “I knew many of the people who lived down here. They were friends. It’s not the same anymore. Most of the people I knew have moved away, and the quaint homes are now shops and noisy bars. The Quarter isn’t the neighborhood it used to be.”
“Where do you live now?”
“I have an apartment in a subdivided house on Esplanade Avenue.” I figured it was time to ask my questions. “Where do you live?”
“A penthouse in the Warehouse District. Fifteen stories up with a great view of the river.”
His eyes brightened a bit when he spoke of his penthouse. “You moved here from Dallas to start an architectural business, right?”
He nodded. “I work for Parr and Associates, based out of Dallas. Hayden Parr, the owner, wanted to branch out. He sent me here to open an office and see what kind of business we could get. With all the rebuilding going on since Katrina, he figured there might be some opportunity.”
“Oh, there is plenty of opportunity since the storm. So many homes have yet to be rebuilt.”
A skinny waitress, with long brassy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a wide beige apron, came to our table. Plopping down the two iced teas, she smiled at Garrett and completely ignored me.
“Hey, I’m Ashley. CJ said to treat ya’ll special.” I assumed her drawl was all for Garrett. “Any idea what you’ll have, or do you need some menus?”
I tilted toward her. “I’ll have a special with the works and fries.”
Garrett glanced over at me. “What is the special with works?”
“Hamburger with everything including cheese.”
He turned to Ashley. “Two specials with works and fries.”
She jotted the order on a pad of paper. “Sure thing, darlin’.” Then she winked at Garrett.
My stomach turned. Why were some women so obvious?
Watching her shake her butt as she walked away, I returned my focus to the question I was about to ask before Ashley had interrupted. “Are you originally from Dallas?”
“Yes. My family is there.” He pulled two sugar packets from the container in the middle of the table. “But I really like New Orleans. It’s different here. It appeals to my…eclectic side.” He ripped open the packets and dumped them both into his tea.
I reached for one packet of sugar and sucked in an antsy breath, wanting to get to the topic at the forefront of my mind. “How did you first get into BDSM?”
The change in his demeanor cut through the air like a knife. I had probably pushed a little too hard and fast with my interview, but I didn’t care. The story was all that mattered.
As he sat back in his chair, those dark eyes weighing me, I could see the apprehension in his face, but it was also tempered by a heady dose of fascination.
“First of all, BDSM is a catch-all phrase used to describe a wide range of activities, different types of interpersonal relationships, and various subcultures. For me, it’s about the relationships and the psychological aspect of D & S, or dominance and submission.” Stirring his tea, he paused. “You have to understand, my experiences are very limited. I’m not an expert, nor do I claim to be. No one can be an expert in BDSM.”
I dumped my packet of sugar in my tea, then crumpled the paper in my hand. “I just want to hear your story, Garrett.”
“My story?” He removed his spoon from his glass of tea. “I started in college. I belonged to a fraternity at UT in Arlington. Part of the initiation rite was visiting this club, a sub-Dom club in the city. Several of the guys in the fraternity were into the whole BDSM culture. There, I met Ruth.” He took in a deep breath, expanding his chest, and making me painfully aware of his proportions. “She took me under her wing, taught me, and made me her submissive. After a time, I moved on.” He drank from his tea.
Oh, this was better than I’d anticipated. “Is that when you started tying women up?” I stirred my sugar into my tea.
His eyebrows went up again. I was beginning to realize that this was not a good sign with this man. “Tying them up?” He put his tea down and leaned toward me. “What exactly do you know about BDSM?”
I dropped my spoon on the table and angled away from him. “Not much, only what I’ve found on Google. I don’t have any experience with it.”
“Ah, I see.” His eyebrows relaxed and his grin returned. “Have you ever wanted to be dominated by anyone?”
The revulsion that I was sure registered on my face was totally unintended.
He laughed when he saw it. “That is the reaction I usually get from people who are unfamiliar with the art.”
I picked up my tea. “I don’t get it. What art?”
“This isn’t about domination or submission, Lexie. It’s about seduction; the need to be seduced by the power of another. The need to give yourself, willingly, to someone else is something that is hardwired in all mammals. Look at dogs, monkeys, lions. In every pack there is a hierarchy, those who are submissive to a dominant male, or even female. In our species, the role of sub or Dom often shifts. This power exchange is constantly evolving in all types of relationships. With what I do, all parameters of control for the sub and the Dom are discussed and agreed to ahead of time. There are rules that are followed. The key mantra in BDSM is ‘safe, sane, and consensual.’”
“People aren’t monkeys, Garrett. They have ideas and opinions and can’t throw all that aside for what…great sex? Society dictates that—”
“Society is an illusion, a pretense that keeps us from reverting back to our true animal nature.” His eyes traveled down the front of my blouse, hovering over my small breasts, making me blush. “You’re blushing because I was admiring your body. Is that a societal response,” he paused and lowered his head closer to mine, “or an animal one?”
I bolted back in my chair. “But the whole dominant-submissive thing is not—”
“Which one do you think you are? Dom or sub?”
“What?” I reached for my tea. Was it getting warm, or was it me?
He put his hand on my tea glass and took it away. Setting it in front of him, he stared at me. “Don’t drink that.”
