Oh, Rafe. I'm worried about me too.
The door to Club Paradise beckons though, and I get out of my car, walking in the small, ass swaying steps that my stilettos force me into. The doorman greets me with a smile. “Miss Eagle.”
Chapter 20
Rafe
I'm trying my best to stay in control when I knock on Melanie Petersen's office door, knowing what Shawnie did last night. After my claiming of her and a talk with the manager where I wasn't being quite so stern, Club Paradise notified me when she came in yesterday. I didn’t get any details on what she did, but what other reason would she go?
I know a little bit more after Sally Brandeis, who I normally have on Tuesdays, came by my office this morning to complain about being, quote, 'verbally assaulted'. Sally's got her head so far up her own ass that I'm surprised she can even tell if the sun is out or not, but she’s a good enough girl. She just needs to learn how to buckle down and actually work instead of whine.
But now, I'm trying to find Melanie after Shawnie doesn’t pick up her phone. Melanie’s the one in charge of the inter-department mail, and I'm sure she's already had someone ask her about yesterday, but that doesn't mean that I don't want answers myself.
“Excuse me, Melanie?” I say, opening her door. She’s sitting at her desk, her face a grave mask, and when she sees who it is, her mask cracks and a tear trickles down her cheek. “Whoa, whoa, what's that bad?”
“They . . . the Dean said they're launching an investigation into yesterday's mail thing,” Melanie says, dabbing at her eyes. “I think they're going to scapegoat me.”
“Hold on,” I reply, closing the door behind me before going over and sitting down. “Tell me what happened.”
“This morning, the Dean and Professor Tratham called me into the Dean's office. They asked me about the envelope. I told them the truth, that I have no idea what envelope they're talking about. When I went around yesterday morning with the departmental office mail, I didn't even have anything for Tratham. I told them as much, and Tratham goes off on this prepared speech about how he couldn't have done it, that obviously, I must have overlooked something in my duties yesterday . . . I could tell he's trying to put the blame all on me.”
“That's exactly what he’s trying to do,” I reassure her. “You know that old windbag is just trying to cover his ass. He's got six years to retirement and hasn't produced anything worthwhile since before I was born.”
“Yeah, well, he's not the one with two kids and a mortgage,” Melanie says, wiping her eyes. “I'm serious. I didn't do that to Shawnie. I like her a lot.”
“I know you do,” I tell her. “I came by to ask what happened, but Jesus . . . okay, let me talk to the Dean and old Tratham. There has to be a reason behind all of this, and I want to find out what. You know, Shawnie's pretty important to me too.”
Melanie nods, wiping at her eyes. “Thanks, Professor Meyers.”
I get up and go to her door, turning. “Melanie?”
“Yeah?” she asks miserably. She's probably heard people saying they'll help her before, but she knows the deal. She's an admin assistant, and sadly, in the hierarchy of the university, that means she gets shit on a lot, regardless of how much more useful she is than half of the professors.
“Don't worry. I'll get this straightened out. We need you around here.”
I leave her office, my mind whirling at how strong and how visceral my reaction is right now. It worries me, honestly. I told Shawnie that I've struggled to overcome the psychological conditioning that I underwent. But have I really overcome it all? I still don't eat breakfast except for a nutritional shake just like they made me. I still work out like someone preparing for a life of a professional athlete, and I have to intentionally avoid training in the martial arts because I have problems holding back and not dominating the way I know I could.
Years of having my manner and dress drilled into me with military force means that my shoes are almost always clean, my jeans are spotless, and my dress shirts are pressed and form-fitting. Thankfully, current fashion makes so-called skinny jeans and button down shirts supposedly cool, which I’m very grateful for. But it was drilled into me, and unconsciously, I still do some things the same, so I can’t help but have doubts.
What if the way that I've been with Shawnie is nothing more than a scrap of my breeding program? What if my possessiveness, my desire to find and destroy whoever sent this to her is just part of my conditioning, an instinctual reaction to someone threatening what's mine?
