by Amy Valenti
“So can you hook up with this guy?”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Didn’t you go after him?”
“I could barely stand, let alone walk!”
“So you’ve no idea who he is? Couldn’t you ask around? You said the Mother Superior was nice–”
“Madame Superior.”
“–couldn’t you ask her? They must have membership details or credit card records or something.”
“That’s all confidential: they do everything they can to protect our privacy. Can you imagine how long they’d last if word got out that they passed on visitors’ details?”
“So what do you know about him?”
“Nothing, other than what I could see of his features: his hair, his jawline, his ears and neck, his mouth, the shape of his body, the way he moved.”
“You didn’t happen to check his driving license or anything?”
“I was distracted.”
“His name?”
“Nobody used names. The two of them didn’t even speak.”
“So he might be dumb.”
“You’re clutching at straws.”
“I’m trying to rescue your love life by fixing you up with an anonymous, promiscuous Dom who whipped your sorry ass on first encounter and I can’t really believe I’m doing this, let alone saying it loud enough for those guys at the bar to hear.”
“I love you, Rachel.”
“I love you , too. That’s why I do this shit. So... what else do we know? He wears a Medico della peste mask – the Venetian plague doctor mask. Might he be a doctor? Might he have a connection with Venice?”
“He might just like that the beak looks like a dick.”
“You’re not helping.”
“You’re still clutching at straws.”
“For you, babe. For you.”
Part two: The Chase
From the outside Club Extraordinaire was pretty anonymous, and – given the nature of its activities and clientele – intentionally so.
Stone steps led up to a dark blue front door with a brass ring knocker; black iron railings cordoned off the drop to the basement level, above which there were four more floors. The windows were tall and narrow, those at the first floor enclosed in Juliette balconies made from the same black iron railings; heavy curtains were drawn across the windows to protect the interior from prying eyes. The house to its left on the terrace was being run as a guesthouse, identified by a discreet sign above the door; to its right, the house bore nothing to identify its use. Indeed, all that identified the Club itself was the regular arrival of cabs, guests ringing or knocking at the door and being greeted by a heavy-set guy in a black suit, who was clearly some kind of security.
Mostly, these arrivals were dressed conservatively in long coats, but occasionally... A woman in a mini-skirt and fishnet stockings, heels to die for and a black, feather-plumed hat. A couple, the woman dressed in a smart business suit, the guy in chinos and a sports jacket and only when you looked closely did you see the leash attached to a collar around his neck and looped around her wrist. Lots of leather, and sometimes you could see that what had looked like leather was in fact rubber. Killer heels. Long coats flapping open to reveal ... well, just about anything.
All these clues... the vast majority of people would not notice them, or if they did they would simply put them down to isolated incidents of the city’s extremes.
It was only when you sat in the coffee shop across the street and watched for a period of time that the clues added up and you could see that the anonymous brownstone was, in fact, the home of something far more intriguing than the dwellings to either side.
And that’s what Julie found herself doing.
Sitting in the coffee shop, watching.
There was nothing odd about doing that. She liked coffee, and she was often in this part of the city. So why wouldn’t she find herself sitting here, drinking her favored drink and watching the world outside from her window seat? For a second night this week.
Nothing odd at all.
§
She hadn’t turned into a stalker or anything like that. As she’d explained to Rachel on the phone last night, you can only be a stalker if you can actually locate the subject of your obsession, and so far that subject had remained frustratingly unsighted.
As far as she knew...
But really, she had so little to go on: the mysterious masked Dom could have been any one of a number of tall, square-shouldered men who had climbed out of taxis at the foot of those steps across the street. The athletic frame, the slicked back blond hair, the line of his jaw... Beyond that, all she had was the way he moved.
None of the men arriving at Club Extraordinaire while Julie sat here in her window seat had moved with that casual, feline power. It was a confidence thing, a sense of ownership of all around him. An arrogance, even.
The confident mark of a true Dom.
She felt sure she would recognize him from that alone.
“Get you a refill?”
She glanced up, then smiled. The guy who ran this place was cute, if you liked that kind of thing. She’d even had a momentary double-take when she’d first laid eyes on him: tall, blond, that square jaw. But no. His hair was too pale, his manner too apologetic; he just didn’t have the swagger of the mystery Dom. She had realized then that she had started to do that with every guy she saw: studying for any sign that he might be the one. But he wasn’t. He never was.
“Coffee?”
He was waiting, smiling at her.
“Sorry. Yes, please. I’m just a bit distracted, is all.”
“I could tell.” He poured to the top – he’d seen that she didn’t need room in the cup for milk.
The place was quiet, just an older couple sitting across from Julie. Was he waiting for her to leave so he could close? But if so, why offer the refill?
“You meeting someone?”
Was he hitting on her? Or was she just being over-sensitive? Quiet evening: the guy was just making conversation.
“No,” she said. “Just time to kill.” She realized what a sorry picture she must paint, sitting here alone, two nights in a row.
