by Nina Pierce
“No, I…” Peter shook his head. This was wrong on so many levels. The main room in front of him was filled with fifty or so people of both sexes in various stages of dress. No one, except Taya, seemed interested in his arrival. But the activities taking place on the couches and chairs scattered throughout the space begged for his attention.
“Are you a guest or client?” Taya’s hand wrapped around his forearm, forcing him to concentrate on her.
“A what?” Tearing his gaze from a woman leading a naked man on a leash, he finally found his tongue. “A client? No. No,” he repeated more emphatically. “I’m not a client. I’m a guest of Crystal Ice. She’s expecting me.”
“Of course.” Taya inclined her head. “May I check your coat and get you a drink? They are complimentary for our guests.”
“May I just see Crystal?” The sooner he could meet with her, the sooner he could extricate himself from this place and head home to his fiancée where he belonged.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. She has many clients and guests to entertain this evening. She’s quite busy. Now, about that drink and your coat?” She lilted the last words into a question.
Absently he removed his coat and laid it over her outstretched arm, unable to keep his eyes focused on her. “Scotch on the rocks.” He wanted to ask for a double, but he wasn’t sure how long he was staying.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” Taya squeezed his biceps, bringing his attention back to her once again. “I’ll get that drink and a menu. You might as well have a look before you decide to leave.”
A laugh of disgust escaped. He wanted to tell the hostess he wasn’t here to eat, but she turned and walked away before he could mention that detail.
Peter settled in one of the plush leather chairs scattered about the room and pulled the corner of the red handkerchief from his shirt pocket, allowing it to spill over. It was stupid, but he couldn’t think of another way to help the woman from the chat room identify him. He rubbed nervously at the sweat glistening on his upper lip. The moustache that had been there only this morning was gone. He’d grown it in an attempt to look older. Tonight he wanted to look like a college kid at his first strip club.
Revulsion and guilt sat hot in his gut. Since hatching this scheme, he’d been chewing antacids like a chain smoker lit cigarettes. And now that he was here, the idea that had made perfect sense in the quiet of his office was unraveling like a sinister plan to ruin his engagement.
He’d expected one woman, not the crowd gathered in this converted honeymoon suite.
A wall of windows to his left held a panoramic view of Boston, the lights of the buildings muted in the wash of the winter storm still raging. A portable bar had been set up along the wall on his right. Taya was nowhere in sight, only the bartender with a well-defined torso, wrapped in leather straps. The armbands spanning both biceps bunched and strained as he busied himself arranging liquor bottles and glasses, his gaze never roaming over the clientele. It seemed anonymity was a priority with everyone.
Peter tried to relax into the subdued jazz music filtering out from hidden speakers, like the other patrons lounging throughout the room. A few people sat alone, sipping drinks and accepting hors d’oeuvres from naked waitstaff of both sexes. Others focused their attention on oversized booklets he assumed were menus. Several small groups were seated at other chairs and couches scattered throughout the room. A lovely brunette in a long black gown and pearl choker caught his eye and winked. Crystal? He started to go to her, but when a man in a business suit approached her and spoke briefly before settling on the couch next to her, he assumed not.
He fell back in the chair. This wasn’t any typical honeymoon suite, and Crystal obviously wasn’t the typical professional working girl. Not that he was surprised. He knew from the chat room where he’d found her that leather and naked flesh would be found in equal measure at her place of business.
His search hadn’t started that way.
Peter had entered into this task with the precision of an engineer. His goals were clear and his focus only on the information he hoped to find. But as he’d fallen deeper into the Dom/sub forums and live chats, Peter began to want more. Crave more.
Deep down he understood his explorations into his dark and depraved fantasies would eventually bring him to a place just like this. His pulse quickened every time he thought of having a woman trust him so completely that she would give up all control in the bedroom for him. He’d fantasized about how it would be to have a willing partner trembling at his commands, knowing her sexual pleasure was his sole responsibility.
But tonight wasn’t really about indulging his fantasies. It was about Crystal and what she could offer him. Completion. A void he’d sadly realized over the last month, Meghan could never fill.
He toyed with the bandana hanging from his pocket. Perhaps he had it wrong. No one had spotted his signal and attempted to approach him. Save for Taya and the brunette who was currently being escorted into another room by her companions, no one had paid any attention to him. Peter had questioned both his sanity and naiveté countless times. The woman from the chat room had no intention of meeting him here. In his desperation, he’d let himself be duped. What a fool. He slid to the edge of the chair, thinking he should just go home.
“Every time I come, you look ready to bolt for the door.” Taya returned. “Here’s your drink and a menu.”
