by K. Webster
The reminder of how he touched my toy enrages me but I swallow down the fury, remembering I need to cool my shit when it comes to Bunny. I’m too wrapped up in her and it’s clouding my judgment.
“Sir,” he says carefully. I know he’s watching my behavior and analyzing it. It’s what he does—he knows me better than anyone. “I believe the miss is going to be a problem too.”
Liquid anger surges through my veins at his indication that my toy might be defective and I choke down the desire to lash out on him. Instead, I question him. “How’s that?”
He takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a rush, along with his words. “She’s messing with your head, sir. In the one week that you’ve known her, you’ve let her break rules, get under your skin, and you even nearly killed your CEO for her. She’s dangerous to you and your company.”
His bitter words aren’t meant to hurt me but to protect me. Dubois always looks out for me and not just because I pay him to.
“Jesus,” I groan and scrub the overgrown hair on my cheek with my palm. “You think I don’t know this? But what do I do, D? I can’t just send her back. You know that.”
“Why not? Send her off with a hundred grand and wash your hands of her. Despite Cartier turning her into something beautiful, she’s still dirty and wrong underneath. She doesn’t deserve you. I can’t watch her ruin what you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”
He’s right.
He’s always fucking right.
But could I send her back?
What happens when the hundred grand runs out?
What happens when she hits a low moment and seeks out heroin?
What happens when stupid fuckers like Corgy hurt her?
“I can’t do that. She’s not ready. A week of sobriety isn’t long enough. She’ll be back to her old ways before the weekend,” I tell him briskly.
He grumbles. “But sir—”
“She’s not ready, D,” I seethe, slamming my fist on the desk causing my coffee to slosh out. “They’ll hurt her. He’ll hurt her.”
“Trevor?”
“Yes, the Trevors of the world. For some reason, Bunny attracts all of the fucking wolves.”
“Like you, sir?”
I narrow my gaze at him. “I’m the biggest, baddest wolf of them all. And that’s why she’s safer with me. I know my limits. I can keep her from getting taken advantage of and make sure she stays off the drugs.”
“She’ll unravel you,” he tries again but his fight is wavering.
“No, I’ll keep my distance. I’ll remember the rules.”
He sighs. “How about this? I’ll back off if you call Nat. You haven’t seen her in a while. I’m sure she’d love to hear about Bunny.”
I glare at him and challenge his unmoving stare. He’s serious—fucking serious. I’m not ready to talk to my sex therapist about this yet. I’d hoped to figure it out on my own but clearly that’s not happening any time soon. She’s been a friend of mine for two decades now. My father had taken me to her as a young man when I’d been dealing with my anger toward my mother. It wasn’t until she left her practice and focused on sex therapy that we grew close—beyond a patient doctor relationship. Nat was the one to suggest channeling my sadism in the form of willing masochists, or toys, as I like to call them. It wasn’t all smooth in the beginning and it took quite a bit of guidance on her part. But eventually, she helped form a way for me to survive the mental anguish that plagues me. I’m annoyed he’s even suggesting I already call in reinforcements.
Yet . . .
Bunny’s wide, feisty green eyes are forefront in my mind. Her plump lips calling me by my name as if it’s no big deal. Me devouring her pussy like it was my very last meal. The vixen is tearing apart the very fabric of who I am.
Shit.
He’s right.
I’m losing it.
“Fucking fine already. Call Nat. I’ll talk to her. But in the meantime, I want you to look up every goddamned Corgy in London. I want the losers—the drug dealers—the street punks.”
He raises both brows but doesn’t question my sudden need to chase this new rabbit trail.
“When you find them, I want a list. And I want their pictures.”
The tall man is already standing, ready to tackle his assignment. “And then what, sir?”
“We find out which motherfucker hurt my Bunny,” I tell him, no infliction of emotion in my voice, “and then we kill him.”