“You want to talk? I’m a good listener.”
She hesitated again. There was something about him that made her relax. He was about her age, late twenties, and he had the air of someone who had far more to him than that apron and the half-empty coffee jug would suggest.
“I’m good,” she said, finally. “But thanks.”
He shrugged, smiled, moved away.
Across the street, a cab had pulled up. A guy in a tux emerged and for a moment she knew this was the moment, this was him. But no: silver hair, a neatly trimmed beard. She watched him approach the door, knock, vanish inside.
She would leave, go home.
This wasn’t healthy, this not-stalking thing. Obsessing over a guy she didn’t even know, a guy who was not Nathan but so like him in many ways, and that was when she realized that it wasn’t the guy at all, it was Nathan who was the source of her obsession...
Why couldn’t she just let him go?
§
Because he was Nathan, and he had a hold over her.
It had happened when they made the transition, that leap of trust. That night when they had made love, and Julie had lain there in bed, her mind churning. Feeling unsatisfied and ungrateful. She’d climaxed – twice! – so why did she feel like this?
She’d rolled onto her side and he was lying there, one arm raised, the hand behind his head. He was staring up at the ceiling. She pressed against him, enjoying the hardness of his hipbone, the contact. She swallowed, hesitated so long that she was sure the moment had passed, and then said, “I need more.”
Done. Words spoken out loud, in a moment that should have been tender and intimate.
She was scared. She feared that this moment of disappointment might signal the end. But when Nathan turned his head towards her she saw in his eyes an echo of her own feelings. That w
as when she knew that in reality this moment signaled not an end, but a new beginning.
“There’s a place I can take you,” he said, and she knew he wasn’t referring to a physical place, but to something else. A psychological place... new territory.
Nathan... How had she not known that Nathan was as unfulfilled as her? How had she missed all the signs?
“Where?” she asked, surprised at the tremor in her voice.
He moved that hand from under his head, brought it up to her cheek. Moved it so that the thumb lay along her jaw, the fingers threaded into the hair at the side of her head, just behind the ear.
“I want to have you,” he said. The fingers tightened in her hair so that she felt the roots tugging, a tingle of pain across her scalp. “I want to own you.”
He turned his body now, so that he pressed against her. His manhood flopped down against her thigh, and immediately she could feel it filling out against her, pushing upwards. So soon...
He tipped her head back, pulling with those fingers in her hair, the sensation sending thrills running down her spine.
“I–”
His other hand across her mouth silenced her.
He used his body to push her onto her back, his leg sliding between hers, separating her legs, his thigh grinding hard against her.
Still holding her hair, still covering her mouth so that she could taste the skin of his hand, he rolled on top of her. She felt hardness against her soft, yielding sex, felt him pressing, sliding inside, driving deep in a long, fast thrust.
Where before they had made tender love, now he had her, brutal and hard, and she was more turned on than she could ever remember.
And then later...
It had been hard and fast, and she’d reached her own climax when he was spent, his weight heavy on top of her, her breathing almost entirely impeded by his bulk and that hand over her mouth. Afterwards he’d rolled off her, breathing heavily, and then he’d looked at her and said, again, “There’s a place.”
This time she knew he meant something more. “Where?”
“A club. The Extraordinaire. A place where we can be who we really are. Where I’m the man and you’re my filthy bitch. You want to go to that place, or am I scaring you?”
“I want to go there. I’m yours.” And in that moment, and for the months that followed, she had been.
§
“Was the coffee okay?”
She looked down. She hadn’t touched the refill.
She looked up, around. The place was empty, other than the barista. “I... sorry. I was miles away.”
He was smiling. “So,” he said, “you want to talk now?”
Julie shrugged and he took that as a ‘yes’, pulling a chair out to join her at the window table.
“Are you closing now?” she asked.
“We closed twenty minutes ago.”
“Ah... sorry.”
“No worries.”
She made to reach for her cup then stopped herself. It would be stone cold by now.
“Ask what’s in your head?”
She studied him more closely. That floppy blond hair and the long, pale eyelashes gave him a laidback, easy-going appearance. He looked as if he’d be more at home on a beach somewhere, maybe running a surfers’ bar, rather than here in the city. He was a little older than she’d first thought: there was experience in those eyes, a few crow’s feet lines just starting.
“You really want to know what’s in my head? It would shock you.”
“I’m not easily shocked.”
How had they slipped into this easy flirting? Either he was a really smooth operator, or she was in a particularly vulnerable state. She could have him now, here, and the thought startled her. Odd to be so shockable, given her familiarity with the club across the street, but the thought of urgent, needy sex with this complete stranger was somehow far more shocking than what went on at Club Extraordinaire.
“I don’t know you. I don’t share that kind of thing with people I don’t know.”
Not here. Not in the real world. But at the Club... Instantly she was back there, struggling to support herself on legs that had lost all strength, the mysterious Dom on his knees before her, his mask hard against her, sliding and grinding.
The barista was watching her, that smile on his thin lips again.