Peter settled back into the chair. “I don’t need the menu. I’m not eating.”
She leaned over and pressed her cheek to his, the corset nearly losing its battle to contain her tits. “The first time’s the best. Give it a chance.” Her tongue flicked his lobe and he had to fight the urge not to brush away the unpleasant stickiness. “The menu isn’t for ordering food.” She straightened, flashing him a smile as sickly sweet as her voice. “Crystal’s selections are on the right-hand side, but if you desire something else, it can be arranged.”
Relief flooded through him. At least the woman in the chat room hadn’t lied about her working name or her place of employment.
“Why don’t you have a look at that menu?” Taya asked. “I’ll come back shortly to take your order.” She turned on her heel and left him. Weaving her way through the couches and chairs, she chatted with a lone man across the room, dressed only in short leather pants and leather wrist cuffs and collar. Peter watched in fascination as she pulled a black hood over his head and escorted him down the hall.
Shit.
Peter drank deeply of the liquid courage in the highball glass, not sure what he’d find in the oversized book in his hands. Opening the menu, he nearly choked at the selections listed. It didn’t hold the usual choices of appetizers, salads, and entrees. There were titles that brought back in start reality exactly where he’d agreed to meet Crystal: Whips and Chains, Fantasy Role Play, and Doms and Subs. Peter closed the booklet and finished his scotch in one long gulp.
This may have been exactly what he expected when he’d made the appointment with the woman from the chat room, but seeing it in living color was twisting him in knots of guilt.
Unable to fight the curiosity winning out over common sense, he stayed where he was. He needed to see exactly where this screwed up trip would take him.
* * * *
The shears Meghan had found hanging on the pegboard in the back of the cooler slipped in her hands, slicing across her thumb. “Damn it all to hell! I want out of this arctic hell!” she screamed, pounding on the door. She barely felt the pain through the mind-numbing cold gripping her body. But when something hit her face, she sucked her thumb, tasting the metallic flavor of blood.
Meghan had no idea how badly she’d cut herself. Didn’t really care. She simply wanted to survive. Working the pruning shears into the jammed latch had been an exercise in futility.
“I. Want. Out!” Fear boiled over and she hurled the tool through the darkness. It clattered through the wire shelves and broke something on the far side of the cooler. The sound of
glass shattering exploded through the stillness, echoing with her screams of frustration.
With nothing to orient her, she'd lost track of time and had no idea how long she’d been stuck in the cooler. Weariness was an unwelcome blanket weighing on her limbs, making it hard to keep fighting. It would be so easy to give into the despair, slide quietly to the floor and succumb to the darkness creeping along the edge of her logic.
Somewhere in the back of her brain, she knew it wasn’t good to sit still. Sitting led to resting. Resting led to sleep. And for some reason she couldn’t recall, sleeping was a very bad idea.
Fight! Whatever it took, she needed to keep fighting the cold.
“I don’t want to die! Please, let me out!” Meghan screamed at the door, banging her fists against the unforgiving metal. Panic clawed at her throat and twisted in her gut. Her muscles quaked with uncontrollable spasms of chill, and her jaws ached from the incessant chatter of her teeth. “Let. Me. Out. Someone. Please.”
Meghan shook the handle and slammed her hip into the release bar, once, twice, and on the third potential collision, her body met nothing but air. She stumbled forward, heat and light assaulting her senses. The door banged shut as strong arms caught her before she crumpled to floor.
“Meghan, what are you doing?”
She looked up at her savior, the light blinding her to his identity.
“P…P…Peter?”
“No, Meghan, it’s me, Doc McCarty.”
The man’s white crown of hair came into focus, the concern in his voice mirrored in the soft blue eyes staring down at her.
“Oh, my dear, you’re chilled to the bone. What were you doing in the cooler?”
“Thank you.” She had a hard time making her tongue work around her chattering teeth. Tears of relief streamed down her cheeks as she clung to the family friend who had just saved her life. “The door…broken. Handle…jammed. Thank you. I could have—”
“Hey, Meghan, you want a ride home—”
Meghan barely registered her younger sister striding in through the back door of the shop. Deirdre dropped to her knees beside them, her hands brushing hair from Meghan’s face. “What the hell happened here, Doc?”
“I just came in to buy—”
“Why the hell is she covered in blood?” Deirdre began frantically examining Meghan, trying to find the source of the blood.
“My hand.” Meghan held up her arm, watching the stream of blood running down her palm.
“Grab some towels,” Doc said. “She may need stitches.”
