Taming Me

by Alexandrea Weis

  “Like a date?”

  “No, not a date.” He reached for his tea. “This is far from a date. I think there are some things we will need to go over at dinner before we head to the club.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Ground rules. Certain ways you’re going to have to behave around me, if you’re to be credible.” He sipped his drink.

  I was too pumped up to argue. “Fine. You can pick me up for dinner, and we can talk about your silly ground rules.” I reached for my tea, happily fidgeting in my seat. “But I get to pick the restaurant.”

  Garrett rolled his uncanny brown eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Day 3

  Dressing for my date with Garrett was much easier the second time around, because I was more excited about the prospect of doing research than actually seeing him. Ever since our lunch, ideas for a new story had been tumbling about in my head. I had even spent a good part of the day at my laptop making notes. I just didn’t know enough about the lifestyle to get my arms around the plot.

  As I stood before my bathroom vanity mirror and checked my casual black slacks and red silk blouse, I was alarmed at how calm I felt. Fluffing my deep brown hair, I took a moment to scrutinize my reflection. Had I missed something?

  My makeup complemented my oval face and creamy complexion. The blush along the hint of my cheekbones was not overstated, despite the tendency of my cheeks to turn pink whenever I was cold, angry, or embarrassed. My lips were full, painted a pale red, and I thought complemented my rather straight features: my small, sharp nose, sort of pointy chin, and curved jaw. My ex, Sid, had called me beautiful when we were first together. After our first six months of marriage, that word disappeared completely from his vocabulary.

  Running my hands down the red silk top that showed off my slender figure, I hoped I was presentable as a Dom’s date. I made a note to ask him about attire. Maybe there was a dress code.

  Exiting the small bathroom with its single shower stall crammed next to the toilet, I walked into the wide bedroom where a row of french windows opened to a balcony that overlooked a modest cemented patio surrounded by gardens. The best features in the gardens were the three majestic oaks with thick, leafy branches that never changed color, no matter the season. I could spend hours on that balcony, and had many times in the past, mostly writing.

  That view was the main reason I lived in the subdivided old mansion…that and the great master bedroom, complete with a marble fireplace and twenty foot ceilings. The four other tenants each had what had once been a grand bedroom, with a fireplace and high ceilings. It was just Mrs. Castillo, on the first floor, who also got the paneled library, and Doug Kirsch, in the opposite first floor apartment, who got the intricately plastered living room and grand crystal chandelier.

  Outside of my bedroom was a modest living room with plaster-textured walls painted a pale shade of pink, and my collection of antique furniture; a wedding present from my mother. The mahogany and yellow velvet sofa, love seat, and matching coffee table took up most of the room. In the corner, contrasting against the refined antiques, was my shabby, second-hand oak desk. Walking across the living room, I picked up my black purse that was sitting on the breakfast bar that divided the efficiency kitchen from the living room.

  The buzzer from the main entrance to the old home rang in my apartment. I went to the speaker situated next to my thick unfinished cypress front door.

  “Is that you?”

  “Who else are you expecting?” Garrett’s voice was bristling with sarcasm through the speaker.

  Hearing his gravelly voice made me jumpy, and I prayed I could keep this strictly business between us. Deciding it would be better not to be alone with him in my apartment, I shouted into the speaker, “I’m coming down.”

  Hurrying out my door, I checked the deadbolt and then rushed along the landing that led to the darkly stained oak staircase. Once the centerpiece of the home, with inlaid white marble steps and a bannister carved to resemble tree branches, the wide stairway always made me feel like a queen whenever I descended it. Only tonight, I was more interested in the man standing on the other side of the arched double doors at the entrance to the house. When I shot back the deadbolt on the massive doors, I drew in a breath.

  “Stay cool, girl.”

  He was waiting on the curved porch, wearing a tailored blue suit without a tie. He was freshly shaven, smelled of musky cologne, and his hair was damp, accentuating the slight wave of his dark brown locks. At first, I was disappointed in his choice of attire. I thought he would have worn something less businesslike.

