by J. Kenner
"Most of the story takes place in a BDSM club."
"Wait a sec. Any chance this movie is based on a book?"
Lyle's eyes widen; he's clearly as surprised as I am.
"Yeah," Lyle says. "Her Secret Service."
Riley laces his fingers behind his head and leans back. "That's fucking awesome. Are you playing Zan?"
"What the hell? How did you know that?"
"Serena Dean-Miles," Riley says. "She's the author, right? It's not common knowledge, but she bases most of her books on real McKay-Taggart missions. Too bad you're not starring in a book featuring me. I'm way cooler than Zan. Of course, she hasn't written that book yet." He buffs his nails on his chest. "I guess she's saving the best for last."
"Talk about a coincidence," Lyle says, glancing at me. I force a smile past the unpleasant taste of jealousy that has coated my mouth. I try to swallow it down. After all, I don't even know if Serena Dean-Miles is single, much less if she's involved with Riley. But he does know her... And she does write incredibly sexy books...
Stop it.
I have no reason to be jealous. Primarily because there is nothing--nothing--between Riley and me.
"At any rate, I wanted to visit a club," Lyle says, shifting the conversation back on track and saving me from my runaway thoughts.
"Ah, the plot thickens." Riley once again focuses on me. I keep my eyes on Lyle. But I feel the heat rise in my cheeks.
"Apparently Matthew has a membership at a local club, so we went."
I risk a glance toward Riley, who doesn't look the least bit shocked. "Did he take you to The Reef? The club in Malibu?"
Lyle tilts his head, and it's his turn to be impressed. "Didn't realize you had such intimate knowledge of the local club scene. But no, it wasn't The Reef. We went to The Firehouse. The LA branch of an exclusive Chicago club, actually. Matthew's a member."
"Since Natasha's in the thick of this, I'm assuming she's included in the we?"
"She is." Lyle pauses to look my direction, as if to see if I want to chime in. I don't. At the moment, I'm happy to stay mute. It gives me the chance to remember all I saw inside The Firehouse...and to wonder exactly how well Riley knows what goes on in a place like that.
"I took Sugar, of course. But honestly, I wanted Nat along, too, especially since I intend for her to sit in on the meetings with the writer. Plus, she has a good eye and a good memory. So she went as Matthew's date."
"Go on," Riley said, at which point Lyle shrugged.
"That's pretty much it. We went, and the Dom in Residence gave us a brief tour. It's a club that's conceived in three parts. You enter into a pretty typical bar, although none of the drinks are alcoholic, and it has a much more sexual decor and a significantly more sensual vibe. A lot of leather and some submissives and slaves at their owners' feet, but for the most part the first room is cocktail tables and chit-chat. The main area is open, broken up into different sections for different scenes with a variety of equipment. I suppose you'd call that the dungeon. Beyond that are smaller, more private rooms. The doors can be locked or left open if you don't mind--or want--an audience."
"I'm guessing you stayed primarily in the dungeon."
Lyle nods. "Primarily. But there were several open doors in the back, and Matthew took us through quite a few."
"I see." Riley turns to look straight at me, those mahogany-brown eyes silently demanding that I tell him the rest.
And, damn me, I hustle to obey. "That's pretty much it. We didn't get involved in any scenes. We went in on Matthew's membership, and we stayed in that main section. It was--interesting."
I'm not about to admit how fascinated I'd been by the vibrant sensuality that had surrounded me, including full-on sexual gratification--mixed with more than a little sexual punishment.
I'd been shocked at first--and then a bit turned on. A fact I'd confessed to no one, and fully intended to keep to myself until the end of time. But secret or not, it was true, and my sex ached right now from nothing more than the memory of it.
"So you didn't participate, but you were visible?"
I nod.
"And then?"
"And then we left." I swallow. "And the next morning I found the postcard underneath the windshield wiper of my car."
"Postcard," he repeats. "What did it say?"
I lick my lips, then recite, "Whore. You're mine now." As I speak, Lyle passes Riley his phone where, I know, he keeps a picture of the postcard.
Riley glances at it, his brow furrowed and his mouth curved down into a frown. "Pencil?"