“Why not?”
His face was cold, almost cruel. The change in him was compelling. “Because I said so.”
“Because you said so?” I reached for my glass.
“Don’t drink it, Lexie,” he growled, sounding like a pissed off Rottweiler.
“What is wrong with you? One minute you’re staring down my shirt, the next you’re barking orders at me.” I gulped back the tea and slammed the glass on the table.
He clapped his hands and let out a loud, low rumble of laughter. “You’re definitely a Dom.”
My mouth fell open. “Was that some kind of test?”
He waved his hand over the table. “Of course. I was trying to prove a point. A real Dom can never be happy as a submissive. God knows it was never for me.”
“So you’re a Dom?”
He slowly nodded his head. “When we first met, I thought you to be a sub. That’s why I came up to you. I’ve been on the lookout for one since I arrived. A woman I could…make mine.”
I should have known it was too good to be true. The first attractive guy to come up to me, and he happened to be hunting for a bondage partner. The odds had been stacked against me.
“Why did you think I was a sub?” I pressed.
“Your body language. That is the first thing I look for in a candidate. A sub will be more timid, cringe easily, cower, and appear…lost.”
I sat back in my chair with a thud. “That’s why you came up to me and invited me to lunch, so you could…what…lure me to your torture chamber?”
He chuckled, reaching for his tea. “I don’t have a torture chamber.”
“What do you have?”
After sipping from his drink, he plunked his glass on the table with a thud. “You’re being nosy.”
“No, I’m doing research.” I shifted closer, lowering my voice. “Don’t you want a chance to set the record straight? Have me write a book that would show the truth about….” I waved my hand at him. “Whatever it is you do.”
His lips slammed together, not looking entirely convinced. “Do you really want to learn about this, Lexie? When you find out what it is that we do, you may not like it.”
“You’re a ‘we’ now. I thought you had limited experience?”
He wiped his hand over his striking features. I wanted to smile, knowing I was breaking down his defenses, or I guess his Dom armor.
“I know I’m going to regret this,” he mumbled.
I touched his arm, and he pulled away from me. I thought his reaction a bit much, but let it go. Maybe being a Dom meant you weren’t the touchy-feely type.
“Come on, Garrett. Introduce me to your friends. Take me to some of your clubs. I won’t get in the way. I just want to watch.”
Uh oh. The eyebrows were up again. “You don’t just watch, Lexie.” He shook his head. “To get to the core of this lifestyle you have to be a member, you have to participate. For you that would be dangerous.”
Dangerous? Now this was getting good. I scooted my chair closer. “Why dangerous?”
He motioned down my figure. “Because you would be something anyone like me would love to possess. A Dom they could switch.”
“What do you mean by switch?”
“Switch means to change ideology. It’s when you turn from a dominant to a submissive. But only an elite master can do that.”
“What is an elite master? Some kind of expert?”
He surveyed the tables next to us, appearing concerned that we would be overheard. “Master is just a general term, often used by subs when referring to their Doms. In some small circles, an elite master is a title given to one who has extensive experience with subs, has trained many of them, and in some ways, yes, is deemed an expert.”
“Do you know any?” I asked, with probably a little too much exuberance.
His sigh resonated around us. “Jesus, you’re a pain.”
“Hey, you
brought it up. I want to learn about this stuff, Garrett. Just the things you’re telling me now are great. This could be about an elite master, his lovers, how he changes them from—”
“Switches,” he interrupted.
“Whatever.” I waved my hand in the air. “Just hook me up with some people. I can fake it to be part of the team.”
Sitting back in his chair, he slapped his hand on the table. “It’s not that simple, Lexie. You can’t fake this.”
“Sure I can. Just introduce me to your friends, and then your job is done. That’s all there is to it.”
His eyes became even rounder. “Are you kidding? Without me to protect you, they would eat you alive. No, if I’m going to introduce you to any of the people I know, you’re going to have to have me with you at all times. You have no idea what you’re getting into. This is a way of life, Lexie, not a weekend barbecue.”
I heard the concern in his voice and reminded myself that he was from Dallas, after all. I had been raised on the weird and colorful streets of the French Quarter. Unusual, gothic, cult-like, I had seen it all. Growing up, the man who lived next door to us belonged to a vampire cult. He even took me to one of his meetings. Everybody ate donuts, talked about Anne Rice novels, and drank red-colored coffee. How much weirder could this stuff be?
“Garrett, I can do this.” I sat back in my chair, grinning happily. “If it gets to be too much, I’ll back out. I’ll walk away, I promise.”
He sat there for a long time, just staring at me. I could see the wheels spinning in his head. I figured he was planning his angle, some way to sell me to his groupies. As his guarded eyes bore into me, I knew I was winning him over.
“Okay, Lexie. I’ll bring you to club I know. A place where Doms and subs meet.”
“What club?”
He chuckled, wiping his hand over the five o’clock shadow on his square jaw. “It will give you an idea of what it’s like. See if you want more after that. We can go tomorrow night, after we have dinner.”
I frowned at him. “Why do we need to have dinner?”
“If I’m going to do this, you have to at least give me some concessions. Dinner tomorrow night with me is one. And I’m picking you up at your place.”
Taming Me Page 3