The fat man in the red suit waves to people walking by and thanks them when they drop coins in his bucket. After they leave, he goes back to jingling his bell. I don’t get it. He’s big—probably from eating so much food—and he still asks people for money.
Why won’t Mama ask those people for money?
My bones poke out and I know it’s because I’m always hungry. We need the coins more than him.
“Mama,” I tug at her jacket and point. “Who is that man?”
Today, she’s not as sick as usual. She’s promised me a special treat because it’s Christmas. I still don’t understand what Christmas is but I want a special treat. So I’ve been a good boy all morning while she worked.
She kneels down beside me and one of her bare knees rests on the cold ground. Mama doesn’t wear many clothes and I wonder how come she isn’t freezing like me.
“That,” she says with a laugh that reminds me of the bell he’s ringing, “is Santa Claus.”
I scrunch my brows together and turn to look at her. Her blue eyes are as pretty as the sky today. When Mama isn’t sick, she’s funny and nice. I love her all the times but times like these are the best. “Who is Santa Claus?”
Her smile falls as if she suddenly remembers something and sadness makes tears roll out of her eyes, dragging black streaks along the way. “He’s nobody, Braxxy. Just a fat fucking bastard.”
I glare at the old man that smiles upon seeing me. I hate how happy he looks. Mama hates him for some reason and I do too.
“Let’s go, baby. The shelter said they’re doing their Christmas dinner at three. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”
Trailing after her, I try not to look at the man. But I can’t look away.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” he yells at me, waving a piece of candy to tease me. “What do you want for Christmas little boy?”
He makes me so mad. And when he gives Mama the look that the other men give her, I can’t take it anymore. Breaking free from her, I run as hard as my little eight-year-old legs will carry me and I hit him right in his pee-pee.
“I hate you!” I tell him. I don’t want to cry—I want to be the brave boy for Mama but I’m so mad at the stupid fat man.
His eyes are open wide with shock and he clutches himself where I hit him. “You’re on the naughty list,” he hisses out. “Bad boys don’t get anything from Santa. They don’t deserve toys.”
I haul off to kick him again but Mama yanks my arm up and drags me away from him.
I don’t want any toys from the fat man. If I want toys, I’ll make them myself. Sometimes when Mama is working, I cut shapes out of cardboard from a little pocket knife I stole from one of the apartments we went to once. If there’s no cardboard, I like to cut out little stars from Coca-Cola cans. I make my own toys from the trash—I turn them into something pretty. They may not be toys like he’s used to giving to the good boys, but they’re my toys.
I’m still lost in my angry thoughts when something warm blasts around me. Jerking my head toward it, I smile to see the shelter we sometimes go to. Music, happy music, plays in the background. It makes me feel good again. Being mad at Santa is something of the past as we climb the steps.
Tonight is the best night of my whole life. The nice people at the shelter serve us hot, yummy foods and I even make friends with another little girl nearby. She’s younger and I pretend she’s my sister. When dinner is over, the adults gather the children around a big tree decorated with lights.
I like this tree.
It makes me happy.
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“Everyone,” an old lady yells. She’s not mad. Not at all. I think she is crying with happy tears. “This year’s donations were wonderful. There are enough gifts for all the children. God is good.”
The group chatters around us. Mama strokes my hair like I do the stray cats I find and I lean in to her touch. I love my Mama.
“Here you go, little boy. I hope you get something special,” the old lady says, handing me a wrapped gift.
It’s painted with the same red and white candy the stupid Santa tried to give me. Mama seems so happy, so I don’t spoil her mood by getting mad.
“Is this my surprise, Mama?”
She kisses the top of my head. “Yes, Braxxy. Open it up. Let’s see what you got.”
Carefully, I tear open the paper and pull the lid off the box. Inside is a package.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mama snarls. “I was promised a toy for my son. Not goddamned socks!”
I jump at her sudden outburst and turn to her. “Mama, I love these socks. They’ll keep my feet warm.” I tear open the plastic and am happy to find twelve single, white socks.