Lyle shakes his head. "I had a friend in the police department take a look. Detective Garrison. Dean Garrison."
"I've worked with him," Riley says. "Good man."
Lyle nods, but continues about the postcard. "According to Garrison, someone traced the words onto the postcard using carbon paper."
Riley nods slowly. "And the image of lips on the other side. Rocky Horror lips. Which might or might not be relevant. No fingerprints?" he asks me.
"No," I say. "We didn't check right away--I thought it was creepy but not scary at first. Just someone jerking my chain, you know? I didn't even put it together with The Firehouse, honestly. Not until the email came. That's when Lyle had Garrison come by. And he took it to the lab so they could dust for prints. Not a one. Well, except for mine."
"Where's the email?"
"Next photo," Lyle says, and Riley uses his thumb to scroll through. I don't need to walk to him to know what he's seeing. The image is burned into my mind. A woman on her knees, a collar around her neck, her hands bound behind her and a ball gag in her mouth. Beneath the image, in a handwriting-style font, the message announces, This is how you should be. Bitch, bitch, you're mine, little bitch.
Remembering, I hug myself.
"I can see why you'd be disturbed," Riley says, and I exhale in relief, only then realizing that I'd been afraid he was going to say the very thing I keep repeating to Lyle. That it's nothing. Just bullshit. No big deal.
Except that isn't true, and I know it. And, weirdly, the fact that Riley is validating that horrible reality makes me feel better.
"The email address?"
"Bogus," Lyle says. "I have a friend in Austin who's a whiz at that kind of thing. Noah said it was set up on a computer at a library in Northridge. After that, nothing."
"Okay. Anything else?" Riley asks, and I shake my head. "Nothing?" he presses. "No sensations of being followed? No familiar faces around corners? Unusual calls or hang ups?"
"Nothing," I assure him.
"Except the paint," Lyle mentions.
"Paint?"
I shrug. "Someone tagged my car. But I was running some errands in a dicey section of the Valley. It was probably just teenagers. I mean, surely whoever sent the postcard and email didn't follow me halfway across the San Fernando Valley just to spray-paint the word cunt on my car."
"Probably not," Riley says. "Or maybe that was a test run. Maybe your stalker was testing his own limits. He got close to your car last time. Next time he'll try to get close to you."
I shiver, then hug myself. Riley notices and comes to sit down next to me, his weight shifting the cushion so that I end up closer to him than is comfortable. Then he puts his hand on my thigh, the sensation warm and safe and more than a little distracting.
I scoot over, tugging my leg out from under his touch. He hesitates, then stands. And, dammit all, I not only feel like a raging bitch, but I desperately miss the comfort of that touch.
Lyle, thankfully, fills the awkward gap. "It has to be someone from the club. The timing. The image of the ball-gag. That's the only explanation."
"I'm not sure it's the only," Riley counters. "But it's the most likely."
"So you're saying that some guy at the club saw me, became obsessed with me, and decided to stalk me?" The idea seems both utterly absurd and dead-on point.
"Pretty much," Riley acknowledges.
"So how do we find him? Set up hidden came
ras and wait for him to put another note under my wiper?"
"He won't go that route again. Not now that you might be paying attention."
"Then what? I just wait?"
"That's one plan," Riley says. "I think the better one is to draw him out."
I hug the pillow closer. "How do I do that?"
"You don't. We do."
My instinct is to argue, but I tamp it back. Riley and I both know that I'm not tackling this on my own. "Okay, we. How do we draw him out?"
"Simple," he says. "Tomorrow night, I'm going to take you to The Firehouse."
Chapter Four
"I can't believe you're going to a BDSM club," Aly says as she digs into the breakfast tacos I've brought with me. "I'm so jealous." She falls back against her pillows with a sigh. "Then again, I'm so tired of being in bed that I'd be jealous if you told me you were going to Starbucks."
"I wouldn't need to borrow an outfit if I was going to Starbucks," I point out as I step into her roomy closet. I pull out a pair of buttery soft, black leather pants along with a matching leather overbust corset with a front zipper and side laces to adjust the fit and the amount of cinch.