“I said, ‘That’s easily remedied,’” he said. “You were miles away again. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes, thanks. I am. Just... well, easily distracted. Not quite sure what I’m doing here, out on my own drinking coffee into the evening. Not quite sure where my life is at. You know what I mean?”
He didn’t laugh at her, or dismiss her pathetic meanderings. Instead, he said, “Yes, I do. I’ve been there. Well, not the solo evening coffee drinking – that is a bit odd – but I’ve been there. Bad relationships, bad life choices. It passes.”
He stood. “Listen, if you ever want to talk, or just drink coffee on your own, well, you know where I am.”
With that, he moved away to clear the table where the couple had been sitting.
Had he lost interest when he realized she wasn’t going to be a fun pick-up? Had he even been hitting on her at all? Maybe he really was just a nice guy, being sensitive. It could happen. She was sure it could happen.
She stood and went to the door. Glancing back, she saw that he was watching. “Thanks,” she said, and he gave that easy smile again and nodded, and then she was out in the street.
She glanced across at the Club. At some point talking to the coffee shop guy – she didn’t even know his name – she’d stopped watching the place, forgetting why she was here. And why was she here? One seriously steamy encounter, and somehow she’d read so much more into it.
She was being foolish. She’d got wrapped up in the whole Nathan thing, lost herself in the fantasy, the escape offered by the Club.
She glanced back at the coffee shop, but couldn’t see him. Over at the Club, there were a couple of high-heeled women at the door.
Julie crossed the street, climbed into the cab they’d vacated and headed for home.
§
If she hadn’t allowed herself to become so self-absorbed, Julie might just have noticed that her sister had a life, too.
One that was falling steadily apart.
Rachel. A year older and a lifetime wiser. Smart, steady, stable Rachel. Degrees in psychology and psychotherapy, author of papers in lofty academic journals, married to a high-flying lawyer from a wealthy family who also, it turned out now, was a complete and utter dick.
They sat in Billy’s Bar, the early Friday evening crowd getting raucous, and a second bottle of Merlot between them.
“Just gone?” said Julie. “No warning. He’s gone?” She’d asked the same question about a dozen different ways already. Each time the answer was the same: last night Claydon had just come home from the office and started to pack his things.
Rachel nodded. She hadn’t cried yet: not here with Julie; not at all, she claimed. “I had to ask him what he was doing and he said, ‘Moving out. We’re done.’ Just like that. His voice was flat. His face was, too: no emotion, he just looked... tired.”
“Why?” She’d asked that question several times, too. Their roles had reversed this evening: now it was Julie who kept working away at the questions, teasing slivers of information out of her sister.
“That’s what I asked him. He said he was bored, and by implication that I’m boring.”
Julie then recalled what her sister had said to her only a few days earlier. I’ve always held back in life, but you’re a risk-taker. I admire that. I do wish I was more like you sometimes.
Had she known, or at least sensed something even then? A subconscious thing, an awareness that perhaps taking the quiet route in life had done her no favors.
“Are you sorry? That he’s gone?”
She braced herself for Rachel’s response. It was too soon to ask that question. Far too soon.
“I don�
�t know what I am,” said Rachel, eventually. “I don’t know what I feel.” Then she straightened, as if she was trying to snap herself out of it. “So where’s your love life reached?” she asked. “Any progress, or are we both batting a big fat zero now?”
They made their way falteringly through a few more minutes of chatter and then Julie bundled her sister into a cab home. She’d wanted to go with Rachel, but her sister had insisted she was okay and the evening was still young: Julie should go and have fun because she, at least, still knew how to.
§
But how do you have fun when you’ve just found out your sister is going through heartbreak and not only is there nothing you can think to do, but you really should have known before now?
You could just go back to your empty apartment and be reminded of your own ex-partner’s absence. Not that he’d ever actually moved in, or asked her to move in with him, of course. With hindsight she could see that he had always held something back. But still there were the little things, the marks of someone who would often just stay over rather than head home late. The second toothbrush, the razor, the cup he favored, the brand of coffee he liked.
You could call up one of your friends, but that only reminds you of how you had retreated into your relationship with Nathan, particularly in the last few months. You had never been the commitment-phobic one in the relationship.
Maybe a movie, alone, a bucket full of salt and caramel popcorn and one of those little plastic half-bottles of wine they sell.
The one thing you couldn’t do was go after your sister and talk some more, try to find out what you could really do to help and support her, because close as you were, Rachel had drawn the line: she’d said she was okay – fine – and that she didn’t want to talk any more tonight. Always the reserved one, always one to hold back rather than gush, as Julie was wont to do.
I do wish I was more like you sometimes.
That phrase circled in Julie’s mind. She didn’t even know what ‘like you’ meant any more, as applied to her. Who was she? What did she want? She needed to be past Nathan by now. All that was too self-absorbed and self-destructive. She needed to be moving on. And in her head all this was a rehearsal for what she would be telling Rachel eventually.