  “What is it?” he asked, eyeing his suit.

  “Is that what you wear normally…you know, when you meet with your kind?”

  He stepped in the doorway. “My kind? What did you expect me to wear to dinner? Chaps and a bullwhip?”

  I shrugged off his wisecrack. “Fine.” I walked through the arched doorway and waited until he came out to the porch. After he was standing beside me, he closed the heavy front doors.

  “Nice old place,” he commented, gazing about the porch lined with four white Corinthian columns.

  “It is.” I went to the steps that led to a herringbone bricked walkway. “It was built in 1887 by a cotton mill owner. It remained intact as a single family mansion until the early seventies, and then it was divided into apartments.” I gazed up at the magnificent piece of New Orleans history I had called home for the past two years.

  Admiring the Victorian Gothic design, I could not help but spot the peeling white paint about the long window frames, the rusted porch light suspended from the sloping second floor balcony, and the occasional cracks in the exterior woodwork. The house looked like I felt these days; worn out and in urgent need of rejuvenation.

  “Which one is yours?” Garrett asked, coming up to my side on the walkway.

  I pointed to my apartment upstairs on the right.

  “I want to see your place,” he asserted.

  “Why?” I challenged.

  He cocked his head slightly to the side as he observed me. The effect mixed with a sudden whiff of his cologne was riveting. “When we come back, you will show it to me.”

  I put my hand on my hip, being obstinate. “No, I will not, and stop issuing orders. I’m not one of your subs or servants or…whatever.”

  He placed his hands behind his back and nodded apologetically, but I could tell by his eyes he didn’t mean it. “I merely meant I would really like to see inside this fine old mansion. I’m an architect, and old homes, such as this one, have a special place in my heart.”

  “You have a heart?”

  Shaking his head, he motioned to the street. “Are you always like this before you’re fed?”

  I started toward the small black gate at the end of the walkway. “No. When I’m hungry, I’m much worse.”

  When Garrett stepped around a black BMW 650i, my eyebrows went up. He opened his driver’s side door and then gestured to me to open my door.

  “Aren’t you going to get the door for me?” I pressed.

  “Why? This isn’t a date.” He peered at me over the top of the car.

  “What happened to your Hallmark philosophy?”

  His eyebrows went up again. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting me to treat you as a woman or as a research partner? Because I’m not sure which one I’m taking out this evening.”

  “Forget it,” I muttered, grabbing at the car door.

  Once I had settled into my seat and secured my seatbelt, he turned to me. “Things would be a lot easier, for both of us, if you would stop fighting me.”

  “Well, how do I know you aren’t testing me again? Or worse, trying to turn me into your sex zombie?”

  The roar of laughter that came from him was heartwarming, and at the same time infuriating.

  “Sex zombie?” He wiped his right eye. “You should use that in your book.” After his laughter had abated, he sat back in his seat, his deep brown eyes taking in my
outfit. “I’m not out to convert you, Lexie. You’re a woman who does not want to be dominated, but to dominate. I’m only interested in someone who can be submissive to me.”

  “Why do you find that attractive?”

  He turned the key in the ignition. “When I take a woman on as a sub, it’s not about physical contact or attraction. Sex is not always the final goal.”

  “There’s a shocker.” I snorted with disbelief. “So what is the final goal?”

  He pulled the car out into the street. “When a sub gives up control to me, it is more out of respect and trust. That transfer of trust we call ‘the gift.’ It is more of an arrangement, consensual and not coercive. Their trust gives me pleasure, and my control over them allows release. In many ways, the sub has much more control over me than I do of them. I need their permission to be a Dom. To know someone trusts you like that, is ready to hand over their will to you, is very powerful.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Let me put it this way.” He maneuvered the car along Esplanade Avenue. “Have you ever wanted someone to take away all of your worries? Lift the burden from your shoulders and allow you to have peace, to not worry about the day-to-day trivialities of life?”