She looks embarrassed and strokes my dark hair from my face. “I wanted to give you a toy, baby.”
I smile really big at her. “I make my own toys, silly,” I tell her so she won’t feel bad. “The socks are better. I like them.”
She hugs me to her and I inhale the cigarette smell mixed with her perfume that sometimes gives me a headache. I love her smell. I want her to hold me always and never have to go to work.
“And what toy did Santa bring you, little boy?”
Mama and I both jerk away to stare up at the old lady. I glare at her. “Santa is a stupid, selfish fat man who teases kids with candy. My mama got me socks because she knows my feet get cold all the time. I don’t need that mean man’s toys. I can make my own.”
“You never told me how the rest of the night went despite having heard this story several times,” Natalie says, her pen tapping her full lip.
I pinch the top of my nose to run the memories away. It’s like I can still smell her. The stench of her cigarette smoke on her clothes. And what I now understand is body odor. With the recitation of the memory comes the flood of sensations that remind me of my mother.
“She left me to play with the little girl. A few hours later, she came back. I’d just snuggled under the blanket with the girl and she was showing me the baby doll she got. Mama said she had to work and dragged me out of there. She was in such a hurry, I forgot to grab my socks.”
Bitter tears well in my eyes and I shake my head to force the memory away. I’d been so upset and begged to go back. Mama slapped me and told me to shut up. She had important things to do. That night, she fucked that stupid Santa in his car while I sat on the curb watching his metal can of money. I ate every single one of his candy canes and when I realized I couldn’t get the money out of the can, I pissed inside of it.
“It’s not your fault, Braxton.”
Natalie’s calm voice drags me to the present. Of course it isn’t my fault. I was a naïve little brat who worshipped his unfit mother.
“Well, it’s been real fun, Doc, but I have work to do. Thanks for making me feel worse than before.”
She frowns. Natalie is pretty for her fifty-something years of age. Long blonde hair tied into a sleek bun and donning a fitted suit. But she’s not my type. Too put together. Too refined. Not trashy enough. I’ve never pushed for anything more than friendship and she’s never had the balls to come on to me. Despite my being younger, she’s always been attracted to me. It’s obvious but neither of us act on it.
Ignoring me, she cuts to the chase. “Do you think your new ‘guest’ is causing you to think about your mother more? Is that why you favor her? You think you can really fix her this time?”
I slam my eyes closed and think about Bunny. When she all but inhaled that banana on the day I picked her up, I felt empathetic toward her hunger. When she shivered from being cold, I wanted to warm her. When Trevor tried to hurt her, I wanted to protect her.
But Bunny doesn’t remind me of my mother.
In fact, a toy named Kitten—one of the first toys I took on—reminded me the most of my mom. Despite being off all the drugs, Kitten still found ways to smuggle in cigarettes and hide them all over the house. That woman craved nicotine and no matter how much Cartier cleaned her up, she always reminded me of her. And with her, I was the harshest. With Kitten, I scarred her body and her mind. I enjoyed every fucking second. It wasn’t about reforming her—it was about punishing her. Boy did she suffer.
Bunny is different though.
Bunny reminds me of the cold, hungry, feisty little boy who hid in the closet all those years while Mama fucked her johns. Bunny reminds me of me.
And that changes everything.
“No!”
His scent is gone and I jerk up into a sitting position. I expect to see the fire cackling across from his bed—to see the view of Lake Sammamish beyond the windows. Instead, I see death. I see horror. I see hate.
I see purple.
I’m still naked so I scramble to the first place I get to in order to hide from it. The closet. But this time, it’s filled from top to bottom. No wonder Cartier made friends with the sexy salesman—he paid his rent for the next six months just on commissions from all the clothes he bought.
Holy shit.