With the efficiency of a country doctor who’s seen his share of field accidents, Dr. McCarty wrapped Meghan’s thumb in a towel her sister retrieved from the small bathroom.
“I just came in to buy flowers and heard her screaming and banging.” Doc bent her elbow, positioning her hand above her heart. “There, if you keep pressure on it, Meghan it should be fine until we get you to the ER.” Doc McCarty said as he and Dee helped her sit up.
“I was putting away flowers. The door shut and…” Her gaze traveled the blood trail from her lap, across the floor tiles to the point where it disappeared under the cooler door. The stool that had held open the door lay on its side beneath her workbench. She must have bumped it on her way into the cooler with the last bucket of flowers. Cold fear slithered down her spine at the thought of being trapped longer in the icy darkness.
“Can you get her to the ER, Deirdre? I suspect my car is stuck,” Doc said.
“Of course, no problem. I’ve got the plow truck. I’ll—”
“Home.” Meghan said quietly. “I just want to go home.”
“But your hand—” her sister said.
Meghan waved them off and pushed to her feet, her knees nearly buckling beneath her as the reality of what she’d been through slammed into her. “My hand is fine. Everything’s fine.” But that wasn’t true. One thing had become crystal clear in the icy chill of the floral cooler—nothing was working like it should. Not the latch on the cooler door and sure as hell not her relationship with Peter.
Chapter 3
The disgust mixing with his second scotch churned unpleasantly in Peter’s gut. He’d discussed his options with the hostess nearly fifteen minutes ago, and he was quickly losing both his patience and his nerve.
He was beginning to doubt this trip was worth risking what he’d found with Meghan and her family. But once the questions had formed, Peter had been unable to squelch the curiosity that had begun two months ago when Meghan’s father John had suffered another heart attack.
He’d stood on the fringes watching the three Tilling sisters and their mom huddled together in the ICU. The support the close-knit family had offered one another had been tender and inspiring. Rather than feel part of the Tilling clan, the experience had punctuated Peter’s isolation and lack of roots.
Meghan and her family had no idea what it was like to walk the earth knowing there was no one who shared your DNA. Regardless of how wonderful his foster families had been while he was growing up, they were ephemeral—a temporary place to find a warm bed and three squares a day. They weren’t family.
Long before his engagement to Meghan last Christmas, the Tillings considered him one of their own. The first weekend he’d gone home with her his junior year in college, eight years ago, Alice Tilling had wrapped him in a fierce hug. After he’d passed muster with Julie and Deirdre they too had treated him like a sibling. Even John, the warm-hearted patriarch of the family shared Peter’s love of the Red Sox, Stanley Cup playoffs and fishing.
Peter desperately wanted the Tillings to be enough and satisfy the hungry longing swelling inside.
But they weren’t.
And though he loved his fiancée with a fierceness that clawed at his soul, lately even her love couldn’t fill the growing chasm in his heart. He wanted it to. God, how he’d tried to ignore the gnawing in his gut. The cold emptiness that was sated only when Meghan was in his arms.
When he made love to her, it was with a desperate hunger to brand her on his soul and make her part of him. But the satisfaction lasted only as long as they were tangled in the sheets. Inevitably the bitter loneliness punched through his contentment, spreading like a cancer, chilling him to the very marrow of his bones.
That’s when he’d thought Meghan couldn’t be everything to him and he’d gone searching.
A search that had landed him in the honeymoon suite of a swanky Boston hotel.
As the minutes ticked by, Peter was beginning to realize he’d put too much time and energy into this trip. He didn’t need another woman in his life. Meghan and her family were enough. He slammed his glass down on the table beside him and stood.
“Are you leaving?” Taya hurried to his side.
“I actually just stopped in for a drink,” Peter said, absently shoving the bandana back into his pocket.
“But I’ve come to escort you to see Crystal.”
A private room? In reality, it was what he wanted. Though he’d gotten used to the idea of meeting the woman in this place surrounded by people, a more quiet setting without so many prying eyes might work better. Raking his fingers through his hair, he released some of his nervous energy on a heavy breath that puffed his cheeks. He needed to rein in his conflicting emotions. He’d come this far, backing out now would accomplish nothing.
Peter forced his lips into a smile and stared down into dark eyes outlined provocatively in black. “Why didn’t she come to me herself?”
Taya’s delicate brows furrowed. “It doesn’t work that way.” She pointed to several people being escorted out of the main room. “Crystal is a little busy tying up some loose ends at the moment.” He rolled his eyes at her joke and the petite woman’s smile faded as she cleared her throat. “Yes, well, as you can see, her other guests are already making their way to her.”
