The Dom Games

by Rachel Robinson

  I clench my teeth. “Give me five more minutes,” I plead with her. Indifference crosses her face as she folds her arms and glares in my direction, letting me know that nothing I say or do is going to change her mind. This is truly it. “I want to show you something and then, if it’s safe enough you can go to your place, or stay here, and I’ll leave. Okay?”

  She nods. “Make it quick.” Tim huffs, leaves the room, and Kayla trails in my wake—very deliberately keeping her distance.

  When I enter my bedroom, not Van’s, she stops at the doorway. Hanging above my bed, larger than real life, is the photograph I took of her the moment she left the playroom. The white sheet dancing behind her, strings of hair covering her face—slices of neck peeking from in between. “You’ve been here awhile,” she says.

  I turn to face her and toss my cap on a chair next to the bed. I run my fingers through, trying to fix the hat hair in vain. Her gaze stays trained on the photo, and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s avoiding me, or is truly enamored with my pain—with her pain. “I told you not to do that scene, Kayla. I knew it wouldn’t end well, goddammit. The second the cameras started rolling, I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something bad would happen. I pieced together those scenes of us for the montage by myself to show you exactly what we have together. It wasn’t done with ill intent. That’s my why. That’s why I showed my love for you to the world. Now I’m not going to ask you why. Why did you do that scene?” I toss myself down on the bed to try to break her gaze. I want her attention. It doesn’t work.

  Kayla blinks, her long, black lashes stuck together from her tears. “I thought it was what you wanted.” What I wanted? All I’ve wanted from the day I saw her cocky grin on the screen in my meeting room is her. In any form I can have her. My non-vanilla sexual desires wane when I’m with her. Because all I care about is making her happy and what happiness means to her. “To show you that I had what it takes to please you in every way you desire. I lost myself to a man. A man who isn’t worthy of it, because a real man wouldn’t want me to change at all—the man made for me would embrace me, fall down over himself to make me happy. Not vice-versa.” She turns to look at me. Her bottom lip shakes and her hands bunch by her sides. “Can I borrow a pair of pants, please?” A tear rolls down her cheek—her blessedly makeup free, beautiful pink cheek—and my breath catches in my throat.

  “Of course,” I say. “For the record, I never wanted you to change, but the circumstances we were dealt warranted…acting—on both our parts. All I’ve ever wanted was to claim you as my own.”

  She shakes her head as she takes the sweatpants from my hands, careful not to touch my skin. Stabbing one leg in each hole, she rolls up the waistband several times to make them stay up on her small frame. “Where I come from men give women diamonds when they want to claim them. Not collars.” She bends to roll the ankles of the sweatpants up. “I’m to blame because I went into this knowing full well what you liked and wanted from me, but I’d be a fool to hang around now after I’ve been given such a gracious exit. Thank you for the money, Dom. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” I catch her staring at the photo again. This time I look, too. Her departure tonight will look different, but not by much. Her face is clearly visible, and her heart is open wide and full of truths I never wanted to hear.

  Love is never letting go even when you should. I know that now. It’s my truth—the very definition of love. Breathing heavily, I make a rash decision. I cross the room to her and pull her into my arms. She cries against my chest, and I think that hurts more than the words she used to cut me. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you. I have to embrace the fall—take what I want. Do whatever makes me happy regardless of the consequences. Will you allow me that?” I say, my lips pressed against her sweet smelling hair.

  Last ditch attempt to win her back fails in five, four, three, two, one. “No.” Gently she pulls away, but leaves her small hands resting on my forearms. “I’m the casualty in your game of consequences. My heart. My feelings. My life. Everything is too complicated between us. The show provided blinders. Now that I’m back in the real world, I realize what it means to be yours, and I can’t deal with that. I won’t.”

  Stepping out of my arms, she backs out of the room. My skin feels like ice where her hands were. Kayla calls for Tim, and I hear the elevator door ping as they leave. I don’t follow or chase, not because I don’t want to, but because I’m speechless. She’s made her choice. The wrong one.

  My father always told me you can tell a lot about a person by the choices they make. It was my choice to insert the montage in the finale episode. It was her choice to leave—to assume the video clips were there for ulterior motives instead of a man pouring his heart out.