This closet with its color-coded garments and rows of expensive, gorgeous shoes remind me of my home back in Georgia. The memory is a sour one so I cling to the way I used to seek refuge in my large closet. How I’d get lost reading a book or sometimes taking a nap on the small sofa inside. For some reason, when I’d go in there, he would leave me alone. And I welcomed the peaceful sanctuary.
And then later, I’d sing in there.
I’d whisper unspoken promises.
A sharp pang of grief slices through me and I double over panting.
I blink several times and take deep breaths to keep the panic from overtaking me. This job should be easy but it’s been by far the most complicated and difficult endeavor I’ve undertaken in the last six years.
The racks are all lined with luxurious garments and I’m angry that Cartier didn’t buy me one single comfortable thing to wear. Everything is dresses and skirts. I don’t want any of it. With a frustrated huff, I locate a pair of pretty panties—as if I have a choice in the matter—and matching bra. After taking a long, hot shower and braiding my wet hair down to one side, I find a plush robe on the hanger behind the door. I make quick work of brushing my teeth and forgo makeup altogether.
Thankfully, he didn’t lock me in the purple hell. I pad barefoot quickly through the room and out into the lobby. As soon as my bare feet hit the marble, a shiver passes through me. I’m going to throw a shit fit until they buy me some comfortable clothes I can hang out in during the day.
The ride down is uneventful. I consider going back to his room and climbing into his bed but I know better. Brax took me out of there for a reason. He’s having second thoughts about the night before.
He thinks I’m a mistake.
As soon as the elevator doors open, the smell of bacon makes my stomach grumble. Having puked most of my dinner up last night, I’m starving. I try to push away thoughts of Trevor. He wasn’t necessarily rough but he was persistent. I’d been too fucked up to stop him.
And now he’s dead.
A smile crosses over my lips until Dubois steps into my vision. “Where’s Braxton?”
His brows furrow together in frustration and I nearly laugh at him. But I need for him to take me seriously, so I swallow down my reaction at my effect on him. “Miss, he’s in a meeting. Christine has breakfast ready and—”
Pushing past him, I make my way to Brax’s office with a bitching Dubois hot on my heels. I’m quicker than he is and shove my way into the office. I nearly cheer aloud when I find that today it isn’t locked.
That is, until a stunning blonde inside turns
to give me an interested stare. Her palm is resting on Brax’s shoulder and she nearly sickens me with her cloying sweet smile. My hackles rise upon seeing her.
“We need to talk,” I blurt out, dragging my eyes from the woman to Brax.
He seems surprised, almost pleased, to see me but his face becomes one of feigned disinterest after a few seconds. I don’t miss his initial reaction and I won’t let him get off that easy.
“I believe talking is a splendid idea,” the woman agrees, her blood red painted nails curled over his shoulder like that of the claws of a vulture. “You must be Bunny.”
“My name is Jessica.”
“Lovely to meet you,” she says in a warm tone that I don’t fully trust.
She peers down at Braxton with understanding written all over her face and pats his shoulder. I’m upset that I seem to be the problem here and she is his support.
“Jessica, I’m Natalie Goldstein, a friend of Mr. Kennedy’s. I’m a Certified Sex Addiction Therapist that specializes in BDSM.”
Sex addiction. BDSM.
I frown at her words and flash him a questioning look. He’s watching my every move with interest, as if I’m the unusual one, and doesn’t seem at all alarmed to speak so openly about such notions. Hours ago, he was inside of me. His lips were all over me—tasting and worshipping me.
But now?
Now, he seems eager for this woman to tell him what to do.
“You know what? Forget it. I’ll talk to him later. Alone.” I start to leave the office when a thundering voice stops me in my tracks.
“Stop.”
His voice is deep and the authoritative current underneath causes me to take pause. I turn to look at him, expecting to see the look of want and happiness in his eyes from last night. Instead, his eyes flicker with anger and his mouth is drawn into a firm, unimpressed line. Much to my dismay, he’s not upset with her—his anger is directed at me.