  “Sure. Who hasn’t? Except what you’re talking about is role-playing. My idea of lifting my burdens is paying my taxes, rent, and car note.”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t about fiscal control, although some Doms do that. I don’t. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re at least practical about this.”

  “Practical? No.” Garrett’s eyes lifted to his rearview mirror. “What you describe happens every day in your vanilla world. Look at kept women, mistresses, even trophy wives. What I do is no different from those relationships.”

  “Yeah, but those relationships are all about money. The woman sacrifices control for the money…which, after my last royalty check, sounds like a pretty good idea,” I added, acutely aware of my dwindling assets.

  “Are you in need of money?” he inquired, his smoldering eyes turning to me.

  I squirmed in my seat, not quite sure how to take the question. “I’ll survive. I always do.”

  “What about your ex? Could he help you?”

  That made me laugh. “Sid would be the last person I would call.” I tucked my purse in my seat, feeling defensive. I hated talking about my ex.

  “Was it a bad marriage?”

  A bad marriage? The words rolled around in my head like a windswept paper cup in an empty parking lot. How much do you tell a stranger about your life, especially the painful parts? I debated a course of action, and then reasoned that Garrett was giving me insights into his soul, why shouldn’t I share my disappointments with him?

  “We were…wrong from the start,” I slowly began. “Sid was a guitar player who belonged to a few bands in the area. He did pretty well as a musician, and when we started dating, the attraction was intense. Six months later, he asked me to marry him. I, of course, was over the moon. My mother was livid.”

  “Why wasn’t she happy about it? I thought all mothers loved it when their daughters married.”

  I shook my head and turned to the passenger window. The historical mansions along Esplanade Avenue sped by as we headed toward City Park. “My mother wanted me to wait until I was older to get married. I didn’t think twenty-five was too young. She also wanted me to marry someone a lot more successful than a guitar player. She claimed we would end up fighting about money, and she was right. We fought a lot about money, and his screwing around.”

  “I’m sorry.” He actually sounded sincere. “What did your father think of him?”

  I shrugged and glanced back at him. “Wouldn’t know. He died when I was two of a drug overdose. It was always me and Mom…and whatever boyfriend she had at the time.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “About a year and a half. I’ve spent the few years since the divorce trying to stand on my own two feet.”

  “What about your mother? Can she help you?”

  “Lily and I don’t talk. I haven’t spoken to her in over a year.”

  The impressive homes disappeared as the car came to the edge of Bayou St. John. Made famous by Maria Laveau, the bayou was said to be haunted by those voodoo practitioners of days gone by. Up ahead, the oak-lined entrance to City Park was lit up with spotlights. The park was a refuge from the cramped homes and cement of the city. Filled with trees, lagoons, golf courses, and other attractions, the borders of City Park had always been a welcomed sight to me. Even now, the darkness of the oaks over the land was inviting. I wanted to get lost in that darkness, at least for a little while, desperate to escape from the painful memories of my past.

  “Where’s this restaurant again?” Garrett’s soothing voice brought me back from the abyss.

  I pointed to the left of the park entrance. “Tavern on the Park. Just about half a mile down City Park Avenue.”

  The car came to rest at a stoplight. “Why is it your favorite restaurant?”

  I turned to him, smiling weakly. “Because it looks out over the park. Anything that looks out over City Park is my favorite restaurant.”

  “You like the park?”

  I nodded, gazing back to the darkness of the trees next to the car. “When I was little, my mother used to bring me here on Sundays to feed the ducks. Those are some of the best memories I have of my childhood.”

  Tavern on the Park was a two story converted home built across the street from one of the park entrances. Climbing out of his black BMW, I caught a quick glimpse of oak trees surrounded by tall, lush plants, and the man-made lagoon on the park grounds.