  My brother calls—the shrill ringtone alerting me to the nuisance that is my own flesh and blood. I ignore it as well as the cacophony of phone calls and texts that follow. The season finale aired, they want to know what’s up—my friends know I have some time off now. The way I see it, I can either sit here and wallow in my loss, or I can scrape up some semblance that was my life before Kayla Parchet. It won’t be the same, because I didn’t know a life so sweet before her, but I’ll have to make due.

  Picking up my cell phone, I scroll through the messages half-heartedly. Dozens of women’s names appear, but I’m not feeling it. I can’t. Van pokes his head into the room. “She’s safe in Timothy’s apartment, sir. It’s still a zoo outside. She needs to talk to the press. It’s the only way they’ll get off her back. As it is I’m not sure I can control them the next time she leaves…without lethal force.” He smiles and winks. I like his style.

  I motion for him to come in and ask if he’ll chat with me. When he nods and takes a seat on a dressing bench I say, “What can I do to get her back? You’re around her. She must have said something.” This is desperate, even for a lovesick fool. I can count on Van’s discreet nature.

  He looks as if he’s contemplating—choosing his words wisely. He’s a smart man. I would expect that much anyways. “She’s happy to be starting over here. I know it would make her even happier if it were like the show never happened. The paparazzi rile her up and the fact that she has to hear your name being screamed every time she wants to go out for coffee doesn’t bode well for your agenda. She’s upset. She’s angry. She was exposed, for lack of a better word, and she’s learning to deal with the consequences of falling for you.” I nod. His honesty is refreshing. “The results of the games.”

  “I should leave,” I say, not really meaning it. Pacing back and forth, I run through my small list of options. Something Van said strikes a chord. “What if I start over with her? No camera lights in our faces or pressure, just a man and a woman going out for coffee.” I stop and look at Van. An off camera relationship. This is a perfect idea. No contracts or playrooms. It’s so simplistic it hurts.

  He smirks and quirks a brow. “You may want to wait for her to cool off. Give her some time. She was pretty upset tonight. Just my advice, though. Take it with a grain of salt. I’m a forever bachelor myself, so what do I know?” Running a hand through his hair, he stands. At the doorway, he turns. “She’s in love with you. I know that much. If I had to guess, she’s not in love with everything that surrounds you.” The dark shadow that follows me won’t go away. I tried to declare my undying love for Kayla and this is what it morphed into.

  I can’t change some things. It’s my name. My studio. It’s my life. Kayla doesn’t want a high profile relationship, but I’m not sure how to keep it low. My head already itches from wearing the fucking cap all week. I have two ratty sweatshirts on rotation, and six pairs of Ray Ban sunglasses, because that’s what they wear around here. This is how I do low profile. No one knows I’m here, and I’ve walked by the fucking swarm of paparazzi dozens of times without them giving me a second glance.

  My cell phone chimes again. It’s my brother texting. One quick glance and my stomach sinks. The message reads “his birthd
ay” and that’s it. I forgot in all of my hectic, godforsaken drama that today, the day the finale of The Dom Games, is my brother Aden’s birthday. “Shit,” I whisper.

  I dial my mother. “Mama,” I whisper after she picks up. I hear her hushed sobs in the background and my father grumbling about the phone ringing nonstop. He’s such an asshole, that man. She’ll never leave him for fear of the unknown. I figure if he hasn’t broken her spirit yet, after all these years of bad habits, then he never will.

  “I love you,” I tell her, glancing at the photo over my bed. I don’t need to say anything else. She knows as well as anyone. You can’t change the past. The future is the only thing within your control. My mother says she loves me more than sugar cakes and blood diamonds and then hangs up the phone. She always pairs something she loves a lot with something she hates to describe her love for her kids. It’s not odd to me. It’s comforting. Sighing out a long breath, I hang my head between my legs.

  I’ll give Kayla time if I must, but that doesn’t mean I can’t craft the best plan possible to place her firmly into my future. Believing it’s possible is the first step. Knowing she’ll never be as good with another man than she is with me is the next. It will take patience and self-control. I’ll lay my claim.