I dismiss the idea. Program or not, it’s just the right fucking thing to do.
The Dean is out of his office, which I'm not too worried about. I want to see Tratham anyway. Having been at Stanford for thirty years now, his office is prime real estate, with a view of the quad across the street and a lot bigger space than what I have. Not that I care, but it feels strange for a man whose greatest accomplishment was before I was born, to have one of the best offices.
“Gene?” I greet after I knock on his door. “Got a minute?”
He looks up, his face immediately clouding. “I figured you'd be coming by at some point.”
“You figured right,” I say, closing the door. “She's on my project team, and she was my TA.”
“Well, the Dean and I are looking into it. In my opinion, I think it was Melanie who just screwed up.”
I roll my eyes, sitting down. “Bullshit, Gene. You know Melanie. She's a pro. She's better at her job than three-quarters of the professors around here.”
“Then who do you think?” Gene shoots back testily. He's never been the type who enjoys having his pet theories questioned. “Don't even start with my TA. Ben's a good assistant, and he was mortified about what he saw.”
“I'm sure,” I reply, trying not to get too sarcastic about it. The story of the photos was already spreading, and there are only two people besides Shawnie who saw them, Sally and Gene's TA. “Who else came by your office yesterday?”
Gene shrugs. “I don't know, Ben obviously, a couple of my grad students. But that envelope was sitting on my desk when I came in. I saw the delivery slip and wrote out the note to Ben. He doesn't come in until later.”
“Do you still have the delivery slip?” I ask, and Gene points to his paper recycling box. I pick up the box and dump it on the big table on the side of his office, Gene squawking in indignation at the mess. “Shut up. You didn't even take the time to check the delivery slip with Melanie before you started the blame game, did you?”
Thankfully, budget cutbacks mean that recycled paper is picked up only twice a week, and Gene's paper box is still full of yesterday's stuff. I quickly sort through it all, being nice enough to at least throw the rejects back into the recycle box. “Professor Meyers, I hardly think that a delivery slip—”
“Just be quiet for a second,” I shoot back, finding what I want. The form is right. It's inter-department mail, but the handwriting . . . “This isn't Melanie's signature.”
“What do you mean?” Gene says, stepping next to me.
“I mean, Melanie's right-handed,” I say, pointing at the writing at various points. “This was written by a left-handed person trying to copy her signature.”
“And how do you know that?” Gene asks haughtily. “Are you a handwriting expert?”
“I picked it up when I was an undergrad,” I say dismissively. “I actually learned, instead of trying to scapegoat innocent people to cover my ass. You should try it some time instead of pontificating about the work you did with McDonnell-Douglas before I was born.”
I leave the office with a mess on his desk, heading down the hall. Only staff and TAs have access to the form that is used for inter-department mail. And right now, only three people in the department are left-handed. One is on sabbatical, one is a woman with a shaky hand who could never even get close to Melanie’s signature, and the third . . .
“What do you owe him?” I ask as I enter the 'bullpen,' the big room that's been assigned for associate
professors and TAs whose professors don't have big enough offices for them to share. My target, Aaron Watson, looks up, panic immediately coming to his eyes.
“What . . . I don't—” Aaron starts to try and say, but I don't give him a chance, grabbing him by his denim jacket and lifting him out of his seat and slamming him down on the central table, a battle-scarred metal thing that's been in the College of Engineering since about the fifties. Aaron screams more in surprise than in pain, his eyes squeezed shut in panic. “I had to!”
“Why?” I scream in his face, cocking back my fist. Everyone else in the office is frozen in shock at seeing a tenured professor slam a TA into a table, but I don't care. “Why?”
“My sister!” Aaron screams, tears rolling down his face. “She–she's a member!”
I turn, looking at the rest of the staff. “Everyone, out.”
They clear out like a pack of panicked lemmings, my left hand never leaving his chest. I turn back to him, lowering my fist but not letting him up. “Talk fast.”