  “I went to the New Orleans Museum of Art shortly after I arrived in the city,” Garrett disclosed, coming around to my side. “The short drive I took through City Park was quite beautiful. I can see why you like it.”

  Tavern on the Park Restaurant was lit up with flickering brass gas lanterns about the first floor white-painted stucco entrance. The front doors of dark wood and wide glass were open, and along the side of the oblong building were a row of french windows also done in the same dark wood. Above our heads, a balcony wrapping around the second story offered an unencumbered view of the park. From inside, the din of voices and clinking dishes floated out to the street. As we proceeded toward the entrance, Garrett slipped his hand behind my back. I thought the gesture a little odd, considering he would not let me touch him yesterday. Maybe he was warming up to me.

  Fastening his suit jacket, he escorted me up the steps to the restaurant. Just inside the restaurant, we came to a short podium manned by a very petite blonde in a dark blue dress.

  “Welcome to Tavern on the Park. Table for two?”

  I thought her eyes lingered over Garrett’s torso a little longer than they should have.

  “Yes, two, by the window,” Garrett declared, nodding.

  “Not a problem.”

  Grabbing two black menus, the lithe hostess showed us across the royal blue and white dining room. On the walls were paintings of the park, while set about the floor were dark wooden chairs with dusky blue cushions placed next to white linen-covered tables. In a corner, away from the crowded center of the room, we were shown to a table by a french window that overlooked the park across the street.

  When I went to take my chair, Garrett pulled it out for me. Instead of starting an argument, I just took my seat.

  After our hostess had handed us each a menu, she spotted more diners gathering at the entrance and quickly scurried away.

  “What is good here?” Garrett asked, opening his menu.

  I scanned my menu. “Don’t know. I’ve never eaten here.”

  He lowered his menu and glared at me. “I thought you said this was your favorite restaurant?”

  I shrugged without raising my eyes from my menu. “It is, because it overlooks the park. That doesn’t mean I’ve ever eaten here.”

  He shook his head. “There is no logi
c to that statement, Lexie.”

  I regarded his slight frown over the top of my menu. “Can’t a restaurant be your favorite because of where it is and not for the food?” I put my menu down. “I bet if you asked a ten-year-old about their favorite restaurant it would be because of where it is. Like McDonald’s. They like to eat there because of the playground.”

  “You’re a grown up, not a ten-year-old.”

  I sniffed with indignation. “We’re all ten-year-olds on the inside.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one.” He put his menu to the side. “What else do you like, besides restaurants next to City Park?”

  I sighed and picked up my menu again, thinking. Why was it when people asked me questions I was torn between telling them what they wanted to hear, and telling them the truth?

  “I like ducks,” I stated in a matter-of-fact tone, wanting to stick to a simple subject I did not have to lie about. “Ducks, hedgehogs, squirrels, dogs, and otters.”

  He leaned over the table, resting his arms along the edge of the tablecloth. I was not sure if the slight smile on his lips was for me, or was a result of some comical thought he was having about me.

  “What else?” he badgered.

  “You’re full of questions.” I continued to glean the menu, debating between the BBQ Gulf shrimp and the gnocchi.

  “If I’m going to introduce you to my world, we should know something about each other, Lexie. What else?”

  A young, curly-haired blond waiter wearing a white apron and white, long-sleeved shirt came up to our table. “Good evening, I’m Tim and I will be your server tonight. Can I get you some drinks to start?”

  I was about to order a glass of white wine when Garrett spoke up. “Just two iced teas.”

  Tim bobbed his head. “Sure thing. I’ll get your drinks and come back for your order.”

  After Tim had retreated from our table, I scowled at Garrett. “I want wine.”

  He picked up his menu, ignoring me. “No alcohol tonight. I need you sober.”

  “Why? It’s not like this is an FBI sting operation, Garrett. We’re just going to some club. What’s the big deal?”