I carry them both out of the closet and hold up the two hangers, one in each hand. "And why exactly do you have clothes that are stamped with the BDSM seal of approval?"
"Oh, please. That's totally tame. And it's from my days clubbing in Manhattan. You might as well keep both of them." She points to her belly. "After this little guy makes his appearance, I doubt I'll fit back into them. And my boobs were always too big for that thing, anyway."
I laugh. "Thanks a lot for the cold, hard truth." I've got a slim build, and the barely-a-B-cup tits that go along with that.
All she says is, "Trust me," which seems like a total non sequitur. "Go on," she continues, with a regal wave of her hand. "Try it all on."
I shrug, then strip down to my panties and step into the pants. Since I've known Aly forever, there's not a bit of modesty between us, but the truth is, I've never been the shy type. Probably fortunate, I think, since I'm heading to a BDSM club tonight.
"How come you don't already have something to wear?" Aly asks. "Didn't you go with Lyle and his wife and that producer recently?"
"Yeah, but I pretty much blew the dress code that day, I think." Maybe not, because Matthew obviously knew the drill, and he said I looked fine. But he also knew that we were there only to observe, so no one really cared if my plain black leggings and simple silk tank were completely wrong for the occasion and location. In other words, I'd worn an outfit that telegraphed that I was there to observe, not to play.
According to Riley, this time I'm not going to observe, I'm going to get noticed. The goal is to draw the stalker out so that Riley can swoop in. According to him, we're going to slide into the rhythm of the club. Make ourselves noticed by whoever. Lure them out. I'm not entirely sure how he intends to do that. But I'm definitely the bait. And the bait requires a wardrobe.
I tug up the back zipper and allow myself a happy sigh. The pants are a perfect fit, soft and pliable, and they hug me like a second skin.
"Damn," Aly says. "I guess it's just as well I'm giving them to you. You look so much better than I ever did. No--" she says, before I can protest. "It's an empirical fact. You have an ass, and my butt is as flat as a pancake. You, my friend, own those pants. All I could manage was to wear them."
I don't say it out loud, but I have to admit she's right. Not about how Aly looked in them--I never saw her--but about the fact that they look damn good on me. More than that, I genuinely like them. The weight of the leather. The tactile sensation of the material against my skin. I feel sexy and powerful, and as far as I'm concerned, that's a good thing. Because I started this day feeling confused and out of sorts.
And not entirely because of my stalker.
With a frown, I push thoughts of Riley from my head. I'd spent the night tossing and turning as he'd invaded my Firehouse-filled dreams, inserting himself into the situations and scenes I'd witnessed during the research tour of the place. I'd awakened just seconds before a massive orgasm ripped over me, my skin hot, my nipples tight, and my inner thighs slick with desire.
It wasn't the first time Riley had invaded my fantasies over the years, but it had definitely been the most intense, and the most frustrating. And not just because I know damn well that nothing is going to develop between us outside of my dreams, but also because I woke without any memory of what he'd done to get me in such a state.
So, yeah, I felt a little cheated.
"Quit admiring your excellent ass and put on the top," Aly says.
"What?" Her words startle me out of my thoughts and I realize that I'm still wearing my M. Sterious cast and crew tank top. "Oh, sorry." I tug it over my head, then unlatch the front hook of my bra and let it fall behind me.
"Now I feel better about my ass," Aly says. "At least I have tits."
"Hey, I brought you breakfast tacos. You're not allowed to be mean to me."
"Just soothing my bruised ego," she says. "You look hot." She broke off to look me over from head to toe. "Well, half-naked and hot. And I look like a beached whale."
"You look amazing," I say sincerely as I grab the corset and connect the two halves of the zipper. "You're glowing."
She rolls her eyes, but I can see she looks pleased. "That's what Ben always says, but I figured he was just blowing smoke up my ass."
"Totally true," I tell her, then glance down at my chest. "This can't be right." The leather just sort of hangs on me, not nearly as flattering as I'd hoped.
With a laugh, Aly motions me over, then reaches for the laces at the side. She tugs and tightens, then repeats the process on the other side, binding me into the thing. "Now look," she says.
I turn, do as she says, then gasp.