“She's a member of The Club,” he says, his eyes leaking tears. “She came to me, saying that I needed to get the envelope to Shawnie. It was sealed. I didn't know what it was!”
“But why would she want to do that?” I ask, getting frustrated.
“She said she was being blackmailed, and if I didn’t, compromising pictures would be sent to our parents. My parents, they're traditional. They'd . . . I don’t know what they’d do!” Aaron says pleadingly. “I didn’t know what was in that envelope!”
I'm tempted to smash his face in, partly for what he did, but also for either lying or just being a dumbass. If his sister was being blackmailed with pictures, what the fuck did he think was in the envelope? Instead, I let him up, stepping back. “You nearly ruined two more lives because of what you did.”
There's a knock on the door, and the Dean and two campus cops enter. “Professor Meyers, I think you need to come with me.”
“No. No, he doesn't,” Aaron says, letting himself up off the table painfully. “I have something I need to confess.”
Shawnie's apartment is quiet when I knock on the door, but I hear someone inside, and when she opens the door, her eyes are both haunted and shocked when she sees me. “Rafe?”
“May I come in?” I ask, and Shawnie steps back listlessly, giving me entrance. The inside of her apartment is a horrible mess, the couch destroyed and what at first I take for blood is scrawled on the walls before I realize that it's just dark red lipstick. What scares me even more are the words written all over the place, mostly around the half dozen pictures that are tacked on the wall, a note beneath them.
Slut
Worthless
Die
“Shawnie,” I whisper, taking her in my arms, chilled to the bone by the last word. “Oh, Shawnie, it's okay. I'm here.”
“I tried, Rafe . . . I tried so hard to be the woman you want me to be,” she says, clutching at me. “I tried. I'm so sorry . . .”
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I reply, holding her tight. “I found out who did it. It's okay.”
“Does it really matter now?” Shawnie asks, looking up at me with tear-streaked eyes. “Who did it?”
“Come with me, and I'll tell you all about it. Grab your computer and your coursework. You won't need anything else in here.”
Shawnie nods, and I help her, taking down the photos while she's getting her bag together and burning them in her sink, putting the note in my pocket for later. When she comes out, there's a little bit of light in her eyes at least. “I'm ready.”
I hold her hand as we walk down to my car, Shawnie feeling like a feather almost ready to blow away when a breeze hits her. “I . . . I was able to keep myself from going to The Club at least,” she whispers. “I'm sorry, Rafe. I went to Club Paradise.”
“I know,” I tell her, helping her into the passenger seat before going around and getting behind the wheel. While we drive to my place, I lay it all out for her. As I talk, Shawnie starts to show signs of life. “So in the end, I'm getting a departmental written warning and Aaron's losing his TA position. The Dean's leaving the rest up to you.”
“Why are you doing all of this for me?”
Her eyes are gleaming, and at the next stop light, I reach over and take her hand. “Shawnie, you’re a smart girl. I think you know why. You're not just a lab assistant to me. I think you know that. But the rest of the answer is something that can wait until we get to my house.”
She nods, staying silent until we reach my house, where I help her inside, glad for once that it's dark when I bring her here. I don't care what the neighbors think, but Shawnie's the only thing on my mind right now, and I don't need her feeling like she's being watched. Instead, I put my arm around her shoulders as we go inside, and I set her computer on the table. I lead her over to my couch, where I sit her down gently and go to get her a glass of milk.
“I'd rather have a double scotch and soda,” Shawnie says, and I cluck my tongue.
“Sorry, but I don’t think you should be having that right now. It’s time to break old habits,” I tell her softly. “I’ve made that mistake once before, taking you to The Club. I’m sorry about that. Until I know you're safe, you're staying here. I’ll hire a cleaning crew to clean up your place.”
Shawnie drinks her milk, wiping her lips gratefully, while at the same time getting a whiff of herself. “Whew, I stink.”