  Not with a collar, but with a diamond.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Some time later”

  Kayla

  Blind dates are never to be taken lightly. They should be avoided with the utmost of care. Next time I’ll take my own advice. Classes began and by some act of God or contrition I made a couple friends. Intern Tim got into Harvard, too. He had a large donor and a bribe so hefty I’m sure it would feed a third world country for a decade. He’s my best friend, so I turn a blind eye to everything. Van still pops in and out at random times, and I wonder if he’s still around permanently, but isn’t making his presence known. Dominic. I shudder. Our time together feels like a dream—a sometimes whimsical perfect dream and sometimes a nightmare that wakes me in a cold sweat.

  Speaking of a cold sweat. “He only wanted to meet me, Tim. Carissa said he was a good guy, but that asshole undressed me with his eyes the second I walked into the restaurant.” My blind date was a second year Harvard master’s student. His collar was too crisp and his loafers made me want to walk off a fucking dock. He waggled his eyebrows any time I said anything. Wow the weather is warmer today. Eyebrow waggle. I wonder when the waitress is returning with the drinks. Eyebrow waggle. By the time my dinner arrived I wanted to take my steak knife and carve off his eye pubes and shove them down his throat. I tell Tim this, and he’s more than amused.

  Tim throws his head back, laughter bellowing from his belly. “I thought about showing up to watch you fumble like a mere plebian, but I had too much studying to do. This guy sounds like a real douche lord, though. I take it you’re not going out on any more blind dates?” He’s had a steady girlfriend for a month now, and I pretend it doesn’t bother me when he spends time with her instead of me.

  I take a sip of my latte and glance out of the café window. “It’s been a while and men still recognize me. I thought it’d be over by now. When I’m old and crusty is when I’ll be able to find a good man who has never seen The Dom Games.” I sigh.

  “You could return his phone calls, you know? What’s the count?” He’s good. He didn’t say his name.

  “Two hundred and seventy-two. He called again last night,” I admit. The number is staggering. He, who won’t be mentioned, leaves a short voicemail every time. I have to hand it to him for sounding completely level-headed and polite every single time. Most of the time it’s “Hey, just calling to see how you’re doing. Call me back. I miss you.” Other times it’s less, and sometimes, when he’s got a lot to say, I have to delete the voicemail before the rest of my heart crushes itself into bits. “I’m finally okay. I can’t let him in now.”

  I pick up my spoon and swirl my drink. The barista made a pretty heart with the foam on top. I immediately crushed it the second I sat down. Tim returns a text, from his girlfriend, because he’s smiling, and I ball up a napkin and toss it at his head. “Don’t be a Debbie Downer because you’re not getting laid!” Tim exclaims, batting the wad away. “Give the man some credit. He hasn’t been in the news or in the tabloids since the show’s finale. Do you know how hard that probably is? I remember at Reed Studios there would be a mass of people stalking the gates, trying to get a shot or a quick interview. No one even knows where he is. You told him, in essence, to get fucking bent and he’s still hung up. “

  “You hate him, Tim. Please tell me you’re not switching teams.”

  Tim slides his phone into his jeans pocket. “Remember in the beginning when he was paying me to be your friend?”

  “Fuck you, Tim.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Hey. Hey. I’m just saying, I’ve always been Team Reed. You know you’re my best friend now, even if my hot as sin girlfriend doesn’t like it. I’m on your side. Always. Sometimes actions speak louder than words. Why not answer on the two hundred and seventy-third time? See what he has to say, at least. At some point he’s going to stop calling and that’s when you’ll wish you spoke up sooner.” He’s right. His calls let me know he’s thinking of me—that he’s sorry, that our love wasn’t a lie. “I may not like him as a person, but I know he cares about you. I’d never call a chick more than twice.”

  I ignore his suggestion. “Carissa apologized and said she has someone else she wants to set me up with.” A man sits down at a table across from us, and I feel his eyes boring a hole into my forehead. This happens more than I’d like to admit. I shift in my seat. Even in a scholarly community I’m recognized. My stomach flips. The paparazzi relented, and I haven’t seen one of the rodents in weeks. This is different. This won’t go away with time.

  Tim glances around because he knows. He raises his eyebrows when he notices the man. “Why don’t you let me set you up?” he asks. My face heats, and I know my cheeks are turning a bright shade of sun-burnt red.