I've got tits. I mean, I've got actual, bouncy, overflowing tits.
"I think I love you," I tell Aly. "And I know I love this corset."
She laughs. "Told you so. And you know who's really going to love it? Riley."
A tingle of anticipation spreads though me, but I tamp it down. I don't need to be thinking about Riley that way. "Just so long as I blend at the club. No," I correct. "No blending. The idea is to be seen."
Aly bites her lower lip as she studies me.
"What?" I demand.
"It's just--" She makes a face, then barrels on. "Are you sure you're okay doing this?"
My eyes go wide. "If it gets a stalker out of my life? Yeah, I think I can deal with going to a club."
"No, I don't mean the club," she corrects. "I mean Riley. Maybe you outgrew it--maybe you're just ignoring it--but I still remember."
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. "Remember what?"
She rolls her eyes. "You. Riley. All of it. You used to have the biggest crush on him, and don't even try to deny it, because I'm the one you happy danced in front of when he finally noticed you. I mean, you two could have been a thing if it weren't for--"
"Stop," I say. "None of that matters anymore."
"Why?" I can hear the sympathy in her voice, and I hate it. "Because of your dad? Come on, Nat. You can't really--"
"Just drop it," I snap, my voice thick. I turn away, not wanting my best friend in the whole world to see the way I'm keeping my eyes unnaturally wide in an attempt to keep a fresh wave of tears at bay.
I draw in a breath, then turn to her. "I'm sorry for snapping," I say, meaning it. Where Riley and my dad and that whole horrible year are concerned, my nerves are always frayed. "But I'm thirty years old now. I'm beyond crushes." I've moved on to safe. To practical.
"I don't think you're ever beyond crushes," Aly says gently. "And I'm going back to my original question--are you sure you're going to be okay? Because when you open your door tonight and Riley sees you... Well, sweetie, I'll bet you a million dollars that boy's cock is going to bust right out of his jeans."
"You don't have a million dollars," I point out, fighting a smile.
<
br /> She lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Won't need it. Because this is one bet I'm totally going to win."
I'm still thinking of Aly's ridiculous bet later that evening as I feel the leather mold to my ass when I bend to scratch Pumpkin behind the ears. A ginger-colored mutt of a cat, I'd found her hiding behind a dumpster when I'd gone to look for packing boxes before moving into my current Studio City rental. She's now the most pampered indoor cat in Southern California, and at the moment, she's annoyed with me for not picking her up to cuddle.
"I'm sorry, baby." She's a kneader, and I don't want to risk her claws in the pristine leather--or on my bare shoulder, for that matter. "Come on. I'll open a can of tuna."
I see her ears twitch--I know she can understand me--but she's in a pissy enough mood that she doesn't follow me to the kitchen. Not, that is, until I start to run the can opener. Then the lure of tuna overcomes her annoyance and she trots into the kitchen, does a figure-eight between my legs, then parks herself by her Miss Kitty placemat that I keep by the sliding glass door that leads into the backyard.
I hear her purr as I put the plate down and know that all is forgiven.
Too bad all problems can't be solved as easily.
Since I'm in the kitchen anyway, I open the fridge and pull out an already open bottle of Chardonnay. I tell myself I only want a drink because it's late summer and the house is warm and I'm decked out in meteorologically inappropriate leather.
Which is ridiculous.
I want a drink because I'm going to a BDSM club.
Or, more accurately, because I'm going to a BDSM club with Riley.
I fill the glass, toss back a long swallow, and for about the millionth time wonder what the hell I was thinking.
That's not a question I have time to consider, however, because the doorbell rings and my stomach pretty much drops to the floor.
That boy's cock is going to bust right out of his jeans.
Aly's words once again ring like klaxons in my head, and as I hurry to the front door, I can't erase the image of faded blue denim riding low on Riley's hips, the material hugging his thighs, and his equipment so hard that the button fly is about to burst. Oh, dear Lord in heaven.
By the time I reach the door my mouth is dry and I've decided to murder my best friend.
As soon as my hand reaches the doorknob, I hesitate, remembering not only the situation, but the town I live in. "Who is it?"