“We'll deal with that later,” I reassure her. “First, though, let's talk. About you.”
Her lip trembles, and I feel my heart want to reach out to her, but this isn't the time for softness, but accepting strength. “Rafe, I'm . . . I'm sorry. I guess you want me off the team now.”
“Not at all,” I reply, reassured a little that her first thought is of her position on the team. “Shawnie, if I thought so little as to have thrown you off the team, I'd never have tried to find out what the hell happened. No, you're not going anywhere on the team.”
Shawnie looks down, then over at me. “You know, a lot of people back home would call you a damn fool for everything you've done. You risk all that at school, then you don't even stop, you just open your house to a mentally disturbed woman whose struggles almost overwhelm her on a daily basis.”
“I don't do half-measures, Shawnie. I'm here to take care of you.”
She thinks, then shivers, and I can see she wants to believe me. “Rafe . . . I want to stay, but . . .”
“I'm here to do anything you need, Shawnie,” I reply. “I mean that. Anything.”
Shawnie reaches out, taking my hand. “Rafe, I want to put my full faith and trust in you.”
The way she looks me in the eyes, I can tell what she means. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? You’re ready to submit completely?”
She nods. “I am. We didn't go far enough before. I liked it, but I need more. So yes, I’m ready . . . Master.”
“Shawnie, I’m not going to judge you and I’m not going to change my mind. I just need to know. What did you do last night at Club Paradise?”
She lowers her eyes, and I expected to hear something different. “I watched. I just watched. But it didn’t stop me from feeling terrible afterward, for going in the first place.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning in and sniffing before smirking. “We're going to get you a shower. And after that . . . we're going to my play room. It’s time to try something different, Angel. Remember that name, because that’s your new name from me, and your safe word too. I’m going to show you how much of an angel you are.”
Chapter 21
Shawnie
The way he's looking at me sends shivers down my spine, and I can't believe how much of a glowing, gleaming lifeline of hope he's showing me. I know, deep inside me, that he understands the burden that he's taking on. I'm shattered, broken, and I remember the words that I wrote on my apartment walls.
And now . . . Master. Just saying his new name sends warmth through my arms and legs, and I hold m
y head up high, the way that I know he'd want me to as he marches me to the bathroom, his hand on my arm, controlling but not hurting me. At least not the way I don't want it to.
“Strip and hand those rags to me. We'll burn them tomorrow morning in the barbecue. They're filthy reminders of who you were,” he says, and I gladly remove the disgusting remnants of what I pulled on this morning, wishing I could just toss a Molotov cocktail into my apartment while I'm at it. “Now shower, every inch of your body.”
I do as he says, using the soap to wash my body from head to toe before pausing at my hair. “Master?”
“Yes, Angel?” he asks, opening the shower stall, and I turn, smiling at that name already.
“Uhm, do you have any conditioner?”
He considers my hair, then shakes his head. “No, just the 2 in 1. Tomorrow, we can go out and get you exactly what you need. Leave the hair for now, Angel. Rinse off, and then step out and follow me.”
My body is starting to hum as I step out of the shower, drying my feet before he takes the towel from me and wraps it around my neck, twisting it a little. “We'll get you something better this weekend as well. You got very lucky, Angel. I have two whole days with you before you go back to classes Monday.”
“Classes? You really want . . .” I start, then stop. “Yes, Master.”
Tugging on my towel, he pulls me to the garage, where he takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, leading me inside. I look around in amazement. The walls aren't the gleaming metallic finish of the Black Room, but instead a normal wallboard painted a forest green, golden highlights coming from the hooks and fittings along the wooden shelving. The bed in the middle is rich and covered in silk sheets, and the carpeting is a thick looking Oriental design, like a custom fitted rug from a sultan’s chambers.
I’m led to the center of the room before Rafe unwraps the towel from me. “Don't move.”
No Limits: A Dark Romance Page 14