  I try to focus on Tim’s voice and stare into my coffee so I don’t feel so naked—exposed. “Maybe I’d rather answer his call and see what he has to say. I’m not risking another disaster like Eyebrow Nicholas.” I pause, because I feel the man reading my lips. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?” I ask. Swiping at the table, I slide my cell phone and my notecards into my large tote bag. Tim downs the rest of his coffee in one exaggerated gulp and stands. “Keep talking to me,” I order under my breath.

  “I can’t believe your boyfriend gets his eyebrows waxed,” Tim exclaims loudly. I smack his shoulder playfully and tell him to stuff it, but I’m grateful he’s distracting me. He’s so good at this. We have to walk next to his table, and I can tell the man is going to try to talk to me.

  The stranger stands—blocking my way out. I could climb over the table, but how ladylike would that be? “Miss, you were my favorite from The Dom Games. I can’t believe you left. You were the best fuck in that place. What size is your bra? Your tits are perfect. It broke my heart when you left,” he says, gaze skimming my very clothed body. The man reaches out to touch me, and I suck in a breath and hold it.

  Tim steps in front of me in that protective way men do in movies. “She isn’t yours to look at, buddy. And she is in no way going to have any part of your body near hers. Don’t even think about touching her. Don’t look at her. Sit down, eat your fucking muffin, and think the next time you decide to talk to a stranger, you rude piece of shit,” Tim says. The man obeys. He sits—eyes trained straight forward. I breathe out. Without looking, Tim reaches one hand back and grabs my elbow, guiding me toward the exit.

  My heart is hammering. This is the first time someone has tried to touch me. Tim’s words echo in my mind. I clutch my bag tightly in an effort to gain control over something. We round a corner, and Tim spins me—both his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t let it bother you, okay?” It happens. It clicks. I see Tim differently. His brown eyes widen as he asks
about my well-being, and I wonder why I never realized how full and beautiful his lips were before. The way his cheekbones slant when he’s angry and his smile is gone.

  “Tim,” I say. I swallow. He blinks. “Thank you.” I lean in closer, and I see the moment realization hits him. I tilt my head the tiniest bit and notice the freckle on his cheekbone. His eyes slit warily, and I don’t think, I just act. I kiss his cheek—right on top of that freckle I never noticed. He protects me fiercely. Not just my body, but my mind. He always has. Even when he didn’t realize that a game of cards was protection.

  “Kayla,” he whispers, letting my limp body fall into his. “No,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re confused.” Everything else about his body is saying yes. I tuck my face into the crook of his neck. He’s so much more than my best friend—he’s the only steadfast person in my life. He’s not a cologne type of guy, but I smell his soap lingering from his morning shower—a shower during which I was sitting on his couch, unaware of this. Of him.

  “Let’s get to campus,” he says, swallowing hard. I let him lead me away from the brick building, and I even chat with him about mundane things on our walk back, but I can’t shake the feeling. I won’t either. His girlfriend is waiting for him in the parking lot. Her fifty-yard bitch stare is aimed in my direction, and for once, I can’t blame her. I want what’s hers.

  We part our separate ways. They have class on the other side of campus, and I have twenty minutes before mine begins. I collapse on a bench with the cool September air in my hair. Everything is going to be okay. I will make it out of this, regardless of how confused I am at the moment.

  My cell phone chirps from my bag. I send it to voicemail. Maybe tomorrow I’ll answer his call.

  ****

  Dominic is flying to NYC for business and because my apartment is on the way—not—he wanted to meet for coffee. I agreed because Tim said I should, but I’m curious how seeing him will affect me through my new purple hazed glasses of feelings for Tim. My tiny apartment is brimming with gifts. Any hard table-like surface holds exquisite vases of out of season blossoms. There’s jewelry boxes I glanced at, but didn’t open, shopping bags with pretty sundresses I can’t wear until spring, books, and handbags—expensive, beautiful handbags that I may or may not have petted a few times. The gifts arrived after I agreed to meet with Dominic. The phone call lasted a mere thirty seconds and obviously had a hard-hitting effect on his strategy to win me back. It’s all over the top. Every time a courier arrives with another package I get a little more irritated and intrigued.